Carpet Diem

I’m coping pretty well at the moment if by coping you mean playing Christina Aguilera’s ‘Fighter’ on full volume every hour of the day or I’ll have a full mental breakdown.

“Get ready for the apocalypse” A friend said yesterday. We’re all terrified. I don’t know how we’re going to break it to our kids that Donald Trump is now president of the United States.

nellie the elephant.png

I sat nodding pensively for a little bit too long and started to panic that she was expecting some sort of pithy response to ejaculate from my mouth. Pithy responses rarely do, but food often does. I’m very worried about making crunching noises in public too loudly, so often to bypass the chewing process I just wait for food to dissolve inside my mouth. This method is fundamentally flawed and can take hours because unfortunately its not socially acceptable to puke on it a bit first like a hungry fly.

The idea of an apocalypse isn’t too stressful for me. It’s more of a red-letter day on the social anxiety calendar, because after it happens I’ll be dead and then I don’t have to worry about any more plans being made. Better still, everyone will be dead so I won’t have to worry about missing out on any lifelong memories or inside jokes being made without me. These are two very real nightmares that very well could happen in my absence at any social gathering, and often specifically do. My friends love inside jokes. I think that’s why they all went camping without me.

The worst part about inside jokes it the fact that someone will have to explain them to me later. I have to pretend to laugh like I was there when I wasn’t – and even if I was, was I ever really there? – and smile jovially through an existential implosion that feels so physically real I am surprised blood doesn’t seep out of my ear.

But if the end of the world is nigh, I’m not too bothered because I have a feeling that I reached the peak of my potential at university; I think that’s why I can only afford off-peak train tickets. I’ve got nothing left. If I ever have a kid I’m going to get her one of those little road map carpets, but turn it over to show her how life is an unending black abyss.

roger and his plans.png

I’ve regressed back into a childlike state living at home. I’ve started acting sicker than I actually around my mum just in case she things I’m faking and makes me go to school despite the fact I’m 22 and unemployed. I like to think it’s because I’m young at heart. But I also like to think have wisdom beyond my years, and I reckon they cancel each other out so I experience neither. I just can’t seem to grow up. I’m so incompetent my mum still has to cut my nails, which I think explains why she always makes them so short and bloody.

I don’t know what my calling is in life. Even if it did call I’m too anxious to answer the phone, and I’ve got a feeling ambition doesn’t leave a voicemail. I’ve been considering getting into politics, it seems like the cusp of the apocalypse might be the right time. I’ve got lots of experience in the cabinet office, and by that I mean sometimes I get inside my cupboard to do admin and cry.

An uplifting note to end on about seizing the day. I was saving my FULL café stamp card in the British library for a rainy day, but I left it to long and the café changed hands and now my card is invalid, as are my reasons for living. So, reader, use your full stamp card when you get the chance. Turn over that children’s carpet. Carpet diem. And buy yourself a clock, because there’s no present like the time.

“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.

cafe nero edited 1.png

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

friends edited 2.png

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.

omar sexy pics 1.png

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

Am I tired? Yes. A latte.

So here’s a quick update on my first week working full time.

I am tired. I am really, really tired. I have friends in the real world who talk about how tired they are but I sort of only half believed them, thinking that a full time job can only be so draining. Is a 9-5 job really that tiring?

YES.

I get up at about 6am because I’m too tired to work out how the trains function to get to work. I just don’t know which one I need to take. Time is really hard to tell. My brain is to time as what Dali is to clocks; all melty and fucked up. Often, when I think about time, I feel like I’m still in year six as little ten year old me, equipped buckteeth like grapple hooks, desperately fumbling around for a remote foothold of comprehension. A frustrated tutor looming over me whilst a little bit of pee runs down my leg as I gaze blankly at the page, a melty mushy mess of numbers slowly rotating, mocking. Even time’s embarrassed about being time, coyly covering its face with its hands BE BRAVE TIME SHOW US WHO YOU ARE.

Anyway, so I end up several hours early for work. Obviously I don’t go in early like a fucking nark (I’m not a keen pleb, get a grip) so I’m in Starbucks, every morning, when it opens, ordering a full fat latte.

Also, things have gone downhill with Jennifer and Vince. They moved in together a few months ago when things were getting pretty serious. They were still quite cautious about the prospect, tentatively rubbing along together. But now they’ve begun to suffocate each other, and they’re desperately trying to push the other one out. There’s a part of me that feels trapped in the middle, that can’t breathe. Jennifer’s even thinking about moving back in with her parents, to get a healthy distance. Is there such thing as couples counselling for thighs?

No, I’m only kidding, my body has never looked better, spackled with reptile-like scales and white confetti cellulite, like an internal piñata exploded inside me, in celebration of the stress carnival I have every morning. My jeans barely aid in constricting even the suggestion of a leg-like shape, like little conjoined overstuffed cocktail sausages. My legs look like two desperate snakes, eating parallel swollen cacti, slowly dragging their engorged carcasses into work.

I’m thinking about linking this blog to my Tinder profile.

I think that if I were to die right now, they would be able to tell how much weight I’ve gained through the curvature of my belly button piercing; slowly bending under the pressure of my stomach, being forced out of my body and over my jeans. If that doesn’t make sense, its because I don’t know how belly button piercings work- I just know its infected.

My skin is really great at the moment too, kindly adopting the texture of all the muffins I’m eating.

muffin

(Sugar packets for scale)

It’s shit. Everything is absolute shit. I’m not even funny anymore, really, I’m just annoying. Annoying with a big stupid face and a silly voice and a tubby tummy and a unibrow because I cant even afford the £5 to get them threaded by a woman in Nike Airmax.

HOW CAN SHE AFFORD AIRMAX SHE PLUCKS HUMAN HAIRS FROM A FACE FOR A LIVING

Anyway, if I’ve gained anything aside from weight this week, it’s an immense respect for people who work in retail. The general human population has a profound absence of this. I get people come up to me and ask stuff like:

“Hi can you help me find a book? I don’t know the author. Or the name of the book. But I just know its got like a bunny that fights crime maybe or is it a goat I’m really not sure”

And I have to be like yeah, of course, let me just flip through the internal rolodex inside my brain to the section on small mammals, then to the employed civil service sector, and then combine the two to find the subsection about vigilante rabbits and maybe look in the kids section for twenty minutes before you suggest that it might have actually been Claude the Movie Star Dog.

I had one very small little girl come up to my till with her father to buy a miniature pony figurine (£5.96). She didn’t say ‘please’ when she handed it to me, and to be honest I wasn’t too fussed on the matter, but her father was furious and made me put the horse back. The little girl then threw the biggest tantrum I have ever seen in the store, at ME, screaming. I can’t describe it without getting a bit shaky but it was almost exactly like that moment in American Beauty when the mother tries to sell the house and then screams because she doesn’t like the blinds or something. But this little girl was filled with a real, crushing, trauma-fuelled suburban existential hysteria, because of me.

I would have fucking bought that pony right there if I could have done to make her stop; other employees are looking at me like I’ve just kicked a six year old girl in the vagina. But that pony is the same price as a pair of well-shaped eyebrows. Her father drags her out, and then returns to the shop ten minutes later with the little girl, in his arms, snot and tears streaming down her face. Holds her up so she’s face to face with me and she squeaks out a sorry. I tried to smile at her, but it was very difficult to, considering I had just spent the last ten minutes in the employee toilets, hysterically crying that I had ruined a little girl’s life and I am probably going to be a terrible mother and it’s probably because I’m stupid and fat and I can’t tell the time and I lied earlier and it was more like year nine.

In a job interview I had last week I actually used the phrase “I’m used to rejection” and I think it’s really working out well for me so far.