here is distant

melancholic moment medley

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

I was checking the latest Instagrams today.

Suddenly the clouds relieved themselves of rainwater, and all the drops started covering my phone like wasps on a honey jar.

The rain was heavier than metal and soon I was elbow deep in the junk, with the latest Instagrams looking blurrier than usual.

They were leaving the screen and drifting slowly downstream.

I dried off and called tech support but they told me it was outside call centre opening hours, and to ring back next month.

I'll have to try and fix it tomorrow because I need my phone to check emails 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 sometime, as I'm running out of steam with these low-spirited themes that have infected my posts.

I can be emailed

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.

I'm not always so ugly.

Alarm clocks don't work for me, so I season a duck and throw it in the oven at 130°C before I go to bed. By the time 7am rolls around, the fucker is burning his quack off, and the smell awakens me from slumber like clockwork. Still half asleep, I rescue the bird, which also prevents the flat burning down in a nasty fire. I wouldn't want that.

I hop in the shower. A few years ago I stopped using shampoo as it damages the tips of delicate hair fibre strands. I use only olive oil now, which makes my hair glow throughout the day, and enriches the scalp roots. I use my time in the shower to relax and think about the things I need to do that day.

Breakfast time. My duck gets grated and added to scrambled eggs. It gives them a crispy finish that compliments my toast, which I have raw. If I'm squeezed for time, as I often am, I'll have an orange. If not, the oranges are squeezed with lime, tasting more than fine. I couldn't possibly start my day without a glass of freshly squeezed juice. I leave for work at 8am.

I spend my first waking hour doing exactly the same stuff as I did the day before. I don't know if I should be trying to develop good habits, or making an effort to introduce some spark and spontaneity. People feel defensive or proud over their routines, but in my opinion, they are the epitome of comfort-zone; easy to fall into, but hard to crawl out of. Even though they can be productive and healthy, I find them tedious and depressing.

I've had a job since I was 16 and I've never pulled a sickie. In principle, I'm not against them (depending on your job of course). I always wanted to go someplace barbarically ludicrous on my employer's watch.

“The 17.15 to Liverpool Lime street has been cancelled. This is due to a member of the train crew being unavailable”

It's annoying when your train gets cancelled but if a train driver is off climbing a fucking mountain or something, I say fair play. Sadly, the reality is that he's probably caring for his sick spouse, or trapped in bed with mental illness. eek. And the cancelled train probably has some knock on consequences slightly more serious than a suit being late to his meeting.

But I'm a carefree and healthy young person, so I don't think about these things.

Thank you for reading, I hope your day so far is going better than you hoped.

On day number 25 without sex it got to the point where I googled 'involuntary celibacy' to see if I could coin the phrase on this blog. It shook some sense into me when I found out that 'involuntary celibacy' (or incel for short) is of course the name of a misogynistic online subculture responsible for mass shootings and hate crimes. In my defence, even counting the days since my last encounter made me feel uncomfortable.

I guess then that blogging provides me some healthy self-moderation. At worst, this blog will at least document my slow decline into a new identity defined solely on who won't sleep with me. One day I'm googling involuntary celibacy, the next I'll be using the word horny in my opening exchanges with new people, and etching tally marks into the side of my wardrobe for every rejection I receive. At best however, this blog will allow me to identify and overcome the self-pity and self-loathing that seems to be festering in my writing at the moment.

In other involuntary news, I found myself at church for reasons beyond my control this week. There, a middle aged woman neatly arose from her seat, glided out of her bench, and headed towards the front of the church. The congregation said not a word as her polished shoes walked purposely up the aisle. The priest watched her as she bowed towards a supernatural presence. Standing at a microphone, she began to read in a well-spoken voice, that lacked the regional intricacies found in the silent tongues sitting before her.

When this perishable nature has put on imperishability, and when this mortal nature has put on immortality, then the words of scripture will come true: Death is swallowed up in victory. Death, where is your victory? Death, where is your sting? Now the sting of death is sin, and sin gets its power from the Law.

It's fucking surreal that people sitting in silence, listening to someone read these words, is something that happens. I don't find it disturbing or worrying, it's just a weird thing to observe.

My mother has a very strong faith which I did not inherit, despite its prominence in my childhood. I will be devoting a blog post or two towards the impact of religion on my parental relationships. I've had many hours in pews to brainstorm those pieces.

I was browsing and came across someone who seems to read it like the morning paper or their twitter timeline. To be fair, I find more appealing than both.

It reminded me why I write to the internet and not to a notebook. It's not just because my handwriting is terrible and I get impatient writing long words without the help of a red squiggly line.

If I was at the pub on a Tuesday at 10pm, then I'd want people to listen my spiels, and so the same is true as I lie alone in my double bed. I want real people to read my stuff.

But I need them to like it. When I read writings written about reading, right away I read into it that my writing is being looked down on by better writers as wrong not right, right?

This shows how my self-worth is externally dependent, even though I know it shouldn't be. I have been writing this blog for both myself and a fictitious audience who love my work. But when an audience revealed itself as real, I felt genuine feelings of inadequacy. Hell, I don't even have a blogging voice.

So this is a reminder that I don't need the approval of others. I blog to to make sense of my world, and to expend some creativity. I don't vomit-blog; I proofread and genuinely treat this as a piece of work to be proud of. There's only so much creativity possible in my daytime spreadsheets, as pretty as I make them.

So I would find it personally valuable if anyone reading has some critique for me, and if they could please leave it in the comments section.

Oh wait, there isn't one... contains a search for a better version of me, through self-pitying anecdotes and humourless introspection. is me writing about what I want to write about.

The desk opposite me was empty, as my boss came to sit next to me, screwing up her nose as she did. It smelt. Not the kind of smell that jabs your nostrils violently, but the more subtle and un-delightful eggy kind, that lingers and loiters in the background.

My boss soon moved and whispered into a colleagues ear. The sound of two people trying not to be heard could barely be drowned out by the sporadic clicks of mice. I smell. There was no one else it could have been round there. I stare at my screen but can't think about Excel.

I'm leaking sewage. Everyone knows. My garments amplify my odours. They all talk about it when I'm at lunch. My holes are valveless. It's what they think about when I talk about clients. I can't look after myself. It's what they all smell when I talk to them about bookings.

Then everyone talked at once. All the voices were hissing over each other. They all tried not at look at me, so that I couldn't guess who they were talking about. Noses held, arms wafting and air freshener pumped. Aria brought in an egg sandwich for lunch and people are asking her to put it in the fridge. I closed the google search for incontinence with quite a lot of relief (but not too much, thank God).

You have just read my 14th blog post of all time, entitled Paranoid Panda-Void