It shouldn't be this hard

The time was 8.47am. I mention this, not because of any particular significance about that time, but because it was before 9 o'clock in the morning. I am not a morning person nor will I ever be a morning person. I've tried being a morning person and though it sticks for a bit there will always be a part of me that just cannot deal with the world until around 10am. After 10 I'm fine. I can hold telephone conversations, crack on with boring admin, exercise, run*, jump*, kick*, climb trees* and most importantly - talk. Up until this point, no matter how early I went to bed or how late I arose, all these things are near-on impossible. 10am is when my brain decides it's awake time now thank you.

So, that is to say, pre-9am is not when I'm at my best. Just to make that clear. However, on this bright and breezy Friday I had promised my bro a lift to the train station so up I was at 7.30 giving the dogs their breakfast and putting on clothes that don't have flowers or Han Solo pictures on (my choice of jimbly-jamblys at this current juncture) and out the door all by 8.30. No sweat. I can cope with all that. On my way back from the aforementioned station I thought to myself 'ooh I could pop into Staples on the way home and pick up get some printer ink quick before work'.

That was my first mistake.

I walked into the store and was greeted by a dizzying array of inks none of which meant anything to me. I stood there open-mouthed and silent for a while, walking from one end of the ink selection to the other, and never quite being able to take it all in at once. There were a lot of inks. I rang my step-father:
'Papa Mikey, what is my printer called?'
'Derek?'
'Funny. What is it's number?'
'Epson Stylus 925'
'That wasn't so hard was it? Also, thank you'

I turned back to the inks. Having this knowledge was supposed to make things easier. It did not. I stood aimlessly for another minute or two before deciding this wasn't the best use of my time as I had no chance of getting the right cartridges. You may well as asked me to go to a fake-tan convention and try to blend in. The chances of either things happening are incalculable by the human brain. (Unless the way it works is the probability is zero in which case I think the human brain could probably handle that. What am I Professor Probability of Statistics University - Tenured? No. I am not) Whatever, I made to leave feeling a little dumb and also a little scared they'd think I'd been nicking stuff.

I was *this* [indicates tiny amount] close to making it out the exit doors and tasting sweet, sweet freedom... Then: 'Did you get what you were looking for today?' came a voice from Dante from Clerks's double
'No' I said.

Here I should point out that I was already predisposed to like this man - he looked like Dante from Clerks (I would have liked him even more if he looked like Dante from Desperate Romantics. Sometimes a human exists who is so beautiful it literally takes your breath away a bit, and not even in a 'creepy stalker Sting song' way but in a very real, tangible 'wah...' way. Dante from Desperate Romantics is in this category. I strongly believe he will only get more attractive as he ages in a George Clooney/Robert Downey Jr -esque journey where youthful arrogance turns into self-deprecating good humour and the beauty becomes slightly more manageable to the human eye - overwhelming beauty is almost as hard to process as overwhelming uglyness. Both things are extremely rare. That's why, for the most part, most of us are pretty passable. Some more passable than others but that's what it really boils down to - passability. Noone is completely perfect. Except Dante from Desperate Romantics).

Where was I? Oh yes, Dante from Clerks (Dear Santa, this year I would like a chunky guy in bovver boots, an oversized t-shirt and plaid. Yours, as ever, Sazzle) asked me if I needed help and after being taken aback by how Dante-from-Clerks-ish he was and assuming that noone just looks like that by accident so he must be good people, I went 'No. I'm looking for a printer cartridge. 925. Epson or something'

This is as coherent as I am able to be pre-9am. Particularly where printers are involved.

'How many cartridges does the printer take?'
'2'
'You should buy a new printer'

I laughed. I thought this was a joke. The world stopped spinning for a moment and he looked at me with such disdain that I could ever find such a serious, and helpful, suggestion funny that I almost was surprised he held back the obvious overwhelming urge to spit on my face.

The air, once clean, became laden down with awkwardness. I resisted the urge to run.

'Something something save £20' he said
'Ok' I said, trying to hurry this along as quickly as possible. I think he sensed my impatience here as I got another scornful look. We walked to the cash register (not fast enough! Not nearly fast enough!) and he rung up my purchases.

'Have you got a Staples card?'
I had already thrown it down , my phobia of social awkwardness suddenly giving me cat-like speed.
'There' I said, trying to hide the note of desperation in my voice.
'That'll be £100 then please.'

I could feel him looking at me slyly from under his downturned eyelids. I wondered if my gulp was visible.

I put my card in the machine thinking 'buying ink should not be this hard nor this expensive but I would pay any amount of money to leave this store right now so £100 is actually kind of a fair deal'.

Tomorrow I think I'm going to take them back. Wish me luck.

*Patently untrue.

There is no spoon

I feel like everything I've been through in the last few months; every emotion, every plot twist, every argument and misunderstanding, has changed me in ways I still haven't quite come to terms with yet. It's an unsettling feeling to have. I feel constantly out of sorts - even in my dreamiverse - just because I don't really know me at the moment, I'm not entirely sure who this new person is or how she's going to react to certain things. I think I like her, she seems much more at ease with herself that the previous versions of me for one thing, but I haven't really had a chance to test that out yet. It's sort of like having The Joker in the room and not being sure if he's going to sit there quietly or blow your shit up. It could be either or neither or both simultaneously at any time. There's no way of predicting it.

Like I say, unsettling.

See, I've done depressed before, I've done self-loathing before, I've done fucked-up before, and there's an element of me that yearns for those incarnations of myself because I know the script for those characters. I understand their motivations, their hopes, their fears, their beliefs and their needs. I know how they operate. And this time, the one time that I think I have a legitimate excuse to be depressed or fucked up or self-loathing - I've rejected it. I burned off all of those persona's because they didn't work for me, but obviously something must take their place. So I now exist as something new. It doesn't feel like a good thing or a bad thing - it's just what it is. I'm very aware that I desperately want the last few months to mean something, to be profound in some way. I want to walk away feeling more empowered, more willing and able to face other challenges that will inevitably occur at some point; but, at the same time, I don't want to exploit events of the last few months for my own gain. That seems... disrespectful somehow. A man nearly lost his life, for me to walk away feeling good about that, in whatever way, seems horrific.

So what I've done is distance myself from everyone and everything. I sort of feel like a social anthropologist at the moment. Like I'm observing the world and my new self in the world through a scholarly eye - trying best to soak up what I can and learn something from it. I'm not sure that's a healthy way to be; to feel like you're apart and above* everyone else. Yet it feels necessary for the time being, that I have to be separate in order to absorb what I need and figure out how to be human again; but armed with deeper and wider insight this time. I desperately want to learn how to become an adult.

I've always been obsessed with the idea of becoming an adult. When I was younger (and by that I mean maybe up till a year or two ago) I thought that meant getting a mortgage, a husband, a 2 year fixed savings bond, and breeding. Now I believe these are just our cultural signifiers of adulthood, but to have them doesn't necessarily mean you are an adult. I will never fail to be surprised by the number of people ten, twenty, whatever, years older than I, all thoe who have those cultural signifiers but who do not behave in a manner that I believe to be mature, well-reasoned or adult-like. I hear tales of 40-something women sending text messages where they diss one another's vaginas (really), people in their 30's seriously considering fucking up another persons hair straighteners just to get a modicum of revenge for an event they feel justly annoyed about but unjustly justified in taking revenge for, men deciding to date a person, breaking up with that person, deciding to date them again and then breaking up with them again (and then dating them again). All in the space of a week and a half. And then arguing the point when the object of their indecision calls them a jerk (they are a jerk). All of these people are technically 'adult'. They all have homes and loans and cars and jobs. They get dressed every day and make a choice to exist in the world as a person who may be old enough to be legally defined as an adult but who is not an adult. And it's this revelation that has made it apparent to me that being 'an adult' is something different from being 'an adult'.

The idea of 'grown ups' used to terrify me. People who have it all figured out and know what they want and how to get it and have all their ducks lined up and can discuss mortgage repayment schedules and the importance of interest rates. I didn't really want that for myself. I didn't know what I wanted instead but I knew I didn't want to be like 'them'. So you find yourself stuck in a half life; a place with no real responsibility yet paralysed by this unshakable ennui. A sense that things should be different but the options on offer don't entice you at all. And then, about a year ago, it dawned on me that by keeping my options open I was keeping myself still, which meant I was unable to ever go forwards and become an adult, become human, become a woman. So I started making choices. Which has lead me to somewhere that I've never been before. I'm out of my comfort zone.

I know I've been harping on about my last relationship somewhat but it was one of the most profound and fucked up experiences I've ever gone through and I'm still dealing with the fallout (not helped by him still being in hospital and me going for days at a time unsure of whether he is alive or dead). I fell in love with someone who was eight years older than I and, on the surface, a lot more grown up than me. But he still had this vague notion of wanting to be a Lord Bryon or Dylan Thomas figure, believing the illusion that giving in to darkness rather than searching out the light is a glamorous lifestyle choice and not just really fucking depressing. (Here I point you towards someone else who was in love with the romantic notion of destruction and Byron and the like: Peter Doherty. The sweaty moon faced crack addict of your dreams. Or nightmares, depending on your levels of sanity). Watching someone refuse to make choices, refuse to take responsibility, refuse to be an adult and take all that to it's inevitable conclusion was heartbreaking. I know for certain I don't want that for myself or for anyone else (but I also now know I can't make that decision on anyone else's behalf).

So, here's the thing: I think I now understand the formula of growing up; you learn how to be you. First and foremost, that's the crucial part of the recipe. The bit that makes you able to take the next few hundred thousand steps. Without it you bimble along in this world that doesn't really exist. A world where you lie to yourself and accept the lies that others tell you. You take the red pill, take a bite of the apple from the Tree of Knowledge**, shake off illusion and embrace reality and everything that entails. You finally learn that 'there is no spoon' (there is no spoon) and that frees you, completely and one hundred per cent to just be you - accepting the awesome and horrible parts of yourself, learning that they are pretty much one and the same thing (because they are what makes you, you), and being ok with that (something no-one will ever really tell you but you really must believe - you being you is ok. It is enough. No-one should demand anything more of you than for you to be the most 'you' version of yourself that you can possibly manage. You are perfect. You are imperfect. It is enough). The next bit is harder and more of a slog because once you've realised you're Neo and can save the world and destroy God, you actually have to go off and save the world and destroy God. Which is effort. To put it into real world terms it's like me going 'that painting I was going to do would be really awesome if I painted it' but then just sitting down and twiddling my thumbs instead. Knowing that I am capable of painting awesomely and actually doing an awesome painting are very different things.

And I think that's where I am now; looking at the ingredients, looking at the recipe, and trying to find the strength and the energy to pull it all together. I've had so many revelations through going to therapy that have clicked so many things into place that I just can't see myself making the same mistakes again, which is good. I just don't feel good yet. And that's the one thing I wish I knew how to get back.


*I don't mean 'above' in an arrogant way, though around the time I was going through all this 'breaking open the world and seeing the light' shit when my best friend came out and showed me how easy it was to live without fear controlling you, it was arrogance I felt. I felt I'd been given a key to a secret kingdom and only a select few of us were brave or clever or special enough to enter. Most others chose to stay on the ground and I was living in the clouds, observing and shaking my head at how stupid it all seemed. The petty lives people lead when they weren't being honest or true to themselves. I knew better, I was above all that. I'd taken the red pill, everyone else had chosen the blue pill and had an easier but less fulfilling time for it. The arrogance on this occasion is absent, maybe because it's another persona that just didn't work for me. Maybe because it's a trait associated with youth and I don't feel like a kid anymore. Maybe, in this instance, I just have nothing to feel arrogant about.

** No-one has ever explained to me why God would want to keep you wrapped in cocoon of illusion. It seems to me that Eve had the right idea, rather than damn humanity she saved us. But then girls becoming women and realising their own power has always, and probably will always, be construed as a dangerous thing.

Pretty good. Pret-ty pret-ty pret-ty good.

Yeah. Pretty good I am. A couple of days into my new awesomo regime and it's all going quite well. Not that I've actually been doing awesome, or anything of note at all. I've been living, existing, I managed to fit in some time for breathing and sending sarcastic text messages to various people (the last two are pretty much one and the same as far as I am concerned). I bought some FUCK OFF gold hoops and this freak-ass ring even though this month I am determined to not spend money on fripperies (but then I consider accessories to be just as important as food or water). I dyed my hair RED so it is now very very RED. Weirdly, it looks great when I'm wearing my own clothes and kind of jarring at work. I don't know if this is because the lighting in the bathrooms at work are designed to make you want to kill yourself even more so than you do anyway because you're, you know, AT WORK, or if it's because my hometime outfits are better suited to hair which is the colour of RED than my work outfits that are more designed for someone that doesn't mind having their soul sucked slowly out in exchange for a decent wage slip at the end of the month. It's probably a little from column a and a little from column b. Speaking of which, I have 19 work days left at the council. Shit. I have NINETEEN work days left at the council! How sweet is that? Until I start thinking about what I'm going to do for money before I go offski on my travails. Ideally I would like to get paid to sit at home with my brother for a month whilst we watch all of Veronica Mars, The Wire, Curb Your Enthusiasm (although aficionados will realise from the blog title that I've been chomping through a large chunk of it recently by myself anyway), Battlestar Galatica and then somehow, in amongst that whirlwind of activity, finding time to fit in some Guitar Hero and perhap a smidge of painting. However, never mind what I'm going to do for money in the month before I swan off to live a life of decadence and degeneracy, what am I going to do when I come home again? Half of me is thinking of just losing a shit load of weight, getting a kick-ass body, and becoming a stripper for a while. I mean, I like leopard print and dancing and I couldn't hate men any more if I tried. It seems ideal. Up until the point where my goddamned politics get in the way and I start questioning whether I'd miss making eye contact with myself in the mirror. I do know what I DON'T want to do - anything in an office. Offices fuck my shit up well bad. And not in a good way. I can't settle in an office, which is weird given my love of stationary and sitting down. At the moment I think I might just try and scale the dizzying heights of waitressing or working in a bookshop. As Larry David says 'I don't like talking to people I KNOW, but strangers, I have no problem with'. In fact, on the right day, in the right mood, when the breeze is blowing in the right direction, I'm even sort of (whisper it) charming and shit. Unreal right? Yeah I know. It's more the having-to-talk-to-the-same-people-on-a-daily-basis thing that gets to me after a while. I need variety and lights and shiny things. Anything but what an office contains in fact. Even if I will miss having a free store of highlighters and glue sticks from which to pilfer from (slowly but surely my contraband collection is growing and making every single second of boredom worth it). Still, the point is, I don't care. I'm going to live in the present for a while. Fuck the past with all it's pain and shit, fuck the future where I have no idea what's going to happen. Let me just be. I forgot that was an ever an option.

Anyway, here's one of my favourite Curb'd moments. This may or may not be unrelated to the bell hop being Zachary Levi. Back when I first saw this he was still known to me as Kipp Steadman but now he's Chuck and my lust cup runeth over. Enjoy!

I'm the poor example from which your greatness can be conceived

I may be a comedy ‘fan’ but I find it very difficult to laugh at normal jokes. Not jokes that come up in everyday conversation, not jokes as told by professional stand-ups (although there are some notable exceptions), I mean joke jokes. Proper jokes. The jokes that the ‘wacky’ office colleague tells you while you stand waiting for the kettle to boil, the jokes that your boss tells you when you happen to mention you’re going to see some comedians performing soon and he wants you to think he’s hip. Those jokes. The jokes that may be slightly saucy and a soupson risqué but I’m pretty sure aren’t funny. However, to save time and effort explaining why I’m not laughing and having an awkward social interaction (what don’t I like? AWKWARD SOCIAL INTERACTIONS. This is covered in class Sazz 101 of ‘Sazzology’). This means, that I often have to try and guess where the laughter should be. I don’t mean I’m guessing where the punch line is, I mean I have to try and gauge the exact amount of time I should leave between the punch line being told and when laughter should appear.

The difference of a few milliseconds can make the difference between people either thinking you didn’t really ‘get’ the joke, or thinking that you’re only laughing to humour them (as it were). Fake laughter is an incredibly difficult art form to master in the first place. Let alone fake laughter in the exact right place so that people don’t think you’re laughing at rather than with them.

Of course, the other option available to me is just to groan, tut, lift my eyes to the sky and shake my head with a wry smile. But there are two issues with that. Firstly, it takes longer than just a quick burst of fake laughter and I really don’t like to extend any kind of polite chit chat for longer than I have to; secondly, there’s only so many times you can do that without starting to hate yourself a bit and I use up my yearly quotient at Christmas time when the cracker jokes are being bandied about.

So the fake laughter route I go.

However, as I say, timing is key. And unfortunately I am not the queen of timing. In any way, shape, or form. So the last two days I’ve found myself laughing just a fraction too soon and a fraction too late respectively. I can cope when people tell you a lame joke and they know it’s lame. I just don’t do so well when people are looking at you expectantly for a positive reaction. It’s the same feeling as when you’re listening to music or a film that someone is obsessed with and instead of you being able to enjoy it (or not as the case may be) for what it is, you have to endure people watching you watching (or listening to) it. If anything is guaranteed to suck the fun out of something it is that. The pressure is too immense. And I think that’s why I fret so much about laughing when I’m supposed to laugh at jokes. It’s a give-and-take process. Someone is putting themselves out there just to provide you with entertainment and, as payment, you are expected to reciprocate with laughter. But the right kind of laughter.

Of course, it’s possible that I’m over thinking this a touch. That the only pressure is coming from myself but I can’t help but think, at times like this, am I not just deficient socially but actually afflicted with some type of autism. No-one else worries about stuff like this do they?

Oh well. At least I know when to laugh at Maria Bamford’s efforts. That may just be because she’s awesome personified though.

Groundhog Day

I have a big issue dealing with reality. This is in no part helped along by the fact that I have a very vivid imagination. One that runs wild constantly. Everything in my life has to be done as part of an adventure, or to move the story along, or allows me to take the starring role in the film of my life (more and more I find myself framing the shots, deciding on the camera angles, thinking about what the titles will look like, and working out the soundtrack. Which is worrying to say the least). I’m starting to get the sense that this kind of approach to life may cushion things that I don’t really want to deal with but is perhaps PERHAPS a touch counter-productive. This all became clear at the weekend when it finally dawned on me that fantasyland may be safe and pretty but, in the end, spending all my time there is not really beneficial to anyone – least of all myself.

This has kind of meant that for the last few days I’ve felt utterly lost, I now recognise that that feeling had been simmering for a while but events of the weekend brought it all to the surface. Some expectations I’d had about my future life were cruelly dashed and although I’m quite happy with what now exists in place of those girlish fantasies, it still takes a while for your thinking to readjust and for you to reach a point of equilibrium once more. So yes, although I recognise what just happened was not the motivating factor in my newly reacquired quarterlife crisis, it has lead me to face up to the fact that I just don’t know where I’m going. For one thing I’m seriously behind on all the things I laid out on ‘The List’. The list for me was a document that provoked a feeling that I imagine religious types get from the Torah, or the Qur'an, or the Bible, or Gemma Atkinson gets from Heat magazine. I had complete faith in what was expressed upon its pages. All I needed to do to find myself in a happy and fulfilling life was to follow the guidance therein. And then? And then, December appeared. Seemingly from out of nowhere. It creeped up behind me and tapped me on the left shoulder before moving very quickly to the right so that when I turned around I didn’t see who was trying to get my attention. It then of course couldn’t hide its mirth any longer and made itself known whilst bent double and wiping tears of laughter from its eyes. I just stood there raising an eyebrow and looking a bit unimpressed. It knows I have rage blackouts. Why’s it gots to play me like that? But still, we moved on, went for a drink and then found ourselves in the pub pretty much constantly from that moment on. Every time I made a move to go my favourite song would come on the jukebox, or December would kindly offer me another round, or a group of other people that December knew would come along and we’d end up having philosophical discussions about validity of Gene Hunt et al being brought back for Ashes to Ashes and whether Britney deserved to keep her kids. The important things you know?

Basically I was firmly ensconced in Socialbutterflytown with no hope of escape. However, it was all justifiable as I knew that when New Years was done with I could return to my compound. My deliciously safe compound where I get to be left alone and focus on the important things in life – me and me. But then January decided it was time to shake loose a little. It had spent too much of the past being all stuffy and uptight and just needed to go with the flow man. Thus, as December bid me adieu, tipped his hat and left in a cloud of smoke and intrigue so came along January bouncing up and down and asking if I wanted to do tequilia shots. Err… no January. You and I have a very specific routine wherein you neither force me to talk, nor leave the house unless I run out of food or alcohol. But it insisted; ‘Oh come on, I thought you were cool??’ Ahh, my one weakness: attacks on my ‘21st Century-Fonzy’ crown (in fact, I jest, but the last time that was uttered seriously it did in fact work and I let an ex smoke in my bedroom even though my mum expressly forbids it. I was a little younger than now but by no means young enough that you could explain it away as youthful naivety. So basically yeah, I’m lame). So I stayed out with January who was looking a little dishevelled and obviously needed to just go home and rest but was insistent that He could handle the party lifestyle. I tried reason, I tried shouting, I tried throwing something shiny out of the window in the hope of getting enough distraction time to make my escape. All to no avail. January would not let me rest. We were going to party and we were going to do it right. Having an inability to say no and a tendency towards going with the flow meant I eventually just shrugged and went with it. February would sort me out I reasoned, and in the meantime it meant I got to flex my hostess skills. I increased my meal repertoire for guests from one dish to about five. I got to replenish people’s drinks, teach people how to Guitar Hero, arrange taxi’s, collect people from train stations, make sure people had clean bed linen, all those little things that make the difference between going to someone’s house and being a guest in someone’s house (in my mind’s eye I do all these things whilst adorned in a hoop skirt, retro cardi, and a gingham pinny with my hair in a ‘up-do’ ala Doris Day but I think that may be the over-active imagination coming in to play again). This is normally the stuff that ‘me’ runs scared from ‘cos it’s like, responsible and sociable. These are not words that I use in conjunction to myself. But I enjoyed it. Plus I knew February would be here soon. God bless dependable February. February has been around the block a few too many times and is far too world-weary for any kind of shenanigans. February just wants you to SHUT UP! Jeez! Sit down. There. That’s better right? Cup of tea? Yeah? Ok good. Now let’s just be quiet and rest ok? February’s got a headache and just needs you to shush.

This is what I was guaranteed. I felt sure of it. Ok, January made me a month behind on ‘The List’ but AS SOON as February got here I knew I’d be able to start getting things done again. However, we’re now a week into February and time keeps drip, drip, dripping away. I’m too tired (slash emotionally exhausted from aforementioned weekend japes) to do anything useful with my time. Monday PERSISTS on turning into Tuesday which is ADAMENT it wants to become Wednesday and so on and so forth. All the while I have books left unread, stories left unwritten, and correspondence unreturned. I need some way of pulling time up a bit. If the universe could just give me a week on pause I know I could get some pretty darn good catch up sessions going. As it is I get home from work, eat dinner, watch a Come Dine With Me and then all of a sudden wake up the next morning to find myself repeating the whole process again. It’s Groundhog Day but I’m not learning the piano or buying insurance from Kirstin’s dad out of Heroes or finding increasingly amusing ways to commit suicide. I’m just letting that time keep dripping. If anyone knows a good ‘time plumber’ I’d be truly grateful. But maybe this is where I need to stop wishing for a fix and just… you know, do what I gotta do. Can I be that girl? Watch this space. [Not literally].

The Stoner Chronicles

Last week I went on a little jaunt to Amsterdam. I've subsequently spent the weekend feeling like a complete and utter zombie. A zombie that felt imbued with sense of knowing about the universe as a whole but a zombie nonetheless. Too much luxuriating in your stoner hippie side can obviously never lead to a good place (c.f. every single stoner you've ever met) but from time to time I like to go there and revel in it, especially as it's been quite a while (well, like, five weeks or something, but since I have no concept of time five weeks to me can feel like anything from three days to six months) since I've indulged my love for the jazz cigarettes. I was pretty much the only one smoking out of a party of four and boy did I smoke. Smoking as much as I did, and in that amount of time, takes a serious amount of dedication but although I may have no commitment skills to speak of, for pretty much everything (thanks mom and dad!), I can commit myself very nicely to getting wasted. Even though I was in a group, because I was the only one partaking in that particular narcotic, I felt somewhat removed from the rest of the party. For me, that wasn't a bad thing as I love the head space I get into when I'm smoking alone. It's like I'm able to disassociate myself from everything that's going on around me and observe all the dramas, and power plays, and behaviourial motivations from a different place. A place that I'm connected to but not really a part of. Like, I'm watching a tv show where I really understand all the characters. I just get it, all of it. Everything presented in front of me, all the things playing on my mind, all the little bits of information I've taken in at some point regarding myself... it all comes together and the bit of my brain that normally stops all these revelations from making their way into my consciousness are delightfully (yet shambolically) laid out in front of me for me to, metaphorically, pick up and play with. I can really wrestle with those issues and turn them over to get a better view of them from all the conceivable angles. It's as if I've been trying to find a better view of a spot on my back and no matter which way I turn in front of the mirror I can't quite see how bad it is, but then it suddenly occurs to me that if I manoeuvre a second mirror into a certain position, and turn on the bathroom light, everything is illuminated.

Now, I have to admit. I don't know how accurate or profound my observations actually were. Whilst I know all my thoughts felt strikingly obvious and intellectual at the time, there are worrying gaps in the story that suggest I was less an erudite Byronesque figure and more 'Lindsey Lohan'. For instance, I know we ended up in a restaurant on Tuesday night but I can't remember how we got there or what time it was when we dined. I can remember the table we sat at as it made me think I was in a 1970's New York bistro - all mahogany and glass and chrome. I can also remember a fair chuck of the conversation that was had but I don't think I took part in a lot of it, rather just listened with a dazed and confused look upon my face. I also recall excusing myself to go to the toilet, but then there's a blank all apart from a flash of a turquoise room and me laughing at a hand dryer. I must have got back to the table at some point as I know we ended up back at our hostel where things come back into focus a little more. I know for definite that I watched the two boys playing the most intense game of Snap ever witnessed. They were doing 'Arthurian Rules' for a lot of it (which I've sure you're all familiar with) so we had to contend with 'the courtisans rebuke' and 'the handmaidens decree' which would cause cards to go to the 'well of contention' until as such time as someone won the next hand and could liberate them from their prison. Like I said, the most intense game of snap ever played. Many things have happened to me in my life, and will (hopefully) continue to happen but I know for a fact that if I manage to reach the age of 97 I will never again be able to look at a deck of cards without thinking of that snap game.

Little glimpses like that into what state I was in suggest that it wasn't quite as profound an experience as I'd convinced myself it was. I don't think Sartre, or Foucault, or Derrida ever got a fit of the giggles whilst drying their hands because; 'dude, I've just realised how fucking stoned I am... how funny is that?! Oh dude, I'm talking to myself... how funny is THAT??!!' Or sat, enraptured (but again giggling), whilst two young men made up a load of shit that passed as rules for Snap. At least, I can't imagine they would.

The good thing is that I walked away from that vacation feeling refreshed and bubbling with story ideas. Before I went I'd been feeling quite uninspired by life. Sometimes I reach a point where I feel like I'm putting more energy into waiting for something to happen that sparks me off rather than going off and finding stimulation. This is usually because I've been spending way more time in pubs (or, more honestly, on facebook or youtube) than is necessarily healthy rather than reading and writing like I feel I'm supposed to be doing with my free time. See, I read this Stephen King quote that goes; 'read four hours a day and write four hours a day. If you cannot find the time for that you cannot expect to become a good writer'. Now, I've never actually read a Stephen King book. I couldn't tell you why exactly except that maybe there are some things which are too ubiquitous and my indie-fied brain takes an immediate blocking stance on anything that has gained too much popularity without me being involved (by which I mean 'knowing about it'... my version of 'being involved' is a little more laid back than the rest of the world's definition) from the start. However, that's neither here nor there. Dude sells a lot of books so he's got to know what he's talking about, and it makes sense anyway... if you want to be a writer then, you know, write. Don't spend every evening in thrall to the virtual delights the modern world offers us. Just. Write. And if you want to be a good writer then you're going to have to spend a little time getting to know different writing styles by which ye shall need to read. And not just read the synopsis of the recorded 'Strictly Come Dancing' episode you'd saved on Sky+. Proper reading from proper books (like, you know, Gossip Girl... which I just finished in two hours... the greatest two hours of my life might I add. Damn straight).

So, I tell myself all of that. I look at the post-it I've blu-tacked to my wall that tells me that. I ponder it a while and then I go back to looking up Michael Cera interviews or rifling through the photos of people on social networking sites that I have a crush on and who don't give a shit about me, and I wind up feeling guilty that all these chunks of time are just drifting up and away from me and into the ether.

Wait, what was my point? Oh yeah. The drugs... they may have made me feel all fired up again but they don't seem to have helped with the 'actually producing constructive work' thing. For one, my handwriting when I'm high is atrocious. For another, the actual words I write when I'm high are atrocious. So I've got all these ideas floating around and have been left feeling all creative but I'm seemingly unable to channel it, which is even more frustrating than having no ideas in the first place. I keep approaching the short stories I've typed up with a sense of foreboding. I read the first few sentences, decide it's shit and go spend ten minutes having a pseudo-conversation with red dog about why it's fine to have a cup of tea when you're eating soup (she is vehemently opposed to the idea and thinks it's too much liquid in one go). (We debate this often). I just hate the fact that I know what I've got to do, I even go as far as planning what I've got to do, and yet I just let the that time slip away again and again. You know that cliche about being your own worst enemy? It's yet another cliche we can add to the list of cliches that I'm already living.