“Why the long face?” SHUT UP YOU HORSE RACIST

As I write this, I am sitting eating a stale muffin in Café Nero. I’m tired, and the woman working behind the counter has ascertained that I’m never going to take back a stale muffin. So I’m punishing my own shortcomings as a human by eating every bite.

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Much like the skeleton that had nobody to go with to the party, I don’t have the guts, and people can smell it on me, like cat pee on my duvet. I can’t even take back a size 20 dress in Primark that was on a size 12 hanger. Do the people who work at Primark actually look at what hangers their clothes are on before them put them on the shelves? I feel like they are too busy getting shoplifted by everybody under 18. Where else can you buy a T-shirt with every emoji on it?* The kids need the T-shirts to express how they feel in a society where language as an inherently human creation barely scratches the surface of human emotive capability

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I’m not even sure if I really like muffins, or if I just like the masochistic 300+ calories nestled in the pouch of my high-waisted skinny jeans, fermenting.

Two girls in the queue in front of me ordered hot chocolates. They are blonde, attractive, and must be about eighteen years old. This is the kind of girl that I am literally petrified of, because once in high school a girl went through my industrial-sized backpack because I carried all my books for the week everywhere and she pulled out my manky pair of emergency tights and a panty liner in case of period deployment** and held it up in front of everybody and some girls laughed and then I went to the nurse and said I didn’t feel very well and got sent home

I stood behind them at the till and one of them definitely gave me a corner of the eye look. One of those looks that appraises your whole body all the way down, then back up. The girl maintains a neutral expression, and when they finish the up-down look, they turn away. It’s a look that, I’m certain, all of us have experienced at least once. For that one look, every girl is reduced to a robot-like state, scanning for potential threat. I can say that because I definitely do it too.

Then she looked back at her friend and sighed and went “I’m supposed to go ice skating up in London tonight” OH U POOR DEAR LITTLE NYMPH IS IT TO CHILLY FOR UR LIL BOOTS

FUCK OFF BACK TO NARNIA U MEAN COW I KNOW U DIDNT SAY ANYTHING BUT I FELT UR ICE U ICE QUEEN U HATE SKATING BECAUSE IT REMINDS U OF UR FROZEN HEART

Let me paint an image for you of what I look like right now. I’m scared to brush my hair because it’s falling out because every so often I lose my shit and bleach it. I haven’t changed my pants in a while because I’m a bit sad at the moment. I’ve just had to grope my boob to check if I remembered to wear a bra today. I’ve just leant on my hand to think of another thing, and I can definitely feel some stubble growing there.

I’m out of money too, and I don’t care what anybody says, happiness definitely comes a little bit from money. Okay, a lot. Okay, my happiness hinges on whether I have the money to do anything. So anyway that reached a new low last week, because I tried to sell pictures of my feet online. I can tell you now: nobody wants a picture of my feet. My feet are literally hooves. In fact, I should charge people for not having to see them. It’s just ankles, and then hoof. Mum got me these adorable bunny socks that I love, but when I wear them, my bunion fills out the face of the bunny so it looks like it has a massive tumour growing out of its face. It’s something out of a David Lynch film.

Anyway, so I made a tweet about it and some guy replied saying he would offer ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS for a picture of my feet. I did that thing where I blinked and the traditional dollar signs appeared in place of my eyeballs. So, I messaged him.

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1 pic, no problem, I can do that. I’ll get on the phone to my neighbourhood blacksmith for a fitting. 5 pics? That might take some storyboarding.  Does he want one singular pic of each toe? Is the baby toe paedophilia? Do I split my toes apart, revealing the inner crotch of each toe?Can I charge extra for the bunion as a sort of meat quid-pro-quo scenario? It was all too much.

Sorry Omar, I’m out. All my toes are seductively crossed for you in all your other romantic endeavours.

If you’re pleased you didn’t have to see a picture of my feet today, then transfer money into my account. I’m going to set up a kick-starter fund with sexy pics of my foot kicking stuff. I may or may not be desperate.

*what’s up with the spectrum of shades of person u get on the emoji sticker packs? I’m so confused this is just like what happened in The Simpsons like they made them yellow so its universal but then made like Apu have a realistic skin tone so then by default it meant everyone else that’s yellow is white its so perplexing

**periods always happen like the thumbs up on Facebook it’s always inappropriate when they happen why is that sort it out Zuck I know u got a kid but this is important***

***also I just had to delete several pics of my dead cat so I could download the elf sticker pack sort it out I need the packs

Squidward is my Spirit Animal

I have the kind of face where people are always asking me what’s wrong. I have a perpetual sadness that is so ingrained into my face what whenever I have to leave a room, people always make an extra effort to say goodbye to me in case that’s the last chance they’ll ever get to say it.

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But then they always seem to be slightly disappointed when I show up again.

I know that look because it’s the same one that I give to my grandma every time she leaves. She wants me to teach her how to use Skype soon, but there’s only so many nice ways of saying that there’s no point, because she’ll probably be dead soon. She asked Lizzie once to help her out with sorting out her clothes, and Lizzie said, “Well, how long were you planning on being around?”

Having depression is kind of like that, because it’s impending. All the lights go out in your brain and you’re left shamelessly groping around in the dark. It feels like everybody is staring at you like you don’t have eyes, they’re just black holes which show that everything through them doesn’t have any light anymore.

It doesn’t get light again until you find the fuse switch, which can take months, depending on how hard you look for it and how much you really want to look for it.

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I did a couple of lines the other week and about half an hour later when it started to kick in, my friend goes “so, how do you feel?” I analyse my body internally and conclude, “Yep, I feel okay”.

She looked at me with sudden pity and goes “wow, you must be really sad”.

It’s ugly. It’s very difficult to describe. The closest feeling I can align it to is guilt, it’s that kind of consuming emotional dread. In my final year, dappling with antidepressants, I got myself down to a size 6, and terrified a boy I was sleeping with when he ran his hand up my thigh and felt the cuts.

That’s what depression is. It’s not changing your underwear for days, to the point where they probably don’t need the elastic to stay on your body anymore. It’s not eating, even though that’s literally your favourite thing to do. It’s waking up, then shutting your eyes tight again so nothing becomes real yet. It’s going into public toilets and standing with your face against the bathroom door, trying to make yourself want to breathe, whilst a demon consumes every internal part of your body.

It’s listening to Damien Rice and thinking he ‘gets’ you. (what the actual fuck?)

I did my first five minutes in a London club last night, and I died. I literally spoke for five minutes to silence. There were 20 acts in the night, they get pulled randomly to perform, and I was 18th. By the time I actually went on stage, I didn’t want to hear myself do comedy.

I was so nervous, and my opening line didn’t go well, so then I got thrown off and half-heartedly tried to carry on to an audience of tipsy men with furrowed eyebrows, who definitely didn’t want to hear about my vagina.

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Everyone’s got to die once in a while though, and as we all know from Batman Begins- notoriously the climactic triumph of the Batman trilogy- we fall to pick ourselves back up again.

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And I will pick myself back up. But first, I need to get into bed, and not get out for a really long time.

 

 

Special K

Although it’s unspoken, I can tell I’ve been identified as “odd” in several public places now. Harrowingly, I don’t think it’s the kind of odd that Hello Giggles might refer to as “quirky” or “snowflake-like” even if they did reply to my emails.

Growing up, I was desperate to be different. But it never panned out the way I intended it to- I wanted to be the girl that boys looked at from afar in the library and secretly fancied, but were far too intimidated to approach, lest they die of erection overdose. For this to actually happen in reality, I would have needed to know real life boys. I was far too invested in my long-term-long-distance relationship with Hunter, an overweight Alaskan boy I met on Runescape for that. If you’ve got the time, online gaming can profoundly fill the void where self esteem or a personality might go in your formative years.

In actively trying hard to be “different” I just became weird, which even in itself sounds self-congratulatory, so I’ll go with odd. This was confirmed by my family this summer, when we went on an activities weekend and all had to wear helmets, but for some reason it looked like I’d arrived already in the helmet. The helmet looked as though it was integral to my survival as a human being. In fact, I struggle to think of another instance where a specific garment that has suited me quite as well as a helmet did.

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Maybe this.

Don’t get me wrong; this ‘odd’ assumption has some benefits. People tend to give me a wide birth in queues, which is pretty handy, especially when I’m rehearsing my order before it’s time to shine, or counting my change out loud.

People also speak slowly to me, which is nice because it eradicates the stress from the all too allegro pacing of most conversations. Similarly, the surprise on people’s faces when I prove myself capable of responding in full sentences often feels quite nice, like I’m being praised for skills often overlooked by the general public.

But I’m often left wondering; what are people seeing in me that suggests this? Clues today, for example, that suggest I might not be entirely socially capable:

  • Walking around with the flashlight on my phone switched on all day in broad daylight because I’ve been too eager to reply to a text and mashed all the keys with my hands
  • The shaky way I hand hot, sweaty change over to the person behind the till in Cancer Research as I buy a tie-dye throw to wear in Nero because I have to get a plug socket which is always by the door and subsequently, a bit nippy
  • The fact I’ve been watching a video about a braless woman desperately looking for a lost ferret, and keep looking around to see if anyone else is watching my screen from afar and laughing too, and maybe whether we could talk about it later
  • The way I’m not really sure how to laugh where it’s like I’m always the last one laughing and it doesn’t even sound like a laugh it sounds like a moan and my expression looks like I know I should be responding to something witty someone has said and I’m trying really hard to do it and I’m copying how most people are meant to laugh but the way my eyes manically dart from person to person to check if it’s time to stop laughing gives away my secret
  • The fact I was just midway through a conversation with my boss for work and then all of a sudden it got too stressful so I just hung up when she was in the middle of speaking and then blamed it on the heavy traffic
  • The way I ordered a tea and she asked what size and I said regular even though it’s the same price for a regular and a large
  • The very short, thin strand of hair that is hanging down my forehead that looks like I gelled it to look that way
  • I’ve just smiled at a stranger and in doing so split the spot on my lip open like a cork popping out of a bottle of foamy champagne and now I can feel pus on my chin
  • D) A combination of all of the above

I’m not offended, but having this “weirdo” look about me can sometimes be rather cumbersome. The actual weirdos in the street tend to seek me out- I’m not sure whether they’re testing me or want to initiate me into their club. I had a man approach me whilst I was waiting for the bus, getting right up in my face and screaming at me if I’d “seen his girls” and when I said no he said “are you afraid of me?” but I felt embarrassed that I was afraid of the man for shouting at me so I sort of apologised and asked if he needed help looking, before realising my flashlight was still on and then realised that I must have looked like a really sarcastic Nancy Drew.

I also seem to have developed an unintentional camaraderie with our mascot, the Wizard Man of Sutton, who does this nod when I walk past him, like we have a profound unspoken connection between us that not even me trying to avoid eye contact for the past year can sever.

There is also a man in a wheelchair who wears leopard print leggings and blue brothel creepers who stops me when I’m walking and asks me to help him get up the hill to Sutton, as he keeps rolling back, but I know he can do it and he’s just pretending because I’ve seen him go up the hill on his own.

It’s nice to be different but I’m scared that without having to abide by social norms I’m becoming lazy. I’m torn between trying not to care what people think, and caring a significant amount about how people think I think. I’m finding myself trying to prove something to everyone- talking about Celebrity In the Jungle a lot even though it’s already finished and I had no idea, asking a friend loudly on the tube which stop was the one where someone got stabbed there, going into Poundland and pointing out that the deal on three Mars bars for a pound is actually a swizz as they’re only the fun sized ones because I heard my mum say that once, and crowbarring big words into unnecessary public repartee.

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But in doing all of these normal things normal people do, I think I might be making myself seem like I have something to prove. Do I? Do you? Does anybody? Should I accept that bit of hair that is hanging down my face as a new fringe? Will it make me look like Zooey Deschanel?

“You have to be odd to be number one” Dr Seuss

“Don’t get mad, get even” – Kennedy (!?)

“Thank you for making me realise I was gay” –Hunter (aka Shadowhut), in a hate email he sent after we broke up

The Impending Doom of The Hamster Trade

As long as the pet trade has existed, there has been hamsters. And as long as there has been hamsters, there has been Syria.

Syria- what does it make you think of? No, not their firm family favourite type of curd cheese served with cookies called Ka’ak. Or their traditional sword dance. It’s hamsters, probably.

How it used to be:

You (going into your local pet store): Hello sir, I would like to buy a hamster please.

Pet store owner: Hello nice lady, of course you can. May I recommend a Syrian hamster, or as they are more commonly known, the ‘golden hamster’? Their name in the local Arabic dialect where they were found roughly translates to “mister saddlebags” They are very active with great personalities. Let me show you to the exercise wheels. For the hamster, I mean. You actually look very trim.

How it will be now:

You (going into your local pet store): Hello sir, I would like to buy a hamster please.

Pet store owner: Djungarian or Roborovski?

You (a bit hard of hearing): Ovski?

Pet store owner: No, Roborovski.

You: What about Syrian?

Pet store owner: No chance mate.

 

Do you see? In the wild, these hamsters are now considered vulnerable.

 

Why should I care?

1) They are just like humans.

“Hamsters are very territorial and intolerant of each other, with attacks against each other being ubiquitous”

sound familiar?

 

“the female may attack the male after mating.”

God, don’t they bloody all? Bloody women.

 

“they may kill and eat healthy young”

And the list goes on.

 

2) They are used lots in scientific research.

This is a whole different kettle of fish. Which, interestingly, are not usually tested on, nor is their frequent counterpart; the kettle.

 

The sickening facts:

In 2014, there were 400,000 hamsters as pets across the UK. In 2013, there were half a million. What happened to 100,000 hamsters in that time, did they die? Will more die because of the actions that took place in parliament yesterday? What will happen to the otherwise roaring sawdust trade? I don’t know, but I’m worried, and so should you be.

*

Obviously, this is written in jest. I’m upset and scared about the decisions made last night. Please give anything you can to help.

http://www.savethechildren.org.uk/about-us/emergencies/syria-appeal?sourcecode=A12022054&utm_campaign=syria&utm_medium=ppc&utm_source=pss1&sissr=1