Yes. Admission time. Whenever I feel sad I either play Katy Perry songs or watch the Katy Perry documentary. Both are valid life choices and I don’t care what you say.
Tonight I had a massive fight with my Mum on the phone. It’s ok, I can write about it here because both she and my sister know I have a blog but neither read it, although Dad does (Hi Dad!).
I’ve upset my life in a massive way. I’ve taken redundancy, I’m doing five jobs at the same time (read not actual go to work jobs, just bits and pieces), I’ve signed up to customer surveys to earn more cashola (what’s that you say? $80 for two hours talking about beer on a Tuesday night? Shit yeah. AND you feed me? Ok then, go on).
I’m writing and tutoring and trying to figure out how the fuck to get Excel to add up the theoretical money I’m not making at the bottom of the spread sheet. Despite the fact I once got sent on a 2-day Excel workshop when I worked for the Government and I got a certificate and everything. I still don’t understand how tax works. I’m pitching crazy shit for pie-in-the-sky money through a freelancing website. If I can track down ANY ex-girlfriend of some former Australian Idol’s new fiance I could make $2000. I can’t. So I won’t. Gah.
Tonight my mum accused me of a) being drunk (correct) and b) feeling sorry for myself (also correct). But really, when you say “I’d like to come home for Christmas” and your mother says “I don’t even want to talk about Christmas” rather than “it would be lovely to have you home for Christmas”, then spending it alone in your one-bed apartment with your cat actually doesn’t sound that bad. As a bonus round, you don’t have to work at the newspaper on Christmas Day, however that would probably be the only human contact you’d have. See point b) above.
Yes, I’m feeling sorry for myself. Sorry that I don’t have a better relationship with my mother and sister. Probably I could have done more. Probably having such a great relationship with my Dad means I didn’t really try enough with my other closest family members because they are so unlike me. Maybe none of us make enough effort to understand the other. And not to be a massive bitch (but I will be) I, regularly, blow out my mobile phone bill by calling and texting UK mobiles and landlines when Viber and such doesn’t work, because talking to the people I care about is more important to me than the $5 flagfall.
I wanted to come home. I wanted to come back to Scotland. But now I don’t think I do. I think there’s even less for me there than there is here. So my head is churning with jobs and bills and things and stuff. What I should/could/would do. And somehow, despite all the (relative) success I’ve had in my life, I still get treated like a child who needs to stop dreaming and eat their vegetables. Who needs to be told what to do. I’ve got an ABN and everything. I no longer like pink things (although I still like shit with cats on them. soz)
I’ve got more grey hairs than I can pull out. I’m 35 and everyone around me is breeding. I’ve got a mental illness and I’m being left out of my group of long-term friends because i know nothing about ovulation.
SEE POINT b) ABOVE. AGAIN.
I’m a fuck-up. I’m a procrastinator. I probably tried to get off with one of my former bosses last night. However I DO know a friend and I ordered home delivery booze and danced to 90s music until at least 4am. I’m being all week-endy even though every day is pretty much the weekend. I have no structure, other than trying to keep my house tidy. I need to make an effort. I should read the books I obsessively buy and forget to read. I should finish off the goddamn novel and not let 60,000w go to awful waste. I should remember to buy catfood and not ask my bestie to swing past on our way to the pub with cat biscuits cos I’ve been sick/forgetful and the catface has only had tuna in springwater for the last three days and has spent the last two hours sitting beside her food bowl looking resentful and sad.
I should refill the ice cube trays. I should go on holiday instead of just talking about it. I should decide that I probably definitely don’t want children and steel myself against future regret. I should use my treadmill (currently folded up in the kitchen). I should take my medication every day, and at the right dosage, rather than ‘oh shit I missed a day, I’ll just take 200mg in case I feel sad and want to end my life”.eff why eye, I’m on 175mg a day. Apparently. But I like a bit of anti-mental-drug-roulette.
Anyway, enough of this list of my shortcomings. I could carry on, but I’ve just had rum, coke and lime delivered to my door, so I won’t. So let’s have some Le Perry, because she is basically awesome and makes me stop crying into my pyjama top.