Oblig end of/start of year reflective post

The last year has been the biggest pile of shizer I've experienced since records began. I hated it and myself for most of it. Though it started off all nice and in head-over-heels love it went rapidly downhill from about on January 1st... And just kept getting progressively worse from that point on. (Really, when you think things can't get more stressful or dramatic God lols heartily and likes to prove just how silly you are. THANKS GOD! 'No problemo Sazz!')

What's worse is that I actually said things like 'he's the only one that's ever really understood me' (WITH MY VOICE! TO OTHER PEOPLE!) which is cringingly embarrassing now I've started falling in love with my friends again. And they are pretty kickass. One of my resolutions is to continue recognising that and to see as much of those peeps as I can (partick the ones that I have not seen enough of in recent months/years). Bros before hos you know?

Enough of that icky lovey dovey shit.

I stand at the edge of 2010 a changed woman. Like, for one thing, I can refer to myself as a 'woman' unironically. That's a change. For seconds I'm actvively trying to untangle all the threads that have been tangled up for so long and making it difficult for me to like myself and do right by myself. It's sort of daunting in a way that makes me feel like throwing up if I stop and think about it too much (like when you start learning to drive and think you'll never be any good -- some of you aren't btdubs -- because it's too stressful learning everything at once and having to be aware of all the other stuff going on around you that doesn't stop just because you're new to it and you make mistakes and some people are annoyed but you keep at it cos of independence! and awesomeness! That's what this is like) but I think I just have to keep chipping away and getting those uncomfortable tummy feelings and letting myself feel those feelings. It seems important in a way I haven't been able to quite articulate yet. Regardless, although I don't know what is going to happen within the next 365 days I'm going to take a good go at it nonetheless. Three months ago being plucky and determined were not emotions I could have imagined experiencing ever again. That's another change.

NEWAYS! Whatevs! I just simply MUST catch up on my correspondence...

Dear 2009,
Boo you whore. You sucked. Good riddance. Etc.
Love
Sazz x

Dear 2010,
Please don't be as lame as 2009. I am not joking about this.
Love
Sazz x

Happy new year everyone! Continue being awesome and remember you're perfect just as you are even if they try and convince you differently.
xoxo

Tru Dat

'It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are'
e. e. cummings; poet, painter, total dudemeister

So yeah, jeez, ok, alright. I'm 27 now.

I'm not one who fears getting older. In fact, in a weird way, I've always kind of looked forward to it. I never felt 'right' as a kid. Something was always a bit off in a way I was never able to articulate. I think, looking back, it was just that being older than your years has significant drawbacks. It's a cruel trick of nature that the ones who feel most deeply will always have a rough deal - those sensitive, artistic, shy, clever children that phone up Classic FM to request Elgar for their mum will never fit in. Fact. It will take years and years to work out that it doesn't matter that they don't fit in because no-one does really (just some people are better at hiding it) when all you're taught as a child (by everyone! Peers, teachers, parents, tv) is how important it is to fit in. Anyway, now I'm no longer an old soul in a young body. My body is starting to catch up.

Twenty-seven was always the age is my head when I needed to start getting my shit together with the view that I would have everything tied up in neat little packages by the time I was 30. That was always, always the plan ('The Plan' is everything). Twenty-seven always seemed, not old, but the time when you should start Corinthians-ing it up: When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

I am fully supportive of anyone being a total asshole up to and including the age of 25, you then have a years grace period once aged 26 to learn how not to be a total asshole anymore (check. Ish) but after that it's destination Adult Central, baby. Population: You. Because of this, 27 has always seemed a bigger milestone to me than 25 ever did. I did go a little loopy when I hit that marker though for reasons twofold:
1) I am me
2) Quarter of a century? That's O-L-D
But then I got there and nothing seemed very different. Which has always been the case thus far, you open your eyes on the anniversary of the day you were pushed into the world screaming and covered in gross, and nothing seems greatly different. Change either bashes you over the head and forces you to accept it or creeps up slowly and in tiny little increments makes you a different person year on year in ways you will never really be able to acknowledge. There are some that claim we never really change, that we are doomed to live out our lives in a twirling repeat upon repeat of mistakes we have always made and will always make. To those people I say this: Groundhog Day is an instructional video, not just an enjoyable movie with Bill Murray committing suicide in amusing ways and getting slapped a lot by Andie McDowell (as in: he has to make every mistake possible, sometimes more than once, but does eventually learn from those mistakes and changes significantly enough so that only then is he allowed to move forward. Which is what we all have to do. Though the desire to change for changes' sake - not romantic, material gain - is what galvanizes that forward motion and is only made possible because he literally has no other fucking choice. So maybe those people are right - no-one ever does change - UNLESS, of course, there's really no other viable option).

I digress. This is the year that I was supposed to be doing the job of my dreams (check. Ish. Still holding out for Dakota Clown College), the year I get my own place to live (gimme till May - I'm working on it), the year when I meet my Barack Obama (I am still holding out hope him and Michelle will adopt me. They appear to have the perfect relationship), and generally start getting my ducks in a row. It may be because of the pressure I have always put on this mystical age but I woke up on the day I turned 27 and felt, for the first time ever on a birthday, different from the day before. Different how? Hard to say. Taller? Maybe just my back was a littler straighter. Stronger? Maybe the burdens I've been carrying fell away a little. More solid? Maybe all that cake has had more of an effect than I would like (Truth). But all in all what I do know is that it takes courage to grow up and become who you really are. Maybe it's just that I now have that courage.

Bound-and-Hagged

It's Saturday night and all I wanna do is sleep. Dating an alcoholic RUINED me. Not like, emotionally (I gots hella mad bouncing back skills yo) (kinda. You just gotta give it six months plus and THEN my mad bouncing back skillz kick in) but man, all I had was three glasses of red wine last night and I'm DEAD today. Yoga was the hardest sixty minutes OF MY LIFE. My body felt leaden down with... well, lead (or something). It was like dragging round a sack of potatoes, but a sack of potatoes strapped to my legs and arms and chest. Like I was wearing a sack of potatoes if you will. Sartorial elegance personified basically. Time was when three quarters of a bottle of wine was breakfast (it was never really breakfast, breakfast is/was normally porridge or rice krispies. I just wanted you to think I was cool. Porridge/Rice Krispies never really exudes cool the way a reckless drinking habit does). Just over a year ago I couldn't fathom those among our ranks who could open a bottle of wine, enjoy ONE glass and then cork bottle of wine and continue with their enjoyable evening of cross stitch and Colin Firth movies. NOW I AM THAT BITCH! (In that I watched half of an Accidental Husband today because I couldn't find the energy to clean which I had alloted for my afternoon activities. It was not very good. It was not very good enough in such a way that I actually ended up cleaning rather than watching it). Not really drinking for the better part of a year has ruined me. And also makes me feel a lot better about myself in other ways and means I get a healthy amount of sleep rather than too much or too little and that means I have the energy to cross stitch (or [insert activity worthy of my time here]) whenever I like. How lame is that shit? Bound and hagged man. Bound and hagged.

Tick box

At the moment (read: 'literally within the last two days') I am obsessed with Demetri Martin. I do this thing a lot where I find something I really like and then I'll research it endlessly and try and cater to that void in my soul where I need as much information as possible about the obsession at hand (the tv show Glee and the writer David Foster Wallace have been the most recent subjects of this bizarre mental condition I seem to have. I think it's the remnants of when I was a semi-professional stalker of crushes*). I'll start at the Wikipedia or IMDb page depending upon what category of entertainment it falls in to (it will always fall into a category of entertainment of some kind. I have yet to develop this disorder in relation to car gear boxes or horse riding or something) (though I'm sure those things can be extremely entertaining) and then work outwards from there, linking to interviews, biographies, pictures, character assassinations, who they are dating etc etc. What I then do is work out how similar (or, usually) dissimilar my life is, to the life the object of my obsession has had. How did they start their career? Where did they get the idea for the tv show/book/film from? What did they do before they [insert thing of note here]?

I find it comforting and depressing in the same measure. What I have learned is that most of these people started off normal (as in, they could have been your neighbour or work colleague at some point rather than 'pretty mentally stable' - in that case of 'normal' it is usually not in the affirmative in one way or another. They have lived recognisable lives up till a certain point is what I am trying to say). But then, for whatever reason, they decided to stop living recognisable lives and do something they really wanted to do. Stop looking for approval and start making themselves happy or whatever. That's all quite inspiring stuff, except for the part where I know I will probably never get to the crux on my life's journey where I do the tailspin-turn-around-wacky 'I'm moving to Dakota and going to clown college mom!' type manoeuvre.

And, weirdly this has never occurred to me but revelation! light bulb! this is perhaps where my incessant researching starts to make sense: I think I'm looking to collect enough evidence that I could pack up and leave for clown college tomorrow and everything would be ok. Meaning that, maybe, one day, I could be brave enough to follow that life-long dream of becoming a clown in Dakota too. Just like how they all did! Every now and then I will come across something that someone I admire has said when discussing their funny little quirks from their 'pre-Dakota Clown College' lives and it pushes me further along the scale of thinking if they do it why can't I?

Demetri Martin has done this for me today:

At some point I created a point system, like breaking my life down into categories, and then in each category trying to achieve certain things in a week's time. Every Sunday night I would tally up what I had achieved, for a total possible of 35 points. It was mind, body, career, personal management/relationship contribution. It was pretty funny. It was really ambitious in retrospect. The stuff I set out to do each week was pretty much impossible. I kept track of it for 27 weeks. I had a binder in which I actually was consistent for half a year. Every week I'd carry it around with me. I never got 35 points. I never even got close. Years later I found it, and I was like, “Oh my god, this is crazy.” 4 points was my lowest week, and I think 24 was my highest. When I made the system I figured I'd be topping out in the 30s, and once I'm close to my maximum, I'll just bump up each category, I'll just make the goals a little harder. And then that way I can develop a balanced set with the different things that I'm trying to learn how to do. I averaged 11 points out of my own system. So I failed kind of miserably. But the cool thing is that ever since then I haven't really ever been bored. I haven't watched TV since then, and I just never really feel like there isn't something to do. That changed my perspective. So it's like, draw a picture if you're sitting somewhere, or write something down, or write a palindrome. It's just about all the different opportunities in one moment. It changed my perspective on time and creating things.
[Via]

I actually feel kind of embarrassed by the fact that this quotes illustrates exactly where I am right now. I've got this grand 'get shit together before turning 30' plan and it is the most elaborately detailed series of boxes and checks and ticks and numbers and shit. It's insane. I have lieterally broken down every area of my life where I want to achieve something and worked out to the day what I have to achieve. This data is then inputted onto a monthly spreadsheet so I can make sure I'm on target. Even things like 'finish 4 books a month', 'see 6 plays a year', 'complete one craft project a month' is planned and logged and ticked and checked and calibrated (maybe not the last one). Anyway, every now and then I have a 'what the fuck am I doing this shit for?' moment and finding this Demetri quote just made it all better for me. He has made my mental illness ok. Gay Beatles can do that for you. (And it is true, from devising this system it has ensured I am now never bored).

The only difference between us is that I'm actually doing quite well at achieving all my goals. Maybe it won't be that long before you see me ride past on a unicycle with a rainbow wig on after all.



*Chloe was my guru in this field of study and remains the only true professional I've ever had the pleasure to observe in the art of stalking. One particular amazing experience left me breathless with wonder: We stepped inside the Psycholigy admin office and she proceeded to engage the clueless admin lady in the most inane yet captivating conversation whilst slyly scanning the walls which had all the undergrads pics and photos on to find the name of - later we discover complete dickish - object of her affections at that time. It was like watching Mark Slone in action! But in real life, and a girl without a moustache, and stalking a romantic interest not trying to solve a murder. Otherwise - perfect analogy.

Goodbye to the past

The trouble with reliving your past is that , however much you want things to stay the same, they don't. Going back to a past lover, visiting an old stomping ground, doing the things you used to do when you yourself have moved on is nice but, due to it being tinged with a dewy-eyed nostalgia, is almost always a little melancholic as all that nostalgia is eroded almost immediately when confronted with the reality of now rather than being kept in a pretty little box with bows on it labeled 'The Past' in practice calligraphy script (shut up. You did for all of five minutes when you were 9 too) in your head. You remember what you used to be and know for certain that you are not that any more. However much you like yourself now you will always feel a certain affection for the person you once were - knowing that person is now dead hurts (it'd be weird if it didn't).

As such when I watch beloved tv shows (oh yeah, btw, this is all about teen tv shows - paddling in the shallow pools of pop culture is as deep as this chick gets) that spoke to me the first, or even second, time round - now? Not so much. Not in the same way. Recently E4 has gone cuckoo for the tv programming that I once had to illegally procure from our wonderful world wide interweb. Namely Gilmore Girls and Veronica Mars and it's been causing me no end of heartache as the way I analyse the relationships and think about the characters now (compared to then) is so different it's like sitting there with my (pretend) grandmother and my (non existent) daughter both giving a simultaneous DVD commentary that I myself don't remember selecting when pressing play on the sky remote. These ladies may have been born from the same kind of place but their opinions on it are so diametrically opposed they may as well have brought up on different planets.

If nothing else, there's just something undeniably sad about remembering the past version of yourself watching these things and being moved by it; feelings things, thinking things, that you yourself, now, would never think or feel. Believing the sarcastic 'psychopathic jackass' Logan in Veronica Mars is the dreamiest dreamboat that ever did dream, wishing and hoping that Jess (aka Peter Petrelli) and Rory from the Gilmore Girls are meant to be when he was actually a total dick to her the entire length of their relationship. I knew I'd changed but I didn't have any way of measuring it before - it's clear I think and feel differently now (at least about tv shows). I get why all those posters at TWoP (I was a student alright! We have time on our hands when finding increasingly creative ways of not writing essays) hated these characters so much now. Because they were/are (it's difficult to define past and present tense when discussing fictional peeps) dicks. No doubt about it. Back then it was incomprehensible to me - couldn't they see that these boys were hurting and just needed the right sort of love and affection to make them right? I love and loathe the girl that saw and loved this way. She felt and thought hopelessly differently to me. It's like I've lost a friend I sort of put up with for a number of years even though I found her endlessly irritating but I know I'll never get her back. I miss her, but also, she was an idiot.

There is also, perhap, something undeniably sad about getting this melancholy about tv shows they transmit from E4 towers. I dunno, what am I? A tv scientist? (I am not a tv scientist) (But I kind of wish I was...)

The Rules

I spent a long time trying to be ok.

(I wasn't ok for a long time.)

Longer than I probably care to admit but, in this case, there was a particular reason for it and I can pinpoint it's genesis and evolution. I went through my five stages, not in a clear cut manner and not exactly in sequence but I think that's normal. Each was difficult in their own way but, weirdly (and something no one ever talks about that I can remember), each with their own pluses.

Denial was probably the worst but made me manic (as it has a tendency to do) and meant I got loads done. I didn't need more than 5 hours of sleep a night, I achieved everything I wanted to each day at work, I didn't really need food, and I exercised every day and lost a stone and a half in about a month. That was good. What was bad was sleeping with a guy that had treated me very badly in the past and feeling completely disconnected from every one and every thing. That wasn't so fun. But it did, as I said, have it plus points.

Anger was awesome and frightening. As anger is wont to be. As every middle class white girl will tell you, anger is something we are taught to fear rather than utilise. Which, ironically, makes me kind of angry. Anger is one of the best tools you have for changing things. It is necessary but that is never made clear. You're never taught have to use it effectively. It's always, pretend everything is fine, act like you're normal, never access your golden goddess and bring down a reign of fire which leaves you in a no-mans land of nothingness. Which sucks. Because when your golden goddess is rising everyone is telling you to stay quiet and sit down and don't be any trouble (if there is one piece of advise I wish I could impart to the teenage me it is that you should always, always be trouble and stand up and scream). Anger is so important (do not let anyone tell you different). The trick is (as always), to make sure it's directed at the right targets. This is where I fell down. I was angry at him, sure, but mostly I angry at me for not being there for him, I was angry at my friends and family for not being there for me (they kinda were but when you do your golden goddess shit no one knows where to look or how to act, and to be fair I didn't know where people should be looking or how I wanted them to act but I know I fucking hated them for not looking or acting in a way that made me feel better). I was angry at boys from the past that meant something to me, I was angry at God, I was angry at it all. Everyone fucking pissed me off and I wanted them to disappear. Anger might galvanise you but it also makes you fucking terrifying to yourself and everyone else. It continues to linger now but it's not at the top of tree anymore which is good because it's also, amongst other things, it's fucking exhausting.

Bargaining came and went pretty quickly. I prayed often to a God I don't believe in. I said to myself a number of times 'I'm ok as long as he's ok, so he has to be ok' and then he wasn't. He nearly died more times than I probably know. Which made the whole bargaining thing out to be a fool. (It was a fool but I didn't want bargaining to know that). 'I won't talk to him ever again if he's ok' 'I'll fall out of love with him if makes him ok', 'I don't care what it takes just please make him ok' but no matter what I did or didn't do everything was so random and chaotic that it seriously freaked me the fuck out. It made a total mockery of the God I didn't believe in. Although religion has always fascinated and repulsed me in equal measure (if you feel the same then it's Joseph Campbell all the way baby fyi) there was always this tiny part of me that thought I controlled it all. That I had power far exceeding the power you have. That I could influence the outcome of things. If I really, really wish for Barack Obama to become president then he will. If I really, really hope for Alexander to win X-Factor then she will. If I really, really wish for tis job then I'll get it. It always worked before, why not now? Turns out, that's just not how things operate. Life is random and chaotic.

Depression meant one thing and one thing only: Tuc biscuits. A lot of them. God I love Tuc biscuits. I love them when that's all that'll love me back. During this time I didn't exercise, I didn't write, I didn't do anything but stuff my face with Tuc biscuits. And they were delicious (they would have been had I tasted them but I was too busy stuffing my face to taste anything). Depression hurt like a motherlover but it did mean I got to eat a lot of Tuc biscuits. Everything has its upside.

The one thing I didn't get was that slight thrill from it all. You know that thrill? That thing where there's this part of you that's actually kind of enjoying it all. Watching from a distance and thinking 'well, what's wrong with a little destruction?'

I didn't feel that. I gleaned no joy from any of it, no matter the pluses. It was all horrible. I felt horrible.

You know what though, anyone else I would have cut them a lot more slack for what they went through than I did for myself. I fell in love and carried our baby (for a bit) and he nearly died. That's a lot of fucking stuff to cope with and I did cope with it. I needed professional help for a while but that's ok, sometimes asking for help is the only way to cope. So that's what I did.

I'm here, a few months later feeling, well, not good exactly but I'm not cutting my wrists either. I've processed. I've reached acceptance. I've worked out what I want and what I don't want. I feel strong. Which is when he contacts me:

'I'm home for the weekend. Shall I call you?' says the text message Shall I call you? Four words, all of them containing a lot of power in a sentence that he writes from him to me. 'That's good news!' I reply with a stupid exclamation mark I would never use in real life 'Yeah, you can call me whenever'. I continue. 'Ok.' he says. And then I wait, and then I forget I'm waiting, and then I check my phone when I remember I'm supposed to be waiting. And so on and so forth.

What happened to acceptance? What happened to me moving on and doing better? Why did they say something about this on The Hills the other day and it made me laugh and go on a 'YEAH! boys always DO contact you when you've just forgot about them! ALWAYS!' rant for about five minutes without ever thinking it would apply to me ever again? Just... all of it... why?

Pulling it all together

I'm trying this new thing of pulling all the versions of myself into one coherent whole. I don't know if it's a girl thing, a 'being in your 20's' thing, or a me thing but I've never felt fully able to display all sides of my character in one go before. Like, if you met me in a work situation that person would not be the same person who you conversed with if you met me when I was with my mother (and the lady that you would meet if you met me through my dad would be totally different again), just as the person I am with one friend can be almost diametrically opposed to who I am with other friends (this especially applies to people I've dated. I don't think I've ever been the same girlfriend to anyone). Like in BSG you've got all these cylons who look exactly the same but are all different characters (for instance, Boomer and Sharon react and evolved as differently as two people can in the face of everything they went through) - that's sort of how I've seen myself in the past. There'll have been special people who have seen a fair number of the cylon-mes but, for the most part, I put on the cylon suit most appropriate for each situation. Whenever I've met someone who I can just be 'myself' with (whatever the fuck that means) I've always clung onto them for dear life because it happens so infrequently. It's only now that I'm starting to realise that maybe I can just be the version of myself I like; with everyone, and let them deal with it rather than stress about it myself. Maybe I can be a little goofy as well as sarcastic with people I work with, maybe I can admit I smoke to everyone and not just to people who already smoke, maybe I don't have to be a sulky bitch with my dad all the time and can let him see me be relaxed and funny. It's never occurred to me that that might be possible before but I'm starting to think it could be.

Having gone through a short but intensive bout of therapy I've been made aware of a lot of things that seems obvious in retrospect but I'd never really given consideration to before. The main one being that I oftentimes meet other people's needs before my own. This isn't a selfless act, in fact, I actually get quite a kick out of it. As a result I think I've adapted who I am and who people need me to be to a point where it's stopped being comfortable and I've found myself in bad situations. Most obviously, how did I end up falling in love with a married alcoholic when I was in the best head-space I've ever been in when it all started? It was bothering me big time. I thought I'd finished trying to fuck myself up, I was done with doomed relationships, I was finally ready to have a grown up, sensible, healthy life. Why would I do something so fucked up and non-sensible and unhealthy? It didn't make sense. Until it was pointed out to me that it all began because I was able to give him something which, in that moment, he really needed. I never would have made a play for him. I wasn't even thinking about what I wanted. It was about what he wanted: always. From start to end. And, as I said, I enjoyed that. I did get a buzz from being so wanted and being able to fulfill whatever he needed. Times I couldn't, I felt lousy. To pretend otherwise is dishonest. I really enjoyed that aspect even though I recognised it to be unhealthy. Leading on from that, why have I slept with men before when I didn't really like them or fancy them or want to be with them? Because I like to give people what they want or they need without ever really stopping to ask whether it's something I want or need. It seems so fucking obvious now someone has said it out loud. However, it's not an aspect of myself I want to get rid of completely as it doesn't have to be a bad thing. In my job; where I have to help people and do all I can to get them out of a bad situation and into a good one, it's obviously a useful desire to have. Otherwise I would suck really hard at my job. But I've become really hyper aware of what my needs are now, thinking thoroughly about whether I'm doing something for me or for the buzz I get from doing something for someone else. It's also made things very clear as to where and why things went wrong for me in the past. Why certain relationships didn't work out, why certain men treated me as a glorified concubine (because I acted like one, duh!). It's kind of annoying in it's clichedness (*cue spinning newspaper* Extra! Extra! Read all about it! 'Shocker: woman puts others before herself!') but I guess cliches are cliches for one reason and one reason alone: they are often true.

Identity has always been a really important part of being human but I seem to find it more fascinating than most. The layers we build up , the costumes we put on, the burlesque we perform each and every day for every single person we come into contact with. It's not that I don't think other people do these things, that I'm particularly special or unique in some way, it's just that I've always been a little too aware of how fractured my personality is. Everyone filters their truths for differing audiences but when I do it, it's not just filtering; it's alchemy. Which makes it sound like a positive thing when it's never felt that way. The number of times I have sat in a room and wished and wished to have the freedom to be another version of myself in that moment; known that I have the power to be whatever me I choose and yet been impotent to access it when it matters. It's like, after a while, you lock yourself into being the person that other people think you are so it becomes a self-fulfilling vicious circle - my dad thinks I am shy because I have always behaved shy around new people when I'm with him, which means when I meet new people around him I'm not vivacious, I don't ask a lot of questions, I don't charm anyone or make them laugh, (even though I can be that person when I want) because my dad thinks I am shy. So that's the role I play: The shy girl. Or at work in some meetings with people I'll be really quiet and not speak up when I have something to say but with my mum and my brother at home I'm a loud-mouthed, antagonistic bitch who is never afraid of letting them know what I think (which sometimes does me more harm than good but still). It seems like it would serve me well to pull all of these disparate entities together - because I think they are all needed - and just let the pieces fall as they may. I search so hard for people who will just accept me as I am but I rarely ever give anyone the option of doing just that.

So I'm trying not to do that anymore. It's not that I don't care what people think of me, it's just that maybe I don't need to put their needs first (and in fact maybe I'm selling everyone short by believing I know what version of me is best for them), maybe I can just find a happy balance of being all the cylons walking around claiming to be Sazz at once because that is what works best for Sazz. She's the one whose opinion matters the most when it comes to being Sazz right?

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.

Paws for thought

There are times, such as this one that is happening right now and has inspired this blog post, when I wish I could just put the world on pause for a week and let me catch up with life. Like the way Zach Morris did in the early Saved by the Bell years when he would place his hands in a 'T' formation and the world would stop and he could escape whatever immediate danger he was in (detention from Mr Belding, a punching from A.C. Slater, a feminist lecture from Jesse Spano*. That sort of thing). Speaking of which, wasn't it weird that all of a sudden this power was stripped from him and he was left with only his wisecracking to protect him and never mentioned or referenced again? Come to think of it it was around the time that the lame-ass magician guy that ran the diner (the proto 'Central Perk' of the early 90's) disappeared (thanks gods. 'Here's you burger... aaaaand here's a fake bunch of flowers I just pulled out of my sleeve!' 'Um... Can I just have the burger? Thanks'**) so perhaps he had something to do with it? Otherwise maybe Zach just realised the potential of such power and would time-out off-cam to get a look at Kelly Kapowski's breasts at opportune moments. Before the slut was giving it away for free anyway. Obviously. It's like the old saying goes: 'With great power comes great responsibility... to look at Kelly Kapowski's tits'. (I not saying that Zach was a sex pest but I am basically saying Zach was a sex pest).

It wouldn't surprise me if that was true. The whole point of that show was that if you are a bit of a douche and constantly make your best friend feel like a loser then everything will turn out ok. You know, aspirational-slash-educational telly. The best kind.

Anyway, the point is that life keeps on going even when you are trailing behind and lying on the sofa eating minstrels and packet upon packet of Tuc crackers waiting to feel better about yourself and never really managing to. It won't stop. I just need a minute or two to catch my breath and get on top of all these bits and pieces that I've let fall by the wayside recently. Everyone else continues whirling around doing the things they do and I've spent the majority of May mired in my own misery (alliteration ftw). Not that it's important stuff I need to catch up on; it's just that I've got too many books to read, too many films to watch (What's Up, Doc?, A Star is Born, Beetlejuice and Beyond the Valley of the Dolls are all clogging up my skybox at the moment. I'm going through a retro-camp phase), too much writing to catch up on, too many Zac Efron cross stitches to complete. I just can't seem to find the time between sleeping, working, and eating to do these things. A month or two ago it was all too easy, I had lists and plans in motion. Tick boxes were ticked, rectangles were knitted, books were completed, stories were written. Now it escapes me. I drag my heels and watch everyone else disappear into the sunset. The temptation to give in and sit on a grass verge and watch the clouds go by is all too strong. But maybe that's exactly what I should be doing. I've done everything I can to stop myself thinking too much recently and I suspect thinking is the one thing that should be top of my list.

Basically, I don't know. I'm 26 and clueless. At least Alicia Silverstone had Paul Rudd to keep her going. I haven't even got that.

*I cannot remember the chemical symbols for anything other than water and silver but can remember the names of the protagonists from the Saved by the Bell cast. This is my cross to bear.
** Oblig. Gob Bluth quote: 'but how did the lighter fuel get up there?'
[Side note: I really hate magicians, and jugglers, and children's entertainers that make balloon animals. It's the nerd version of the hot girl claiming to be bisexual just because she thinks that makes her a little more interesting and dangerous. It doesn't. You're still an idiot whether you're snogging other girls in clubs in front of a group of Neanderthal men or wearing a jazzy waistcoat and doing card tricks. However hard you try the layers of idiocy cannot be covered up with such obvious distractions. Science.]

The times they are a-changing

I think I'm getting old.

Actually, I know I'm getting old. Time has this funny habit of going forwards which, oddly enough, leads one to experience what scientists have termed as 'aging'.

But seriously, I'm turning into a grown up and it's starting to scare the shit out of me.

Exhibit 1: I was pleased to be ID'd in Sainsbury's last week.
The only time when I could rely on not getting ID'd is when I was underage. Do not ask me how that works except to say that I've gone through many different 'looks' and my college years was when I did my 'old lady' experimentation. Like all of us at ages 16 and 17 I would obsessively hunt through charity shops for that perfect £2.99 tweed skirt and old man jacket and then I would wear them. Outside. Where people could see me. And smell me in my (probably by now) dead person clothes. That is what I did, and it may have contributed to me often being mistaken for an insane 20-something rather than an insane teen. But since I turned 18, for whatever reason, I'm regularly ID'd and it's always pissed me right off because now I'm concerned I dress like a teenager. Except it has started happening less and less which either means I'm starting to dress my age (I'm not) or... worse, I'm starting to look my age (I am). I normally get a little nervous buying alcohol because, even now, that residual fear that you're getting away with something you shouldn't lingers on like a muscle memory but I didn't even think about this time and even made a 'grown ups' joke to the cashier along the lines of 'Can I have a plastic bag? I've been bad and left all mine at home'. I think this genuinely threw her and she definitely wavered when picking up the plonk from my basket but erred on the side of caution and asked to see my driver's licence. 'Sure' I said barely able to contain the glee.

This is when I realised I was old.

Exhibit 2: I cannot get through 2 bottles of wine in a night and feel ok the next morning anymore.
In fact I feel like I've died and have been cursed to exist as a living corpse. In years gone by red wine was my crack and I could practically chug that shit and be fine. I mean, I might puke up red sick but, as far as the day after was concerned, I was sunshine and roses. This is a talent that has slowly decreased over time and now seems to have disappeared completely. It doesn't help that I'm a total lightweight nowadays (equals cheap date boys, the queue starts here) but I have a mean time of two days for a hangover now. T-W-O days. That's 48 hours! Forty-eight hours of living torture. I also (whisper it) don't really like getting drunk anymore and consequently (I think) don't even feel drunk until I close my eyes and get spinnyheaditus. The gusset flashing, dancefloor hogging drunk girl of yore has been replaced by a merely slightly chattier version of my normal self. It's like I can't switch to drunk mode anymore. I don't think this is necessarily a bad thing except for the fact that I have two days of feeling awful for not much joy in the first place. Maybe I should just not drink two bottles of wine in a night anyway? Yeah? Ok, I'll put that on the 'perhap' list.

Exhibit 3: I have an Ikea catalogue in my toilet
For 'quiet time'. I flick through it and salivate over bright yellow oldy-worldy cabinets. They are all I can think about some days. This does not bode well.

Exhibit 4: I am considering dumping the man I am currently courting because I know it's not going anywhere
This is REALLY weird. He's a nice guy. Sort of. Well he's a nice guy with a 'I'm a bit of a cock' persona. You know the type, loud as a motorbike but wouldn't bust a grape in a fruit fight. Wait, not that type. That type is from Jay-Z songs. No, he sort of presents himself as a bit of a wideboy but is actually quietly intelligent and knows more than he lets on. He's fighting against the Jez/Corrigan paradigm (whereas I have learned to accept my Corrigan fate). I like him, we have fun together. I know it's never going to be anything more than that. Times of yore and that wouldn't have bothered me one iota. If you're enjoying yourself in the present then why worry about the future? But now I do, I don't want to be with someone who isn't the one for me.

(Of course, it might not help that this is the very definition of a rebound relationship and so the minute my heart has sufficiently healed I start getting antsy to get out of it but let's gloss over that and pretend it's because I'm all grown up and mature and shit yeah? Yeah.)

Exhibit 5: My body clock is now 'normal'
I've run on New York time for as long as I can remember. I could quiet happily stay up until 3 in the morning (and sometimes later) and do whatever work needed doing then. In fact I preferred it. I felt more creative, more alert, more buzzed after the hours of midnight than I did at any other time of the day. Getting out of bed each day was hell and, were I FORCED to have to awaken before 8am I would feel drowsy until midnight and then perk up. Thus the cycle continued. These days I get up AN HOUR AND A HALF earlier than I have to in order to exercise and am happy to do so. 'Happy' might be overstating it a little, 'capable' is nearer the mark but still, it happens and has been for the last month. I've been on health kicks before but I would never ever ever dream of waking up EARLIER than required (and certainly not at a time starting with a '6') in order to punish myself with power yoga. It is sick and it is wrong. It is certainly not me.

At least 'proper' grown ups still intimidate me. And I think I'm ok until I have something sensible to add to a conversation about mortgages.

Spring Clean

In preparation for FINALLY moving out of my folks place (about seven years too late) I am trying to condense my stuff. The mounds and mounds of shizznit I have collected through my 26 earth years is ri-donk-u-lous. I can be quite ruthless on occasion, particularly where wardrobe choices are concerned (if it don't fit, chuck it. If you ain't worn it in a yonk, chuck it. Stop dilly dallying and zoink that shit) but I've never thrown out sentimental tacky crap before. Not everyone holds onto the High School Musical Top Trumps cards they got as a joke for christmas, but I do. I'm that sort of person. The sort of person who gets High School Musical trump cards at age 26.

Times that by 1000, over my entire life span thus far, and you'll understand the issue.

I mean, obviously the Garfield cookie jar is coming me wherever I go. That goes without saying. Even if I don't have room for a tv or a wardrobe, the Garfield cookie jar will be there. Obviously.

However, I'm wondering whether or not I need the collection of cartoon figurines? Because, I checked, and I'm not actually seven. I drive a car and drink alcohol and have sex with grown men and EVERYTHING. Of course if you do those things you're not seven Sazz, I hear you cry. You're not carrying a knife. BOOYAH!! TOPICAL HUMOUR AHOY, I repeat, TOPICAL HUMOUR AHOY. I eagerly await the call of the Have I Got News For You producers.

(that is a stolen reserved sign from a restaurant. This is how 22 year olds got their kicks back in my day)

Similarly, even if I have to keep them on the floor of the toilet, the snowglobes are essential for my existence to continue.

But do I really need this plastic moose who bobs up and down in a rather pleasing fashion?


R2D2 statue is not going nowhere. Fact.

But is ceramic owl chef something I should hang on to?

Presently I'm leaning towards: no to cartoon, no to moose, yes a thousand times to owl chef. He is an owl chef after all. Look at him, being all owly and chefish. That's not just something you can take away from an inanimate ceramic object is it?

[Postscript: I have solved half the problem by putting cartoon figurines INSIDE the Garfield cookie jar. If you want me on your Krypton Factor team then contact me through the usual means]

Things I Wish I'd Known: Volume 1

Here's the thing: I hated teenagers (even when I was one. Wait, no, especially when I was one) up until the point I realised I wasn't scared of teenagers anymore. I remember the exact moment this happened: on a train to Guildford. Me with my book by Kafka, leopard print coat, black boots and heavy eyeliner (fuck. I *am* a fucking teenager according to that description. Maybe that's why I'm 26 and still get ID'd on a regular basis? Best we just move past this disturbing fact and pretend like it doesn't exist. I'll add it to all the other woes I'm currently forming into a delicious ball of stomach cancer. Repression: the white middle-class cure [for everything but stomach cancer] since 1935.)

Point is, I'm weird. I stick out a bit at times (at others, for instance Noel Fielding stand-up gigs, I look like I've been to the same cookie-cutter weirdo factory as every white girl under 30 and been dressed by blind monkeys who've been given the keys to Topshop and told to 'go wild'). Next thing I know a bunch of teenagers who've been allowed free access to JD Sports hop aboard and disturb the quiet peace of my (thus far) uneventful train journey. Previously I had chosen the 'Shhhh' carriage to ensure maximum shhh-y-ness (or the 'no I don't have any friends and I know you don't either. Let's all sit here in awkward silence whilst studiously avoiding eye contact with one another' carriage. Whatevs) but this ragamuffin bunch of pals cared not for the 'rules' of the 'man' because they were 'cool' (and also dicks as it turned out but we'll come to this later... *spoiler alert!*). Anyway, here I am, Weirdo McGinty sat happily alone reading my weird book and being all weird and a load of kids decked out in knock-off Nike come sit all around me and... the weirdest
thing is... I WAS NOT INTIMIDATED. Well, maybe a bit at first because, you know, teenagers, ALL OF THEM, are dicks. Individually, no. They are beautiful, eccentric, glorious people with interesting things to say, curious points of view, hopes and fears and dreams and all the rest of it: individually. In a group? Not so much. Teenagers are the epitome of dickishness. Because the one thing that teenagers care about is fitting in. The only way you can fit in when you're a teenager? By being a dick. You make fun of all the kids, adults, whomever, that stand out. You do this because everyone else does it. Everyone else does it because they are scared that someone will notice and draw attention to their flaws and the ways in which they don't fit in. It's the thing we all learned from Siegfried and Roy: misdirection... Don't look here, where I know the flaws are, LOOK OVER THERE! THERE ARE FLAWS WE CAN CAN ALL ENJOY AND MAKE FUN OF! SEE HOW MUCH FUN WE'RE HAVING MAKING PEOPLE FEEL AWFUL ABOUT THEMSELVES?!?!?! Why do I feel dead inside?

Anyway, after a brief second of 'oh shit'. I went back to pretending reading my book and in actual fact listening to what these kids where saying (*spoiler alert!* nothing of any value). But they left me alone. This is either because:
1. I'm not the centre of everyone's universe and they had other shit to worry about
(we can discard this option on the basis that it is FRIGGING PREPOSTEROUS)
2. They could tell I didn't give a crap what they thought of me.

Anyway, the point is, even having worked in a secondary school for a year (which is where I really learned all the 'individually = lovely, group = dicks' things. It's a foolproof formula that I suggest you go off and investigate because, seriously, who knew teenagers were people at times?!) it was only at that exact moment in time I didn't care what they thought of me and I'm sure they knew it. Although it would go against everything the school system stands for, to preach individuality and original thought and not caring too deeply if people make you feel bad about yourself for being not like everyone else, it seems like it might be worthwhile somehow to not have, you know, teenagers being dicks when they all get together. I'm jus' sayin'.

This is the video that set that blog reaction off.

[Via Gawker]

These boys, way before I did, understand all this much better than I ever did. I don't know if they're actually gay (I've got a feeling no though I'm not sure why) but if someone rags on you for being gay (or fat, or ugly, or strange, or carrying around a signed picture of Dolly Parton everywhere you go) then you have two options:
1. Carry the humiliation around with you for the rest of your life never really daring to be 'you' because you're scared that other people will make fun of you for it,
2. Be like 'fuck yeah I am and what of it bitches?'

Option two seems infinitely preferable. And a whole lot more open to delicious comedy routines such as the aforementioned one above ('This is sooo appropriate right now').

It's your choice: be who are times ten - loud and proud and self deprecating - or who they want you to be - just like everyone else. The dickish teenager mentality doesn't last for everyone but it doesn't disappear for everyone either so it's not a struggle that ever goes away.

That's a thing I wished I'd known - that there was ever that option to begin with.

Harebrained Schemes

There are (thank Christ) only a few occasions in life where you feel like you are standing on a precipice and have to decide then and there whether to jump or walk away. Times like these are scary but in days gone by I’ve always somehow wound up taking the more sensible route. Whether that means jumping so I escape and land safely on a steady platform of normalcy or have just ended up backing slowly away from the edge to return to what I know, is neither here not there. It just feels like I am hardwired to not be a total total idiot. I wholeheartedly blame my mother for this. She’s fiercely well-adjusted and, despite appearances to the contrary, extremely scary. There’s nothing worse than the look on her face when the occasional fuck-ups she’s managed to discover of mine have come to light (I’m pretty good at keeping from her the things she doesn’t really need to know. In fact, I’m pretty good at that with most people. I lead a number of double lives that are tailored to providing my nearest and dearest – and indeed not so nearest, and nowhere approaching dearest - the version of me they want or need to have. I like to think of myself as a bit of a Clark Kent character in that respect). Although I’m not afraid of fighting with her (which is something that the both of us really do enjoy doing), I am afraid of disappointing her. She’s pretty awesome and deserves a daughter that doesn’t make her cringe in embarrassment when the topic of me arises in conversation.

I know all my mum wants for me is a normal life. I’m guessing that’s all every parent wants for their children. This isn’t to say that she hasn’t supported some of the more madcap of my schemes but every time I come up with yet another harebrained idea she always forces me to think long and hard about the logistics and the practicalities. This more-often-than-not has the effect of me thinking ‘God. Effort innit?’ and it normally falls by the wayside before too long. Now the older I get, the more pressure I’m feeling from her to start considering my future in real terms: Stop messing, start settling. I’ve put up with your binge drinking and god knows what else, with random boys being brought into my home, with you over-spending on crap you don’t need. I’ve indulged your creative pursuits and all the adventures you’ve embarked upon. You’ve had your fun, can you not just get a job that pays alright like the rest of us and stop fannying around?
Not that she’s actually said any of this but it’s coming more and more to a head. Particularly as on Friday my boss laid done a job specification form in front of me and said ‘Let me know what you think of that’

My reaction at the time? ‘Erm…’

My reaction now? ‘Erm…’

The job I have currently I only really took to save money for travelling. I knew it had an end date so I wouldn’t be faced with any difficult decisions about whether I should stay or go as I was brought in to cover someone’s maternity leave. ‘Ooh, but you never know where these things will lead do you?’ people kept saying to me. Errr yeah I do. It’s going to lead me to go travelling around Europe for the summer like a minor character from an American frat movie. Interestingly though, now it’s a definite that the baby-lady is coming back, I’ve had loads of people coming up and saying ‘ahh, having to look for another job are you? That’s a bit of a shame’. Is it? Really? I mean, for one thing I always knew that was what would happen but also I EXPRESSLY ONLY APPLIED FOR THE JOB FOR THAT REASON IN THE FIRST PLACE. Would anyone really take a position advertised as covering maternity leave if they DIDN’T have a problem with committing too fully to something? However, now there’s this option on the table of taking a permanent role that pays even better and would mean I could continue purchasing the useless crap I love so much AND get a place of my own AND be able to afford to carry on putting petrol in my car (something that is getting harder and harder to do). These are all, quite frankly, fairly important pluses – particularly in the short term.

On top of it all, my mum is very insistent that I go for this. It does make sense financially, it would look good on my CV, it has got prospects within, and outside of, local government. What is your freaking problem Sazz?

Well my problem (one of them), since you ask, is that it feels like I’m being forced down this road that I’m not entirely comfortable going down. I know that the less choices I make now about my future the more difficult it’s going to be later on but I fully believe that if I go for this job then that’s it. I know what the next 40 or so years of my life are going to look like. They’re going to be pretty much in the standard template of every other person in the western world: Get a good job, get a flat, get a man, get a house together, get a kid. Done and done. When I think of it in those terms I start feeling like I’m going to have a panic attack. There’s nothing wrong with the average life but it’s just not what I have ever really wanted. The problem being – I don’t really know what I want in its place.
[I should say, for the sake of argument, that this may all be a moot point as not only does the aforementioned job require a degree of technical expertise that I do not possess but also would mean I had a minion. My very own minion. (I know right!). The closest I’ve ever come to having a minion before is my little brother – and even then, he had thoughts and opinions and pride so the minute he learned to talk he pretty much disregarded all his minion duties. Since then, I’ve avoided all sorts of situations where I would be in charge of people in any kind of responsible capacity. So again, I feel somewhat lacking in the skills I would need to cope with such things. However, as Mr Bossman would be interviewing for this role and would continue being my line manager I figure he thinks I can do it. I’m pretty sure the fact that I wear geek glasses and keep myself to myself means that I’ve successfully tricked people into thinking I’m intelligent and conscientious. The devil’s biggest trick was convincing the world he doesn’t exist. Mine is making people think I’m ok at my job. We each work to our strengths I suppose]

It may seem like I’m being melodramatic, that making a choice now doesn’t mean my choices are restricted later on, but how many people in their 30’s, 40’s, 50’s that you speak to ever really intended leading the life they have now? Without exception everyone seems to have fallen into what they end up doing. There was no real grand plan, but it was just choice A lead on to option B which meant they had to eventually take route C and suddenly they turned around to find they were at point Z just like everyone else. Then there was no other place to go unless they wanted to start all the way from the beginning again. Even if the only things all these people did want was a job and a wife and a baby with a few other status symbols thrown in... How many of them seem utterly content and fulfilled? I look around and all I can see are people wanting, yet the Groundhog Day continues. Queuing in snaking lines of traffic to get to a job you’re not that bothered about and causes you exponential stress week-on-week just so you can tick off all the boxes of capitalist fulfillment and maybe get to spend a handful of weeks a year doing something different like lazing in the sun, skiing down a slope, or sightseeing in a more exciting city than the one you happen to inhabit. Is this what I’m supposed to be aiming for?

But then, how do I know that aiming for anything different than that would ever make me any happier? Maybe the fulfillment comes from knowing that you fit in, that you’ve taken the path of least resistance, that you have a house and a car and a dog and get to go on package holidays once – maybe even twice – a year. Why am I smug enough to think I could carve out anything less humdrum and more interesting than that? Surely ALL routines just become routine before too long. Whether that means you still live the party lifestyle you had at 25 when you’re 55 (I know for certain that isn’t what I would want either, especially having watched a little of ‘Scott Baio is 45 and Single’ yesterday evening. His mate was ‘that guy’ and I found it more than a little depressing to see men of that age still behaving like that), or you find yourself in an office job which you return to day after day just to keep paying the bills up until you retire. Am I just fighting against something that is ultimately inevitable? Is this just another form of my commitment-phobic tendencies rearing its ugly head? Does my mother really know what’s best for me after all and the sooner I accept that the better?

Yet, on the other hand, I’m sure I read or heard, or absorbed from somewhere a quote along these lines that I keep returning to; ‘no-one ever became happy doing what their parents wanted them to do’.

True dat.

In other news, I’ve also sent a tentative email out to a tv company looking for contestants who love dancing and want to lose weight. Um… only hells yeah. Being part of some kind of dance competition would fulfill about 17 of my life ambitions (well one). Please note: yet another harebrained scheme that probably won’t amount to anything. Maybe we all just need to accept that doing this kind of shit is just who I am.

Start as you mean to go on

Fuck me. It's 2008. How the hell did that happen? Ten years ago I was being an introspective teenager, obsessing over guys that didn't want me, being geeky about music and films, and generally *just* managing to navigate my way through the world with the few smarts and little wit I possessed.

How times change eh?

Except, I do feel like they have a bit. Don't get me wrong, all the above is still present and correct but it's all a little more refined now. I'm not quite as gauche, not nearly as naive, probably still quite self-centered but perhaps not as much as in years gone by... all in all I'm creeping ever slowly towards being a well rounded, sort of ok, human being. Ye gads.

However, this was due in large part thanks to 2007, for me, being all about introspection and getting my head together. Although that wasn't always a barrel of laughs (do laughs really come in barrels? Seems an odd place to keep a sound) it was important work. So much so that now, on the metaphorical life 'to do' list, I don't feel like I'm cheating too much putting a big tick in the 'done' column on the 'get head sorted out' row. But, what now? I think I've pretty much exhausted the existentialism route for the time being. If nothing else, going around like the non-obscenely foreheaded Dawson Leary is really tiring. So much so that you often forget to factor in that thing that, I believe the kids today refer to as 'fun'. So 2008 is going to be about fun. I want to get into scrapes and japes, make mistakes and something else that rhymes with those words, safe in knowledge that I'm going to be ok in the end. All that I've learned about how awesome I am can finally be put into practise. No more mooning over the cads that can't step up and treat me how I deserve to be treated, no more beating myself up for being such a tool whenever I come into contact with other people (the fact I walked away from my work Christmas do without any embarrassment over my behaviour - despite the fact I was fairly tipsy - can probably be classified as a low-grade miracle. I'm getting the Vatican in to double check on this as we speak) Yeah. I'm in a good place at the start of 2008. This is a weird experience for me so forgive me if I come across as a little smug. I exist much more comfortably within the confines of thinking I'm rubbish, it's going to take a while for me to get used to this new positivity. In fact, if I have any resolution at all it's to create a persona that can be positive and not come across as a twat. My gut tells me such a thing is not possible.

Now, I'm not really one for 'best ofs'. For one thing I have no real sense of time so remembering when this or that was released is really not all that viable where I am concerned. I also like to discover things in my own time and not just because a bunch of hipsters with asymmetric haircuts are telling me what I should like so the last few drops of pop culture I imbibed in 2007 were not exactly current but they were full of mind-nutrition and inspiration and I think that's probably more important.

Last book I read in 2007 - 'Girlfriend in a coma' by Douglas Coupland
I'm going through a bit of a Coupland obsession at present having come to him, despite awareness of his existence, more than a little late. This is a novel that's not just an achingly beautiful portrait of love and loss but raises itself above the usual odes to such things by also being a morality tale; a bible chapter for the disillusioned society we find ourselves existing in if you will. It's an audacious move for a writer, to tell the audience how badly they're fucking up, but it works. It asks questions that are normally never asked and make points about culture that we tend to just ignore on a day-to-day basis. I found it extremely inspiring and, like most great works of art, it made me feel connected to the world at large in a way I normally don't.

Last film - I'm Not There
I'm not a Dylan obsessive, hell I'm not even really what one would consider a Dylan fan. 'He's alright, I suppose' has always been my eloquent summation of the man. However, I loved this. This is not so much a film but rather feels like taking a walk around an art gallery and seeing an exhibition of paintings and installations done by someone who'd been listening to, and was inspired by, Bob Dylan's creative output and personal history. There was no cohesive structure, no explanation for why one set piece bled into another and no real commentary to help with the whats, whys and wherefores. Everything was just laid out in front of us leaving the audience to their own devices in lacing it all with meaning and interpretation. The intertextuality would keep the average muso and film buff happy for a whole week (particularly anyone into their pretentious film makers like Goddard and Fellini). I think I would have got even more out of it were I actually a Dylan lover myself as it was obviously jam-packed full of obscure Robert Zimmerman allusions and citations; most of which I suspect passed me by. The covers were also quite astonishing, my favourites being 'Ballad of a Thin Man', 'Goin' to Acapulco' (I couldn't find the actual clip from the movie which is still haunting me even now), and 'Pressing On' sung by Stephen Malkmus, Jim James, and John Doe of X respectively (three loves of mine as it is). It was confusing, and weird, and really made you think about much more than just Bob Dylan. I'm also probably not the first blogger to say this, but Cate Blanchett rocked the fucking casbah (although I might be the first to term it in those words exactly).

Last record - 'Phenomenon' by LL Cool J
This just fucking rocks. I listen to it all the time but still, great album to get ready to for my last night of the year.

First book of 2008 - jPod by Douglas Coupland
I told you I was obsessed. I have three other books on the go but I suspect this will be the one I finish first. It's good. Must. Read. More. Coupland.

First film of 2008 - TBC
I very nearly sat through Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo this afternoon before I realised that may not be the best way to start my year of movie geekiness. However, although the following may not yet be out, these three in particular have got me all of a quiver:

Juno
I think Micheal Cera is now old enough for me to be honest about my crush on him.


Be Kind, Rewind
The thought of this film causes me to make this noise 'YEEE'. And that's happy.


Forgetting Sarah Marshall
Marshall! Veronica! Russell! Awesome!


Plus, the usual suspects; Cloverfield, The Dark Knight, and of course, The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants 2.

First album of 2008 - 'Different Light' by The Bangles
On vinyl - the way God intended. I really want to expand my vinyl collection this year. At present it's modest and I want it to be obscene. I do thank little baby Jesus for the Oxfam Vinyl shop in Southampton. I even managed to pick up 'Boomania' by Betty Boo the other day - what price for greatness I hear you cry? A mere one pound and 99 bloomin' pence. Get in.

Playing grown-ups

I completed my first week in a 'proper' job. A job what a grown-up might have. That, in itself, is kind of freaking me out. See, every other role I've ever been paid to perform has been expressly for slackers and/or man-children only. Not for people that have obligations and career goals. IBM was a bit 'hey you! Come work for us, you dynamic young go-getter you! We're, like, totally for professionals and that!' but that was all bluster used to draw us in before we actually started. In reality, as an 'industrial trainee' I was basically the 'general dogsbody'. I may have been an appreciated dogsbody but a dogsbody nonetheless and so that doesn't really count as being a grown-up. Before that, I worked part-time in a school art department where I was mostly cutting A3 pieces of sugar paper into A4 pieces of sugar paper. It was, as I'm sure you can imagine, fairly demanding. Occasionally I'd have to deal with kids being sassy and 15-year-old boys getting crushes on me (sometimes simultaneously) but that was pretty much as tough as it got. Even if I did it with the idea of 'gaining experience for my C.V.' for the vague plan I had of becoming an Educational Psychologist, it wasn't like there were any illusions of grandeur accompanying the role itself. Not unless you count faffing around with clay particularly 'high-powered'. (For the record, I don't). I also managed to reach the heady heights of 'trainee keyholder' at MVC after my mini-breakdown upon breaking up with the love of my life and dropping out of art school (although, who hasn't dealt with depression by entering the world of low-level retail management? It's pretty standard really), but that certainly wasn't a particularly ambitious role. The only thing that changed from when I had been a mere 'sales assisstant' previously, was that I was allowed to cash up at the end of the day. That was freaking awesome. Counting money, getting paperwork in order, making column A tally up with what column B says column A should have in it (although I hate maths my control freakery dictates I will love anything where you get to make things perfectly balance). However, even then, my manager at the time made me feel like I was a kid who'd been allowed to stay up later than usual, not that I was actually worthy of any extra responsibilities.

However, this job I somehow (and LORD knows how) have now, IS kind of respectable, it IS imbued with a certain degree of responsibility. It was bizarre to look at the organisation chart for our department and see that my allocated pay-grade level is the same as the team leader, and just one notch below what my manager is getting. I'm probably not earning anything like what they get as they've been there longer, have more experience, and are of course 'grown-ups' (and grown-ups get paid well. It's science. And I am not a grown-up ergo they MUST be better paid than I). (Although, let me just make this clear, I doubt anyone there, least of all me, is going home and lighting up cigars with £50 notes, or diving into mounds and mounds of big dollar-bucks ala Scrooge McDuck. I'm working for the muthafugging council, not some hedge fund institution).

But there it is, me: approaching some approximation of adulthood. That's me, someone who has an innate fear of grown-ups. I don't mean anyone over the age of 18, age may have a general correlation with 'grown-upness' but is by no means a guarantee of it's existence. I'm talking about those people that have it all generally worked out (even if 'having it worked out' just means they've just accepted their fate). Those people with mortgages and steady relationships, who take weekend breaks in the Lake District and don't get called 'baby noodle' by their mother. Those sorts who know where their next few paychecks are coming from and that's enough for them to be content, them what usually (but not always) have children and can discuss the merits and failings of the local schools (more to the point, they know where all the local schools are). They probably don't while away hours on facebook playing trivia games for their latest televisual obsession, or come home from the pub on Friday nights, smoke up, watch three episodes of Futurama and then get gently awoken at 3.30am by their friend Nick only to realise they've drooled a little on their pillow. That's just not how I imagine grown-ups live. Yet here I am, twenty-five years old and ostensibly a grown-up now. It won't last of course but, right now, in the present, I'm a grown-up doing a grown-ups job. Is this a situation I can expect to get used to? Even if it is, do I really want to?

Don't need no credit card to ride this train. Because we accept debit cards or cash too.

I used to have great swirling swathes of time . I could wrap myself up in it like a great big duvet and have enough spare to make a three piece suit. But when you have an overabundance of something you neglect to give it the respect it deserves; you spend hours looking at facebook profiles of people you don't really give a shit about, or follow myspace conversations for no other good reason than the fact it's nice to read about other people having lives when you seem to have 'misplaced' yours, or you lie around for days in your own filth watching hammy sci-fi shows you were obsessed with in your teens just to get to that one episode that made you cry so much you actually had an asthma attack and you kind of want to see if you're still that emotional these days (conclusion: no... but that's probably a good thing).

Then you get a full time job and all that glorious time spent saving up special memories of moments spent sitting down and lying down get swept away with such ferocity that you wonder if any of it really happened at all or if it was just a sublime dream.

Or maybe that's just me.

Still, having a job is doing me the world of good. Not 'good' as in 'I like it', 'good' as in 'I have less time to concentrate on what an awful human being I am and more time doing something productive' (like decorating CD's and DVD's I've downloaded and burned to disc, writing blogs, getting out of the house to have conversations with creatures that don't have more than two legs, etc). When you're busy you get so much more done. It's nice. It's nice except for the fact that you find yourself waking up on a Monday morning having had approximately 5 hours sleep the night before and 3 hours the night before that. That's when you forget to rip your sudoku out of the paper and manage to stumble into work bleary-eyed and spaced out and five minutes late. Spending the morning in a daze and unable to form words, much less sentences, is not really the best way to start a week. Especially if you work in a call centre and a lot of your 'work' involves having to do those very things. A call would come through and for the first five or six seconds every time I'd be going '...', desperately trying to think of my carefully worded spiel and coming up with nothing. When you're on a phone and no-one is talking it feels like five or six seconds of silence is the longest amount of time anyone has ever gone without saying anything, ever. The best thing about a day like that though, when you're feeling a bit 'delicate' and can't think properly (unless 'thinking properly' constitutes being daydreamy and distant... I'm not sure it does), the BESTEST best thing is to get a call from someone who threatens to come down to where you work and 'do something Lloyds will regret and I won't be held accountable for' unless you fix his (unfixable) problem there and then. Yeah, that's why the word 'awesome' was invented. To describe moments like that. But what I love to do, to top off day's like this, is to forget to switch my headlights off so that my car refuses to start when I want to go home. I fucking LOVE shit like that to happen. It's what makes life worth living really. If we're all honest.

However, if you want good stuff instead of woe (I know you don't. I don't care) it feels like my stuff is starting to come together more and more every day. This strand is meeting up with that strand and that thread is creeping ever-so-slowly towards that thread. I don't know that any of these crazy pieces of the world are going to end up molding into what I expected but that doesn't really matter at the moment. It's good they exist out there somewhere for me, even if it's all raw material right now. Yeah, alright, I'm shutting the fuck up.

Turning it around

It may come as a surprise to all that I do actually have some good qualities dotted about. Like the fact that a couple weeks ago I was bemoaning my unemployed, single, living-at-home, car-less status and, having decided I needed to stop being a whining loser*, two weeks later I don't just have A car, I have THE car, I don't just have A job, I have... No. Actually, I do just have 'a job'. A call centre job to be exact (a refuge for all those individuals recently cast out into the big wide world from university). A call centre job for a temp agency if we are going to be extremely pedantic about it. So no, this isn't THE job but it's a job that pays which is all I really need for the moment... until as such time as I can start getting money for just being awesome (I'm not sure why that doesn't happen already). Still might be single, yes, and might just be possibly still living at home but let's gloss over those facts for the time being. Give me another two weeks and I'm sure I'll have that sorted as well (or, and more likely, won't. But when you're driving round a cool as fuck car things like that don't seem as important).

As it was the first day we had to do the 'introductions' bit. Twenty or so of us have all started at same time which made things a lot less stressful as I didn't have to try and fit in with an already established group. This is good as 'fitting in' is not one of one strong points. However, having said my hobbies were 'reading, writing, painting, and being obsessed with music' I was immediately labeled as 'the creative one'. I shit you not. 'The creative one' is a mere step away from being classified as 'the wacky one'. This is not something I want to happen. Everyone should, by now I would hope, be aware of my disdain for all things identified as 'wacky'. I am eager, and at the same time apprehensive, to see how this little character trait being imposed upon me will affect my attitude and demeanor as the weeks go on. If I start wearing floppy hats with fabric flowers on them (ala Blossom, the ultimate in the great 'is she creative/wacky or wacky/creative?' debate), then you have my permission to come hunt me down and shoot me in the head. It would be the kindest thing for us all.

*Although that is part of my 'quirky charm