here is distant

melancholic moment medley

Hi, I'm an established writer on Please read my wispy wanderings, which are nothing more than the journal entries of a lonely 23 year old British male. I don't take myself seriously, but hope you will. Let me tell you about my blogs. melancholic moment medoly Thematic personal words I find therapeutic to construct. Posts are usually based on an anecdote or observation and they explore what I really think / who I really am.

Sober Thoughts a collection of sober thoughts Looser, less coherent stuff without titles. There's the odd poem, rambling, response or just whatever comes to mind.

3OH!3 Fan Club Exclusively Lyrics from 3OH!3 Songs Back in 2007 when I visited Boulder on a family holiday, I came across Sean Foreman, drunk in the corner of a downtown bar. As he rambled lyrics of unrealeased 3OH!3 songs, I secretly recorded him on my Nokia. I think they're brilliant, so every now and again I dip into them, transcribing to this blog.

#TalesFromSocialMedia Under this hashtag on I write silly articles and stories that are bloody ludicrous. I would make it a separate blog, but I don't have the allowance.

For comment, feedback and hatemail:

Taking the hand of a blog was a nice idea, but the audience's identity is too small for an echoless chamber, and too big for inhibitionless echos. Yes, I'm too afraid to discover myself without the hand of another.

In tmo's blog, the other characters are his own projects, hobbies and company. It's probably a maturity thing that I'm less concerned with backpacking, and more with getting laid. But I'd love to go backpacking, I just need someone to hand me a backpack and send me out on my way. In the Greenwich meantime, I've been trying online dating. I feel as if I've no choice but to place a large amount of faith in tinder. If there was any pride left in this blog, it will now slowly edge away, as I explore the cause of my romantic troubles. The following extract is taken from my teenage days, back when I was 23.

It's pleasing for me to think about the awkward fireworks of mutual attraction. Offline sparks seem somewhat abstract in the spaces where my life is playing out. Places of monotonous adulthood don't foster emotional liberation like playgrounds or smoking areas do. It's no wonder then, that I take comfort in an app which has all the lust of a club, but less self-consciousness. Romance is on the line unless I'm online.

Problem 1: I can't smile. I'm not ugly. However, I'm also not tall, jawlined or nearly as edgy as I want to be. I'm not photogenic either; I've been told I look better in person. This isn't ideal, given the importance my appearance probably holds at the time of judgement. I try not to overthink the inevitable and numerous preconceptions to grace my face. I'm too busy being physically attracted to about 50% of girls my age. Sadly, the number who fancy me from that population is small, or so the evidence leads me to believe. I'm left with a small matchbox.

Problem 2: Patriarchy. In theory, what should ensue is a love story starting from a strong base of mutual attraction. However, I can never remember which pocket I left my lighter in and anyway, girls only respond to messages they want to be hearing. In attempts to satisfy their tricky demand, I can either be myself (blunt and self-effacing) or concede exclamation marks, spoon-feeding them emojis until orgasm. Surprisingly, neither approach works. The first because my personality is as charismatic as stone, and the second because ingenuity doesn't come naturally to me 😇😇😇.

Problem 3: I want to be loved. Things can only get bitter, right? It's rare both parties are present and interested to the point when a conversation is achieved. However if it does happen, she will deviate from being tolerable and/or I will curtail myself until replying becomes a chore. Round my waist there's a clunky metaphor, I think. I'm not sure if it's a chastity belt or CHASEtity belt, such is my fear of running after the girls I like. I need to be chased more than I want to chase. This results in something nobody wants.

were two words that filled me with pride when I read them in my leaving card. I had just graduated from university and was sad to be leaving my part-time job in a supermarket cafe, after a tenure of three years. At the start of shifts I used to hop into the kitchen, skip into an apron, and jump on the till. This cafe was no idyllic haven for shoppers to sip elderflower cordial. It was dynamic and industrial sized. On busy weekend shifts I'd run the kitchen that was flooded with orders. Or I'd glide around pouring latte art, asking customers if they had everything they needed. Evening shifts could be quieter; I'd save money on meals by eating lasange, panini's or whatever else was otherwise destined for the bright red bin bags.

I wasn't always so bold. It takes time for me to become confident around people. At the start, I was timid and nervous, scared of what people would think of me. Every time I meet someone new, they don't know I'm good at football and it makes me feel inadequate. I'm not a forthcoming person; I tend to struggle creating an identity, preferring others to build it for me. Luckily, when others failed, time succeeded, and after a year I had even made friends. On the surface I'm mousy, underneath I'm cocky. There's no hidden depths but self-loathing is present throughout.

What I needed was a greeting on a leaving card that burst with affirmation. The sentiment within was that I was a charmer, that girls wanted me. Everyone shipped this quiet full-time girl and I, who blushed whenever my name was mentioned. A more outgoing girl ended up in my bed after a night out. Another declared her love for me after I pushed her up against a wall outside a bar. I had a girlfriend the entire time but I was greedy, and tragically desperate to feel wanted. For all the pride I felt with the words Dear Romeo, I felt more self-loathing, as I came home and hid the card away.

I got reminded of this now, as I prepare to leave my current job. On finding out I was leaving, a colleague said to me “who's going to flirt with the Spanish account manager now?”, referring my genial companionships with my desk neighbour and her predecessor (both of whom have boyfriends). On hearing the comment, I felt an instinctive primal pride but it faded very quickly into a sadness which, in retrospect, I think was a manifestation of loneliness. Whilst the flirting is reciprocated and actually quite cute, there's no exertion of vulnerability. I don't feel wanted, and that's what I think I need. From someone, anyone.

Every afternoon chunks of lethal metal spill onto the city, and they're all mad at each other. The evening commute can be frustrating behind the wheel, nose to nose in traffic. But here I find escapism, among Sat Navs telling poor people to take the next left towards ludicrous APR. Here I find adrenaline, with the rich who fart into leather seats that they love more than their wives. My bicycle peddles are my window of life, away from days reserved at a desk and nights of undeserved rest.

That is, unless I turn left. If I don't, then I power ahead into the cycle lane, passing Ubers who are stuck up each other's asspipes. I feel the wind in my face as I dart by cars crawling in some slow motion notion. A bus pulls in. A look goes over the shoulder and an arm goes out, as I overtake something 10 times my size. It feels good. I know where the potholes are so I can avoid them with dexterity. Some piece of shit wants to take me on the outside. I humour him past me, but his foot's soon off the gas and at the mercy of the fucker in front of him. They all want to be me, or I think they want to be me. I don't care which.

Turning left avoids the traffic. It's the same distance home, but it's via empty side roads that aren't exactly captivating. Sometimes I turn left, and I do so for three reasons:

1) It's raining 2) I've been drinking 3) I'm depressed

At worst it's three, today it was just number 3.

I've nothing to get home for.

Bus driver Chris Blast has slammed the results of the public inquiry that acquitted the local council of responsibility for the recent influx of traffic collisions on the Chesterman roundabout.

After a massive five reported smashes since the road markings changed at the start of the year, a public inquiry was called in March to attribute responsibility.

The dubious inquiry concluded that the new road markings did not cause the accidents. Supporters of the inquiry result have been heard saying it is the fault of “fucking stupid drivers that need their eyes checked”.

The bus that Chris Blast was driving on Monday collided with a motorbike. Following the accident, Blast told local media that “I question the validity of the inquiry results”.

After Blast declined to pay respects to the motorbike driver, who passed away on impact, he has been receiving constant abuse social media that has distressed Blast through the misquoting of the police report.

Blast said “the motorbike driver's family and friends have been spreading false information on twitter. One said my breathalyser reading was four times over the legal limit, when the police report clearly states I was only three and half times over”.

This incident brings into question the legitimacy of the inquiry result. The credentials of the inquiry leader has been put into major doubt in recent days following unfounded claims about the media's use hyperbole.


No parent wants to be responsible for a child feeling excluded at school, but it's your fault your son's lunchtimes have changed since the summer holiday. Now, his social status resembles a lame glasses kid or a filthy layabout nothinghead. The ice cool crackerjacks in the playground have all been to the theme park that has everything, especially the kitchen sink! Son has been begging you to go Giant Kitchen Land. He knows what ride he’ll go on first and what he’d be too nervous to try. “We can’t afford it”, you tell him, although it breaks your heart to see him so sad. When he’s tucked up in bed, having sweet dreams of the moment of anticipation before the pop on the toaster ride, you’ll turn to your partner. “We could save up”, you say, “we could go without a few luxuries for a while. It would be worth it, to see the smile on his face”.

Whether you’re a kitchen-loving thrill seeker or just looking for somewhere to take the kids, a fun filled day out is guaranteed when you visit Giant Kitchen Land. Take everything you knew about merry-go-rounds and leave it at the door of our microwave-go-round. Spin at 700 rotations per minute in the Laundry Room, get soaked in the Dishwasher or enjoy some family fun in the Kiddie Kupboards. As if exploiting childish adrenaline wasn’t enough, this place also prides itself on delicious cuisine, just like mum’s kitchen at home! We offer a wide range of places to eat and booze, so no one in the family will be disappointed. Try a burger at the Grill or neck a quick bottle at the Wine Rack.

Your partner is clicking intently online. “What do you think?” You ask him. As you look across and wait for a response, you suddenly understand the agony Son goes through every time he begs you. Staring at his screen, your partner’s facial expression changes gradually, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “What? What is it?” You ask him, intrigued and excited by the smile spreading across his face. Finally, the response comes:

We’re going to Giant Kitchen Land! This weekend! Tickets are excellent value for money! I knew that you got a fun-filled family experience with state of the art rides in a quirky setting, so I just assumed prices would be three times that amount! Plus, when you buy in advance online, you save 40% on the price that you’d pay on the day!”


There's one man and one woman. She's chatting away to his smiling face.

She's describing toilet roll holders. Not the 'contained ones' the man mentions and describes by moving both hands downwards, as if stroking a large orb. It's the 'bar ones'.

Without looking down an index finger extends outwards, quickly drawing a horizontal line from left to right no more than 20cm long.

It's platform 5 at Liverpool South Parkway train station, and they making sure passengers alight the right train.

A curled up leaf left dry by the sun lies on the pavement. I register it too late and stop when it is a metre behind me. It's a lovely day and I'm early for my train so I go back to crunch the leaf satisfyingly.

14 rows packed rows, without an empty seat in sight, all face me as I stand in front of them. They've forgotten how to smile and they don't want to talk.

Her there, that lawyer in the front row, hasn't forgotten how to draft an email to a recruitment agent requesting help in looking for positions in the Middle East or Hong Kong. She wants to start an informal conversation at a time that's convenient for Jamie.

Next to her a white shirt watches his screen. He watches suits prance around with serious expressions on their faces.

Another wanker searches for the best of Madonna. Number four is typing #armani on Instagram. The beady eyes at the end peak up from his book eager not to miss his station. I don't think he will. It's is the last stop and he'll follow the crowd off the train.

Most of all, I hated him because he gave a shit about selling houses


a high standard of customer service from the beginning to the end of the moving experience.

When you spend your whole time on trains, it always looks like you have somewhere to be.

Every time a celebrity dies, a tweet comes from @daftlimmy saying

Had the pleasure of meeting [dead person's name] at a charity do once. [He/She] was surprisingly down to earth, and VERY funny”.

This tweet often gets read out by the mainstream media as a tribute to the dead, much to the amusement of Limmy's cult following. I recommend checking out one or more of his sketches, as this is what he's known best for.

The reason I'm opening with this wee advertisement is not because I have been paid cash, but because Limmy is one of my favourite comedians, and I have just finished reading his autobiography. It talks very openly about suicidal thoughts, sexual problems and feelings of inferiority; important mental health stuff. It was nothing completely new for me, I'm part of the generation that is taking mental health more seriously. Even if mainstream health funding hasn't completely embraced these progressive ideas, my media consumption is certainly full of the stuff.

The secret to good mental health as a young adult I think is a simple concept that takes a second to understand: other adults feel like shit too. Despite its simplicity, I still grapple with its application on a daily basis. It's nice to have little reminders. For me they've come in forms such as reading this autobiography or taking acid. I hate putting quotes on here at risk of sounding preachy but here's one I like because it puts a positive spin on on a bleak existential conundrum:

We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone.

I fear that writing anything away from my direct subjective experience comes across too highfalutin, so let's bring it back to what I feel. As I've said in numerous bs blog posts, I tend to feel kind of empty and uncomfortable in social situations, which is disrupting my life as I can't make friends. I follow general mental health patter and it's quite straight forward really. Do more of the things you love, with the people you love. Eat well, drink responsibility and look after yourself. Don't blame your external situation, look what you can change about yourself and your behaviours.

But to be honest, I don't feel like my thoughts need re-framing. I'm very reflective anyway. At the end of last year I decided to take a significant action to help myself. That action was to leave my girlfriend of three years, as the relationship wasn't making me happy. Five months down the line, I'm feeling lonely for it, but it was the right thing to do. I can't find someone else, and remember fondly what it was like to be together, but I don't regret it. I've got a blog to talk to instead. It keeps my feelings in check.

For all my investment in mental health, my life hasn't improved, so I've started to consider mental illness. I've seen plenty of depression and anxiety in others and feel fairly well informed about them. Meeting someone from tinder, they suspected I was depressed after looking at my Instagram. I don't post dark shit there, I think it was just because my pictures are bit ambiguous and don't tell an obvious story. Another time it was suggested by a that I may have depression. My blog posts certainly tell a fuller story than my Instagrams, so I started to think about it.

I went back to a facebook conversation I had in 2014 with a girl I was seeing, as it shaped my reasons for not self-diagnosing myself with depression. She told me she felt completely hopeless, and that I could never understand how it felt to think that no matter what she did, she would always go back to feeling like shit for the rest of her life. She was right, I couldn't know. I had my down days but I never felt an existential hopelessness. A friend opened up to me about his diagnosed intrusive thoughts, how he thought his mother would die if he didn't follow his routines. I like to touch the door handle as I pass, but if i don't, my life continues as normal. Another girl I was seeing skyped me as she scolded herself with hot water. However low I felt, I would never consider self harm.

No two experiences of depression are the same, so the philosophy that I'm not as bad as them, so I'm okay, isn't a great one. So I thought about it on a pragmatic level; was low mood disrupting my life? The answer was no. There was never a time when my mood stopped me getting out of bed. I thought broadly about my life, and where my problems originated. It was mainly a feeling of social inadequacy that I've mentioned one or ten times on here. So I googled social anxiety. It's 'the fear of being judged and evaluated negatively by other people'.

'Yeah maybe', I thought, before thinking how I love being the centre of attention, and have maybe too much confidence. Then I watched on YouTube a girl struggle to go round the supermarket despite the help of a counsellor by her side. I function in life with no problems. Although anti-depressants don't work for everyone, as a thought experiment I imagined what would happen if I took them and they worked. And the answer is that they wouldn't give me friends, or life direction. So today I revisited something I dismissed a while ago. What if I'm bloody autistic?

I have a niece who has been a little terror child at school. After visiting a few specialists, she was diagnosed with some rare form of something relating to autism. My mum said to my aunt something along the lines of 'autism! omg!'. And my aunt replied to say that if you think about it, everyone in our family does show some signs of autism. She was referring her 5 siblings and the 6 nuclear families they now lead. I thought of my mother and how she sticks to religion more religiously than most other people I saw at church. I thought of our frequent family gatherings, and family holidays, about how each one is almost completely interchangeable from the one the following year. I thought of my grandmother unable to stay at any event beyond 5pm, and how my mother is heading in that direction.

I thought of my ex-girlfriend telling me I follow too many rules. I thought how when I try to find new music, I do so until I find one song I like, which I play over and over. So I looked up autism and this is how I match up:

  • Finding it hard to understand what others are thinking or feeling I would say I can understand how someone feels from their facial expressions and words
  • Getting very anxious about social situations I will go about my day avioding social situations where possible, it's the reason I take the stairs to the third floor.
  • Finding it hard to make friends or preferring to be on your own I love being on my own but I need friends and I can't make them
  • Seeming blunt, rude or not interested in others without meaning to Massively true
  • Finding it hard to say how you feel See my first ever blog post where sat in front of a counsellor saying nothing
  • Taking things very literally – for example, you may not understand sarcasm or phrases like "break a leg" I use irony way too much so not sure about this one
  • Having the same routine every day and getting very anxious if it changes This is more true than I like to think.

I had dismissed autism as I'm not super clever, I don't massively obsess about things and I don't monologue excessively. I certainly don't have any extreme version of autism but a lot of these things tie in perfectly. I've read of people getting diagnosed in adulthood of a disorder and I think it will be a big help if this happened to me (I can't remember who, but someone on here shared their ADHD story). So I'm going to talk to a GP and I'm a bit worried in case I don't express myself correctly. I don't want them to dismiss me because it's not super super obvious. This is really affecting my life more than anything else.

I've never wanted to say where my somewhere is; I wanted hereisdistant to live on, not chez the inner city. My compartmentalised self gives the real world my boring sober words, and the online world (ie inquiry) my bloody riveting sober thoughts.

I withhold identifiable details, write on incognito and never tell anyone out loud that I am a blogger (and boy am I a blogger!!). I fear the operators of the flesh I converse with, seeing the inside of my head. That would just be rudeness. On the flipside I don't want some internet stalker finding out who I reeeally am (this is lies, apply within by forming an orderly queue, but only if you're decent eyecandy with the right set of genitals).

So I'm a big deal in the parking business. I'm absolutely smashing the world of airport parking. I work as an analyst for an e-commerce business, and let me tell you, I'm absolutely tearing up the industry.

I didn't want to divulge this information, as it's only small industry and if you were so inclined you could probably work out my employer. But fuck it, I want to gab all day about parking and I need to blog about why it's not surprising I've ended up there.

I overstayed my welcome at university, stealing two degrees with high classifications despite lacking flair and natural ability. I was just really good at writing essays which, it turns out, is all it takes. Where does a graduate without passion go?

He goes into parking as a joke. When I looked someone dead in the eyes as he told me he has a passion for finance I almost couldn't hold in my lol. Retail, technology, finance mean fuck all to me. Idealistically the public or third sector would be good, yet even they don't give me the hard-on needed for penetration.

So parking is the right place for me. I can be internally subversive by silently loling when I hear someone refer to themselves as a parking professional. But I can also let myself slip into huge conversations about the state of European parking, how the industry is changing, and what we should be doing. I'm investing my life into parking, but only as a joke because passion for me is vulnerability. When meeting new people I relish taking the piss out of the fact that I spend my days selling car park spaces.

I'm hereisdistant and airport parking is my life and my punchline.

When an April day suggests summer is coming, the aroma of expectation is often sweeter than the warmth at the season's height. I took advantage of the promising and beautiful day by staring at a database with Julie from accounts, unironically saying things like that's the 7k we need to isolate. Julie would nod like a prick. So I left.

There's no better place to escape the city than the square in the centre that badly masks the grey with a patch of green. And there she was, the centrepiece to this love story, sitting on the wall like a lonely flower. I sat down at a distance too close to her for a stranger, but too far from her for a friend.

“I was in love with you, you know.” She continued to stare at the ground, as I nervously ran my fingers in between each other, not knowing where they should settle at a time like this. It had been around two years since I had last seen her, so I was nervous. I started uneloquently blurting out sentences like a donkey with stage fright.

“I've seen you. I've seen how sad you are on twitter. I always thought we could have been sad together. Or we could have been happy like you are on Instagram. Have you noticed that I like your pictures sometimes?”

I met her at university, she was on my course.

“You usually sat alone in lectures and I could see we were alike. You too had a disdain towards the gregariousness of others and kept your distance from it. I remember that an hour was too long to focus on discourse, so I'd spend it imagining the front of your head; I could usually only see the back. I knew you were unhappy, and so was I. That's why I fell in love.”

The tourists and pigeons that were everywhere weren't constrained by a lunch break. They ambled around, avoiding each other, aimlessly searching for food.

“I remember you smiling at me. I was acting the fool in front of the class because getting a laugh was more important than presenting some bullshit. You didn't usually smile. It was why I liked you. When I saw you beam for me, I hoped I had made an impression, that you knew my name”

I placed so much meaning in that one smile. It would be freakish if she had thought about that moment even half as much as I had. I desperately needed to know what was going through her head.

“I had no idea how to start talking to you, so I found your twitter instead. It was brutally honest. My instincts were right; you weren't happy, and we shared a music taste to boot. I noticed when the tweets about the boyfriend stopped and, a couple of months later, when the tweets about tinder began.

I couldn't believe it when we matched. It was everything I had dreamed about, but I had to play it cool. I remember opening with something about being on the same course, and how lame it was we needed tinder to start talking. You'll remember it was phrased cleaner than that.”

We talked on tinder for 2 or 3 weeks. It was slow conversation. Sparks didn't fly.

“A few weeks after we stopped talking you retweeted something to the effect of I'm so rude and blunt with boys then I get sad when they stop replying. I don't know how much you thought of me, but I was glad to entertain the sentiment that you took some blame for our sparkless chat. Because I blamed myself. I didn't have the gusto or confidence that is expected of a man in romantic situations. We were chatting online but shared nothing more than a smile in lectures. Cute, yes, but also incredibly embarrassing compared to the lead I should have taken.

And to think years later I'd be regurgitating all this.”

I looked up, to hear what she had to say about all this madness. But she wasn't there. Because she never was. And neither was I. Because I was on the way back to my desk.

Read my love story and weep, you inconsiderate bastards.