Can I have a bowel please, Rachel

I’ll begin with today, because that’s what day it is. Today, I had an interview for Accessorize. Accessorize is basically Claire’s but for people who can afford to have shame. Accessorize mostly sells little charms for £6.95 and backpacks for transvestites.

Half way through the walk to the interview, I remember thinking, I’m not nervous at all. Like I was a little bit sweaty, but when you’re as consistently, cripplingly socially inept and dread human interaction as much as I do, that’s normal. Right in the middle of being impressed with myself, it happened.

I got diarrhoea.

And not the kind you can just clench and try to desperately hold inside, like a leaky moon cup. The kind that you have to follow through with right now, and I wasn’t about to do that because I was wearing a pair of expensive work trousers I had stolen from my mother, and I didn’t want to have to explain the reason as to why her leggings were in the wash was because I had shit myself.

So I ran home as fast as my wide fit (comfy on the bunion) Primark flats could carry me. Afterwards, I had this conversation:


“Alright. Hang on, are those my leggings?”

I’m late to an interview in which the woman interviewing paused and looked up from writing notes to check with me whether she had spelt literature correctly.

I’m supposed to find out if I have the job by next week, and I’d let myself get excited if I didn’t fear the implications on my bowels.

If only companies were as eager to hire graduates as they are with branding images of unnecessary Minions on things.

I am about a month into unemployment now and let me tell you about how much fun it is. It’s great. It’s really really really great. I would use more adjectives but unfortunately I can’t afford to, because I’m too busy being in denial.

My moods, my esteem, my expectations, my famous perky personality. I feel like where Far East Movement keeps their bass. I’m like Kylie Minogue’s song Slow, only minus the S.

At the moment I’m not even sure if I am actually depressed, or just bored. Or whether being bored is making me depressed. Or whether I’m choosing to be depressed because it qualifies the amount of time I’ve spent crying in my underwear. There’s only so much time my brain can take watching reruns of Friends and saying the funny lines a couple of seconds before the characters say them, to the amusement of no one.

The only thing actually high right now is the amount of time I’ve spent masturbating, which is shocking. I think it’s like a way I’ve developed to self soothe. It’s gotten to the point now where I’m becoming increasingly concerned about whether it’s just me who pays 100% undivided attention to the girl in porn. And then there’s the subsequent musings due to the implications of this, such whether I am actually gay, or if I’m just trying to convince myself I am so I might have an edge in job interviews.

I’m excusing myself from plans with friends to go home, strip down to my pants and critically analyse whether some of the darker hairs spackled on the upper parts of my thighs are simply ambitious pubes.

I’ve exhausted outlets for self-harming so much that it’s gotten to the point where I’ve had to start getting creative. Like systematically going through the profile pictures of the girl my ex-boyfriend is seeing whilst playing Chilli Pepper’s Don’t Forget Me. Or wrapping hair bands around my fat so they look like little pale diglets popping out of my skin. Or taking a selfie and then relentlessly zooming in on my face until I look like the weasel love child of Mr Bean and Sid the Sloth.

I’m considering volunteering. Some real fucked up shit.

Honestly though I’m thinking I might take over the family business. And by the family business I mean do what my dad did and disappear.

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