Tag: I Suck

See you in a month

(I don’t always take a break, but when I do…)

Long story short I can’t be doing this blog at the moment. I’m not doing so well currently, and am basically in the process of stripping down my life and rebuilding it somewhat from scratch. And if I’m gonna do a cold reboot of my life, I don’t want something like this blog bridging the gap, stopping me from moving on from my old, shitty way of doing things to a newer, less shitty method.

So I’ll see you again at the start of December.

There was a loser on the bus, and it was me

(sounds like a sony lyric from shit band)

I have this little category called ‘local celebrities’ on this site, where I hyperbolise and romanticise the odd behaviour of strangers I see for comedic effect. But this evening the tables were turned, as I started behaving like a oddball, to the extent that I seriously thought of writing about myself in that style.

I was eating raw mushrooms out of a glass mixing bowl on the bus, and felt great about it.

There is a story behind this – a rather boring one, as the preludes to interesting things often are – but I don’t really think it’s relevant. While I don’t seriously consider myself superior to the strangers I mock gently, my ‘local celebrity’ posts have often had a bit of sneering high-horsery about them, as I poke fun at people for doing things the way they want to. Perhaps it’s the public setting, which provides filters and censors to the odd behaviour of most people, and the breaking-down of these veneered taboos is in some way inherently comedic, or at least interesting; but perhaps I’m just a prick.

Either way, I’d like to conclude that I’ll be less mean to other people, for violating both my arbitrary definition of ‘correct’ behaviour, and society’s equally arbitrary definition of ‘proper’ behaviour; but I doubt I will. I’m nothing if not a self-aware arsehole.

And that’s pissed off people in the past – that I’m aware of my more communal flaws but will do nothing to fix them – but I’m very comfortable being a self-aware arsehole. Until I start to upset or drive away the people closest to me, I’ll probably never change that.

Guess I’m a loser whether I’m on a bus or not.

I need reading week

(much like I need oxygen or the excitable voice of Superjeenius as he plays Phoenix Wright blind)

I know that medics, lawyers and anyone doing a degree slightly more employable than a BTec in remedial knitting will take reading week as just another seven-day span of revision, stress and underappreciation that mirrors about 98% of adult employment, but for a special creative snowflake such as myself, I need this bloody week.

It’s not that I’ll be noticeably freer over these seven days; I visit uni less frequently than one uses Kanji as a party member in Persona 4. And my writing and society responsibilities aren’t going to bugger off into the either just because some administrative bigwig at UCL arbitrarily circled this upcoming stretch of days as ‘days off’. It’s just the concept of ‘no classes’ that sings to me, like a siren dragging me towards evenings of Football Manager, Doritos and sandwiching my feet under my desk between two pillows like giant monolithic slippers.

Often, I feel that stress only has an impact on your life if you define yourself as ‘stressed’. I’ve worked through the hell of A-levels, which is objectively the busiest few months of my life, but never felt strained or stretched as I didn’t think that I was getting stressed, only that I was getting work done. Similarly, hammering out a dozen articles a day can feel rather easy if I don’t think about the scale of work I have to do, and instead focus on that work. Without context, stress ceases to exist, as one’s to-do list becomes nothing more than a series of individual tasks.

Yet recently, I’ve had to contextualise my actions. Whenever I’m reading a piece in Old English, I’m aware that my work counts towards my degree, and immediately start questioning if this degree is worth the tear-inducing debt I’ve racked up to pay for it. When I write for The Game Shelf, I’m not just thinking about the article in question, but how that article feeds into the broader identity and appeal of the magazine, it being the project I’m most serious about pushing to a profitable state (at least on a part-time basis). As my life becomes more real life, it becomes harder to focus on tasks and distance them from their scary, stressy contexts, and panic and fatigue quickly sets in.

The best part, however, is that there isn’t really a solution as far as I can see. I can’t be oblivious to the broader consequences of my actions, because they’re more real than ever before; if I don’t take paying my bills seriously, I won’t have a home; and if I don’t take my degree seriously, I won’t have a job. I’m aware that I’m defining a lot of my future in the negative, but that’s just how responsibility makes you think. Instead of doing task for benefit y, you’re doing it to avoid consequence z. Equally, I’m not going to let off on any of my activities, because they’re all engaging and fun and I’d honestly struggle to justify dropping one instead of another based on arbitrary and subjective definitions of ‘usefulness’ (apart from my addiction to Persona 3; I’m pretty sure I’ll only get better grades if I cut down on that). So in the absence of an answer, I’ve stuck it out, to wait for a temporary reprieve from the madness and fear. This seems to be the default response for a lot of people my age, and until I graduate, and have time to consider my experience, qualifications, interests and dreams, that’ll have to do.

Of course, by then it’ll all be too late, and I’ll have to give up, become a secondary school English teacher and get a cat to keep me company.

I got the speaker working!


I’ve never really used speakers before. I don’t really like disturbing other people, and my experience of music played aloud has always been shite through computer speakers, ear-splitting at gigs, or tune-warping when watching my mates play live. But now, armed with a naff app and a free speaker from Virgin for some reason, I’ve been able to live out my fantasy of making vegan pasta sauce while listening to NOFX.

It’s not just the speaker that’s the satisfying thing though, it’s the setting up of it. I use a lot of electricals in my life, and while I’m hardly an engineer, there is a certain almost performative element to feeding wires through gaps, swapping scart plugs for older consoles, and and generally buzzing around my gear in an effort to make it all functional and nice-looking. And while this speaker is hardly ‘new’ in the way a console is – all it’s doing is blasting my existing songs in a slightly more needlessly public way – it;s something that I’ve had to set up and incorporate into my small array of electricity bill-feeding gadgetry.

I’m also exhausted, having spent today recovering from the last week weeks of mayhem to the point where all I can write is a few lines on how I plugged in a speaker successfully. Pro writer over here, folks.

I’ve accidentally stayed up for 23 hours

(and I’m too aware of my own flaws to want to push myself to the full 24)

Last year my sleep schedule was a wreck, but at least I knew it. I’d go whole weekends without seeing the sun, or go to bed at one in the afternoon so I could get up at nine for a night out; I was a mess, but it was a planned mess, with motives and objectives behind them. Last night, however, was a messy mess. Having slaved away over an essay for the best part of a week and a half, I came home from uni on Tuesday exhausted, and crashed out at about six in the evening; then, as my body was caught halfway between wanting a nap and a proper sleep, I woke up at eleven, where a combination of Football Manager and high blood sugars stopped me from nodding back off.

Long story short, it’s now 10pm the next day, and I’ve spent most of those 24 hours playing Football Manager, writing, or at a scrimmage with the University of Westminster Dragons American football team. All of these things are great fun, and are deserving of their own posts in due course, but have managed to exhaust me logistically, creatively and physically; it’s a trifecta of feeling like shit, and I don’t much like it.

Of course, tomorrow is a new day, and when I get up at seven I’ll be refreshed and ready to tackle all the things I blew off this morning as I recovered from my essay hangover. But right now I’m going to bed.

And it’s 9:48pm.