The more I panic about jobs, the more I have to remind myself that jobs are just the thing I do in the day to pass the time until I get to eat again. A good job just means the wait between getting to eat again is less painful.
I don’t know why people think I’m bad with money when I get so many letters saying all my payments are outstanding, but unfortunately earlier on in the year I completely ran out of money.
I had an interview at a fancy London juice bar which I’m scared to name in case they track me down and juice me. I headed upstairs thinking I was super qualified and ready to shine in this interview, but to my horror I emerged into a room full of over 20 stunningly beautiful people in their 20s. I nervously stared at my phone, seeking the solace of my friends, but unfortunately they were all preoccupied giving me useless advice.
Six interviewers came out and explained their juice story. No amount of glitter on my face could make up for the terror of having to tell a room of people what my “aesthetic” is.
They did a quick-fire round of questions. “You!” One of the employees pointed at a terrified but well styled man in the circle. “If you had to join the army tomorrow, what would you do?” The guy thought for a while and then said “…join it?”, which everyone seemed happy with.
“You!” A beautiful girl with almost crotchless dungarees pointed at me. “If you were going to make me a smoothie, what would you make me?” I thought about it for a bit. Then I said, “I’d probably ask you what you wanted and then I’d make you that?” They all looked at me like I’d shot her in the face with a gun. I made an excuse, gathered up my stuff and excused myself from the room.
It reminded me of the time in university where I thought I’d give street dance a go. I went to one class, and the girl running it made little groups of us perform the routine she’d taught us at the end. They were recording it on their phones for the street dance Facebook page. I froze. Right when it got to my turn, I legged it out of the room. To this day, when I hear the start of Beyonce’s Flawless, I fight the overwhelming urge to run away as fast as my little, rhythmless legs can carry me.
I had a counselling session in the woods with my mum’s old therapist. We walked around the fields for a while and talked about how to best work on my confidence.
A lot of this just meant shouting by feelings at some very far away, nonplussed sheep in an adjacent field. He suggested I pace up and down the stage when I perform stand up to a room of people so I occupy the space first before I say anything. I tried this out once at a gig last week and think people thought I was having a breakdown.
My dream is to live my life with the confidence of a newspaper that’s been left on a tube seat that everyone is afraid to move.
Sometimes for confidence I go to a cubicle and do a starfish inside the cubicle. This involves standing with your arms up in the air and legs splayed against the cubicle walls. I watched a TED talk which said that you can convince yourself you’re in control if you take a pose that’s dominant, so I tried to make it part of my warm up process. I starfished at a gig very early on and did not realise there was a window directly behind me. The man outside having a cigarette found thoroughly more amusing than my actual set.
I also put glitter on my face for confidence too. I feel pretty when I have sparkles on my face. I probably look like a lunatic at important meetings with a face full of majestic sparkle town, but I don’t care, cause I’m a glistening boss queen. I’m only joking, I don’t have important meetings. I literally put glitter all over my face and sit in a café until it shuts. It’s fucking pathetic.
I’m learning a lot about boys and dating. The same does not go for them. One boy I saw for a little bit asked so few questions about me, it was like someone had told him that I was in the witness protection programme and his life would be in mortal peril if he did.
“So what’s your favourite sexual position?” My friend Hollie asked me over drinks in spoons.
“Missionary and over quickly” I replied, after a long sip of my coke and a big think. She laughed for a long time, we decided that I need to go out into the world and explore myself.
I want to be a strong, confident and independent woman on dates, but also it’s difficult to hide the relief I would definitely feel if I guy actually ordered my food for me. I want to be the kind of girl that you gaze at wistfully on the opposite end of the tube platform. Not the girl whose face is currently shoved into the armpit of a commuter on her way home.
I’ve been trying to explore myself sexually. It’s a bit of worry that my sex life resembles an M&S cake.
It’s had its dangers – last week culminating in a boy attempting to seductively bite my T-shirt, accidentally getting my neck skin, and me crying for ten minutes.
I also attempted to 69 with a boy, which just ended up with me naked, on all fours, frozen in terror like a wild animal in the night that’s just heard a predator rustling in the bushes. I’d suggested 69ing because I’m worried about guys getting bored when they go down on me. That’s the saddest sentence I think I’ve ever typed to you, reader, and I’m sorry you had to read it.
Also to add a final dose to that humiliation, I accidentally sent a sticker to a guy I’d been on one date with and not heard back from in weeks.
The worst part was, I was only reading the chat for clues to where it all went wrong. But I think I’ve just managed to answer that myself.