I think I’ll go out and embarrass myself by getting drunk and falling down in the street
You say I choose sadness, that it never once has chosen me.
I’m not sad but I am living a life of debauchery at the moment. By which I mean cider and Jaeger Bombs and crisps and breaking the rules: the diet rules, the friendship rules. About the only rules I am keeping at the moment is “Wait twenty minutes between texts when texting a boy” and “Don’t mention your bodily functions when trying to flirt with a boy.” (That last one will always be a challenge.)
I went to the disco last weekend. I never go to the disco. I can never justify spending €10 just to go into the downstairs of the Carraig and be overcharged for pints of cider. Then again, I never really had a tenner to spare and the idea of going to spot and possibly ensnare cute boys was one that was beyond the capabilities my carb-obsessed brain. But lately I’m finding that my ego needs a boost and where better to turn than to the Carrick Disco, filled with drunken boys at one in the morning, all hungry for a little extra self-esteem? It’s a perfect concoction of the drunken and desperate human psyche and at the moment, I love it.
In the disco last weekend, I was told a painful half-truth: “Emma, it’s been a long time since you’ve written anything happy.” Interesting. Is that true? I don’t know. I guess lately, I’m just being honest, rather than happy or sad. I don’t see a problem. And it’s very difficult to write happy, which is handy for me, and people get fed up of reading sad stories all the time. I like to be honest. Sometimes (in fact, most of the time) the honesty of my life involves low self-esteem, boys I struggle to talk to, and an inordinate amount of leg hair. That is my life and it is neither happy or sad. It just is.
Right now my life is sunburned and tired and excited for birthday parties and hanging out with friends I haven’t seen in months. It’s too much cider (it’s always too much cider) and it’s trying to be brave and it’s writing a lot. I have plans to go on a date with a nice boy and I have plans to see my wonderful friend Francis next weekend and go and get drunk at John’s 21st on Saturday and recover with crisps and Coke on Sunday.
Another half-truth: I don’t have feelings. I was caught out on that lie last weekend and it stunned me. “You do have feelings, Emma. Everyone knows it. Everyone reads your blog.” Oh, those old things? They’re not feelings! They’re just me thinking too much about nothing at all. I don’t have feelings. I’m invincible. Or so I keep telling myself. Soon after Christopher broke up with me a year and a half ago, I decided that feelings were lame and I didn’t want anything to do with them anymore. I don’t know if it’s true that I don’t have feelings, I just know that I’ve spent the last eighteen months convincing myself and everyone around me that I am stoical and stolid. But I guess that’s not true. I am the most dramatic person in the world. Somewhere there are feelings. I gloss over them but they’re there. Those feelings of jealousy, rejection, unworthiness. But they’re awful things to have or even be associated with so I don’t bother. Rotten things that are as far removed from my enveloped life as is possible. Of course, the Prozac helps.
This is the truth of the matter: I am building a wall of non-feelings to protect myself from those awful humans with raw emotions. Raw emotions are infectious. No, thank you. You keep your love and your pity and your compassion. I’ll be ruthless and selfish and honest. That’s enough right now. I’m sure the act will wear thin and translucent eventually but right now, it’s enough. It’s enough.