here is distant

melancholic moment medley

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.

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.

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.