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?
...it'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 drank too much last night for the first time in a long time. My phone died in the early hours and I didn't get home until after midday, and even then the bloody thing wouldn't charge. I wasn't until after 5 that I could wish my mother a happy mothers day. This hour, in my opinion, is way too late to be doing that. If only I didn't drink too much last night.
The menu this evening was curly fries, topped with generous amounts of cheese; what was left of Thursday's tagine; fish fingers; BBQ sauce; mozzarella stuffed dough balls from the local pizza place; all washed down with a orange, passion fruit and mango smoothie. It was an exquisite masterpiece that now no longer exists outside of pleasant memories and this blog post.
Alcohol facilitated some quite healthy talk on mental health with good friends, but it amplified my internal childish sulk when finding out that the object of a bout of passionate ten minute infatuation was romantically accounted for elsewhere. Everything else is a bit blurry, and I'm happy to keep it that way. Luckily, my orange, passion fruit and mango smoothie was lucid as fuck.
The Wikipedia entry on 5 a side football does not portray the actuality very well. Think about men getting together as a team with other men in the office, congregating on weekday evenings in cages containing fake grass and fake dirt that collects in your shoe. They'll channel excessive masculinity into shouting at each other and taking a game far too seriously.
But to me it's something different. The biographical piece in the link was originally published on here as a draft, but I have slowly worked it to something I would like to perform as a speech at an open mic night if I pluck up the courage.
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.
I'm always living in the moment. I wanted to go swimming to think some things in my life over. But all I could think about was
• my stroke,
• my breathing
• whether I was going to fast or too slow
• the time
• the romantic preferences of the girl in the next lane
• whether I was swallowing too much water
• how I was finding it more rewarding than the alternative of another Friday can.
I used to walk to school and my imagination would bounce with impossible things that could never happen. I used to look forward to things. The present was just something to endure before a main event, some palpable light at the end of the tunnel bound to a point in time. At night, I would lie in bed dissecting the day, thinking over how everything happened, and what was important to me. It's sad to think that the social networks and microcultures that my teenage life revolved around, have no relevance in 2019.
So I don't, like everything else I leave in the past. I lay in bed last night thinking how empty my head was. Then I thought about changing my position. Then I thought about taking a drink of water. Then I thought it would be nice to fall asleep. Then I thought how empty my head was. Nowadays, my dreams are about the only place I can find my hopes, loves and fears.
It would be nice if they made it to hereisdistant.co.uk sometime, as I'm running out of steam with these low-spirited themes that have infected my posts.
Hello. I am lonely. I don't have any good friends and can't confidently communicate.
I always said what I thought the other person wanted to hear to the detriment of developing a personality. I was scared to say opinions or divulge experiences, so now I don't have either. I spend my interactions avoiding personal questions.
I don't have a bad opinion of myself. I have a disconnect, a cocktail of superiority and self-loathing. I feel like a spectator among a group and I don't respect authority. If my boss tells me to do something, I just think it's funny how power displays itself in interpersonal communication. I hate confrontation, so I subvert it when I can.
I find it hard to care about anything and react badly to people who do. I will test their point of view by teasing or questioning them. I don't know how to be around someone if they're being earnest.