I’ve been told that I should write because my reality is so utterly ridiculous and the most bizarre combination of life, tragedy and vino. I started this blog in January 2015 because I had nothing better to do other than anti-bac the 6 light switches in my tiny flat so that I didn’t self-infect with swine flu. Plus, I’ve done the self infection thing before.
I don’t have multiple personality disorder, but I have multiple identities which have created a fucked up mélange of a twenty-something-year-old. This includes, but is not limited to:
- Prolific swearer;
- Bad Christian;
- Overly intelligent;
- Lipstick lesbian;
- Mentally ill;
- Possibly a little bit experimentally-but-it’s-a-bit-secret-until-I-write-it-all-over-the-internet bicurious; and
Yes you read right. Widow. I simultaneously suffer from spots and wrinkles. I remember being on the school coach on the way back from a hockey match when I first listened to Spice Girls “Wannabe”. I graduated from one of the best universities in the world seven years ago. But I’m a fucking widow. I’m too young for this bollocks.
Am I inspiring? Depends how shit a situation you’re in comparatively. Am I witty? On occasion when fuelled by Sauvignon. Will I bore you? Often. I might get a cat like other spinster lesbians and write about her. Can I guarantee drama and entertainment? Well, if I continue on this trajectory, there will be enough for a soap opera with a four hour long weekly Sunday omnibus. There might possibly be enough for a ghost writer to correct my overuse of hyphens and cobble together a novella which can be sold for at least £2.99 as a Kindle e-book with endorsement from Pick Me Up magazine.
I so didn’t sign up for this. Despite what some of the dipshits formerly in my life spitefully said, I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t cause this. If I could have done something, I would have.
I found my wife hanging from a beam in our bedroom. She was 26 years old. I’m in love with a dead woman. Anyone else in this club? Sadly, as I’ve discovered, yes. You could write a book full of negative adjectives and it would never come close to describing our stark reality. So I’ll try with a blog and some letters instead.
Dear What Doesn’t Kill You,
I’m strong enough now.
You’ve clearly never been a widow but since I’m evidently not dead yet and I bizarrely have more good days than bad, maybe you’re right. So was Kelly Clarkson.
I hated you during A-Level French, but you’re right – L’enfer, c’est les autres.
It’s only through tragedy that I’ve started to explore who I truly am, defied gravity, gotten myself in the most reckless of situations, gallivanted to exotic locations, had thoughts that non “wids” would consider grounds for committing me to the psychiatric ward, but had a heck of a lot of fun. It’s only through tragedy that I’ve found out who my friends are. It’s only through tragedy that I’ve finally learned how to best use my sardonic tongue.
Bear with me. Keep reading.