here is distant

melancholic moment medley

It's the reason I get out of bed in the morning and the reason I have a bed to get out from. But what if my salary is too low? I don't mean too low to afford life's essentials like ice cream and 2gb monthly mobile data. I mean it's too low compared to the cash value of my mind, body and C.V..

My boss said I'm underpaid for the work that I do. Not in a jokey sucks-to-be-paid-less-than-me kind of way, but in a this-is-your-six-month-review kind of way. He said I was employed in an admin role, but doing the work of an analyst. How fantastic, I thought, when he went on to say my salary will be increased, so I don't run off with a more attractive and charismatic company.

I saw one of these companies on the sly, and they asked me to rate my communication skills out of 10. I didn't give them an answer on the spot but later emailed them to say I'm at least an 11, erring towards 12.

According to the marketplace, my raise should be a dollop of 30%. Sadly though, it turns out all medium sized companies have a policy whereby any raise this big has to be approved by Santa who, as we all know, is notoriously slippery. But I've been assured that the board of directors are taking regular trips to the North Pole to follow up. They can say with 99% confidence it will be sorted by the end of next month or by the end of 2021, at the absolute latest.

But what if my salary is too low? I don't live extravagantly, nor do I enjoy spending money. I thought I didn't care about money, but maybe it would be nice to have a car. I could get to work 5 minutes slower than I do on my bike, enjoying the relaxing traffic (mood) lights on the way in. Or I could buy some technology or some holidays or a wife. The possibilities are endless. The only guarantee is that I will be 30% happier. Plus, the extra thousands will bring me over the threshold to pay back the interest my student loan has accumulated since cob today.

The worst case scenario is that I put my extra money aside for a rainy day, then end up buying a fucking conservatory in 30 years. I'd rather cover my apartment in gold coated wallpaper, then pay a stripper to strip it all off again. How depressing would it be to slave my life for bullshit, only to die slowly in a state-of-the-art conservatory? How depressing would it be to get all angsty over waiting for a raise, just to fund another layer of glazing?

Eight months into this job and my contract is still like an asexual man in a brothel. There's nothing rising. Yet, I'm being asked if I can project manage this, and put my neck on the line for that. At this point I don't know if should Dress for the job I want, when I'm getting Less for the job I don't even know I want. If only I could get salary to write shit like that. Let's please raise a hashtag to post-work society.

It makes me so mad that I'm being fucked over by my employer. But I'm not-so-secretly enjoying that my growing responsibilities are undermined by the word Trainee in my job title. Through my outraged red face I manage to quip daily that I'm just a trainee, as if to remind the office that I'm being fucked. I'll go up to a random colleague spouting the catchphrase, I'm just a trainee with my tongue firmly in my cheek, to emphasise what a joke it is. The subtext is that I'm worth so much more than that. I yell in their face so they know how much I'm worth. I tell them my value in cash like I'm a vendor selling milk.

What are responsibilities anyway? The ones at the top blame the ones at the bottom and the ones at the bottom blame them straight back. Climb the ladder to get power, delegate the power, then point the finger at any rung away from yours when everything goes wrong. My new job title is going to be Shift the Blame Executive and I'll aspire towards Shift the Blame Manager then I'll retire towards Too old to shift the blame effectively.

It turns out the benefits of being underpaid feed my superiority complex. I have a postgraduate degree and I could walk into any job I wanted right now. Except I couldn't. Except I like complaining that I'm hard done by. I couldn't try to strive for better if I tried. I don't want to challenge myself. I don't want to fail then improve, or ever leave my comfort zone.

All the thirty-and forty-something wankers have hit their ceiling. I'll apologise to them when I use their heads as stepping stones, on my way to becoming a corporate God, or whatever the fuck they never managed to achieve.

Bit of a long one, sorry.

Read my other posts, they're shorter.

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Most of our feelings they are dead and they are gone


If I had a clearer sense of self, I could portray more happiness online.

I'm embarrassed to share success on Facebook and scared to attempt wit on Twitter. I'm missing the flare needed for Instagram and the friends to flaunt on Snapchat. Even the individuality needed to follow a subreddit is somehow beyond my grasp.

And so for your consumption I present an idealised self that, although filtered to support creativity and dignity, is merely a medoly of melancholic moments.

I was scrolling through Facebook the other day and no matter how many times I refreshed newsfeed, it said We have nothing to show you right now. I thought this was weird because I have three hundred thousand friends.

I started to worry that I was missing out on updates from BRANDS. I worried I was missing out on targeted and bespoke content.

I tried again this morning and it still said We have nothing to show you right now. I started to shake as I thought of how acquaintances were, and if they were doing good in their lives.

Most of all I worried about not knowing about how Trump was fucking up the world. With a lack of interesting and enraging headlines it's anyone's guess as to what's going on.


On nights like this I'm just a shell of what I wasn't before. On nights like this I'm too afraid to turn on the television, in case I accidentally sink so far into my beanbag that I morph into a bean. I manage the risk by lying lonelyly on the surface of the internet. I hate it because I can do everything but the kitchen sink, which is where yesterday's crockery sits all unwashed and sad. I hate it because I can do nothing but kitchen-sink deeper into being something that I wasn't before.

Or I could make friends with the other beans and they could teach me how they work together to make whichever shape they're moulded into. I'd be a really great bean. I'd take every challenge that came my way and I'd rise to it. I'd make the other beans proud, until they forget where I come from, where I've been. Eventually, even I would forget that I never used to be a bean. Indeed the thought would be so scary that I'd repress the idea of becoming human again. Life outside the beanbag is scary when you're nothing but a beanbag bean.


I'm told boiling the kettle twice makes a dull cup of tea, something about nitrates. Meanwhile, Orwell wrote that the water should be actually boiling at the moment of impact. What the fuck do I do then, if my hand isn't resting on the handle at the moment of first boil? My only remaining option is to pour away my poor first effort and try again.

Wouldn't it be nice to keep the water company on it's full journey from tap to steam? It would actually be quite wonderful. It's a shame that I would need to be much more content inside my own mind for that. How fucked up is it that standing still for that amount of time triggers feelings of guilt? I should be using this tiny window of time for something productive. There isn't a God. Because if there was, omnipotence and omnibenevolence would combine so that the time taken to prepare a tea bag, mug, and milk would not be considerably shorter than the boiling time of a cheap kettle.

Fuck it. I'll just reboil. It's not like I'd even notice the difference. I'm not a tea connoisseur. I drink it every day but. I'm not a tea connoisseur. I just drink it because it's warm. And I like the taste. And to give me something to do with my hands. And because I like drugs, but not so much that I drink coffee. And because I'm a beacon of national pride. Okay, it's good to blow off some steam, but let's not get carried away with that last one. I need to simmer down with a cuppa.

My mother I can recall perfectly. Her face was always red and sore-looking from bending at the fire, she spent her life making tea to pass the time and singing snatches of old songs to pass the meantime.

contains within it a certain brand of student white girl who can only talk about hangovers and groupchats. Privileged upbringing reveals itself in vowels that literally hang in the air for far too much time... Liike, I can literally see them. And I'm not even joking.

But I sweear it's because I'm still pissed from laarst night. I'm not even surprised though, because I did drink like haaarf a bottle of that disgusting gin before we even got in the taxi... Ohmygosh, can you really not see there's actual letters coming out my mouth right now?'s fair enough for you or me, because we've known each other like pretty much forever, but for her it was just weeiird. If I was her, I just wouldn't get that drunk if I knew I couldn't actually handle it... These letters are actually reeally starting to freak me out now. I can't tell if it's just because I'm totally hanging out my aarsehole, or if my eyes are actually compleately fucked.

I was checking the latest Instagrams today.

Scrolling past a particularly portrait landscape, my phone started vibrating. When the image hit the top of the screen, my thumb pushed the landscape up and out the top, where it was spat out as if from a Polaroid.

The same thing happened with the next picture in my feed, as with some force my phone shot from the screen a picture of an empty stage. Before long drinks, cleavage, smiles, trees, and groups of happy celebs were emerging from my phone. The little squares of filtered cardboard were bullets from my machine thumb.

It was raining Polaroid pictures and they made a carpet all over my carpet. At one point the phone itself joined the confetti storm, leaving in my hand a deck of cards decorated with the latest Instagrams looking blurrier than usual.

My phone was lost in the sea it created, and wasn't to be seen anywhere. I called tech support but they said they only help those who lose phones on dry land.

I'll have to try and find it tomorrow because I need my phone to make replies and do other important things.


A cold 'n golden lager, when a busy week is done.

A glug of wine and recline, to serve a loved one.

A day without drinking to make me feel clean.

A homely sharp dose of gin, vodka then rum.

A second day without drinking to make me feel cleaner.

A G, a T, some ice, lime and sun.

Another cold 'n golden lager.


The radio blares love and hurt to a room where everyone talks only of ancillary revenue.

It's a room that makes me care about the stupidest shit.

Sometimes I open my mouth and a sentence with the word liaise comes out and it won't go back in.

Sometimes I close my mouth and grope a spreadsheet for one or seven hours.

I spend the day around people who care deeply about ancillary revenue.

Everyone is so bloody insecure because everyone is so bloody insincere.

The whole thing is ridiculous and everyone pretends it isn't.

I'm on a train