It’s a Saturday night. I’ve just been to Tesco to buy myself a pack of cigarettes and a scratchcard, I’ve poured myself a glass of wine and I’ve turned on my PS4 ready to play some Grand Theft Auto. Unfortunately there’s an update that needs doing and I don’t have enough space so I’ve turned it off again, but that’s besides the point – it’s a Saturday and I’m at home on my own. Has something gone wrong? Have all my friends suddenly moved abroad and abandoned me? Unfortunately not, but I live in hope. No, what’s happened is I’ve actually chosen to spend the evening by myself. I had a ticket to the “rave” that’s taking place in Tutbury but I decided not to go. It’s weird because just a few years ago the idea of spending a Saturday night by myself would have been unthinkable, I’d even go as far as to say it would make me feel ill, mentally if not physically. I spend far too much time going on about how much I’ve changed in the past eighteen months but it still seems so strange to me that I can choose not to go out with all of my friends and actually feel good about it. I’ve been listening to Orlando a lot recently. Not to sound like a prick (I’m about to sound like a prick) but he only has 26,000 monthly listeners on Spotify so I don’t know anyone else who listens to him, but I think he’s fantastic. I asked Amber to put him on earlier today whilst I was getting my tattoos and she said she was going to have a proper listen to him after I left, so at least I might now have one other person to share him with. I’m super happy with the tattoos I got today. I’ve already asked Amber for another appointment and I’ve already thought of one idea for my next ones, so I think it’s safe to say that the “tattoos are addictive” cliche is pretty accurate. Anyway, the point is that it’s Saturday night and I’m by myself. Well, I suppose I’m not completely by myself because I’m talking to you, but you know what I mean. I’m probably going to post this as an untitled piece, it’s been ages since I’ve done one of those. Perhaps the typewriter I’ve just had etched onto my arm is subconsciously willing me to write, that would at least explain why this piece is entirely fucking directionless. Work is strange. The idea of spending forty hours a week sitting at a desk still seems terrifying to me and I’m sure I’ll soon tire of it but the people I’m working with are making it quite enjoyable so far. These are the first “new” people I’ve met since I figured myself out and became properly happy so it’s quite nice and reassuring that they actually seem to like me as a person, because believe it or not I am actually being myself. That’s a strange one, being myself. I’ve never really thought about it properly until recently but I don’t think I’ve ever truly been myself until the past year or so. For fuck sake, here I am again coming back to how much I’ve changed in the past few years, I can only apologise for being a broken record but I obviously cannot quite get over it. It is seemingly going to take quite a while to get used to being genuinely happy and having people know who I actually am. The worst part is that I’ve only had one glass of wine so I can’t even blame this outburst of emotion on the alcohol. It’s definitely time to pour myself another one. 

I’ve just been outside for a cigarette and I’ve got Rex Orange County on now. Most of my pictures have fallen off or are falling off the wall because of the recent heatwave which is really pissing me off. I think it’s safe to assume that I should have used blu-tack instead of pink tack. Most of my plants have died too which is irritating, although that’s arguably because I didn’t water them properly, so I’ll take the blame for that one. Come to think of it, I’m a bit annoyed at how happy I am at the minute because it means I’ve got zero inspiration for my writing. How am I supposed to write meaningful, intelligent pieces when I’m actually content with how things are going in life? It’s a fucking outrage. If only I’d summoned the courage to start writing back in the days when I had to get blackout drunk every weekend just to get through the week. I was going to school for six hours a day for fuck sake, it’s hard to believe how fucked up I was, but there you go, I managed to eek out some fantastic memories despite my own mind torturing me. Anyway, back to my original point. It’s coming towards the end of the evening now and I’ve had a great time. I’m weirdly proud of myself. I imagine spending time by oneself is quite common for most people because I doubt there’s many out there as popular and social as myself, but for me it’s a big thing and as such I will write about it if I fucking want to. What are you going to do? Report me to HR? Sorry, that’s probably the wine talking (I got reported to HR this week for my “social media content”, despite being at my new job for less than a month, which is possibly the most me thing to ever happen). I’m feeling a bit drunk now, so I just want you to remember this – life is fantastic and it’s worth sticking around for. Peace and love.