Fuck. Shit. Cunt. Whore. I’m having an existential crisis. Actually, according to my squatmate Dom what I’m suffering from is a “serious case of existentialities,” as we’ve discovered it’s contagious and now the whole of Squallyoaks seems to be infected. Our house is one massive mental breakdown waiting to happen. Dom has locked himself in his room and eats nothing but Pot Noodle. Hannah is convinced he has AIDS. Even Darren, who is normally the voice of reason, has shaved off his beard and now does nothing but wander around in a daze, jabbering about suffering from “post-beard fear.” This feels like the beginning of the end.
I’m in love with every boy. Literally. Lately it feels like I fall in love more often than I take a shower. I was at a dinner party the other evening at my friend Jack’s house, and during our conversation his mother asked me, “Have you experienced love yet Karley?” My immediate response was, “What… like today?”
This isn’t to say any of my loves result in any form of physical gratification. Rather I seem to be the epitome of repulsion to most of the men I desire. Oh yeah, by the way I broke up with my boyfriend of three years, Blaine, a couple weeks ago. Bad move. I mean, what was I thinking? He was perfect and I’m a fucking loser. I’ll never find anyone better. I mean yeah he’s disabled and he can’t realty walk and he’s got these weird dreads that sort of smell like dead cats, but I’m into that shit. Ugh, my life is a series of unfortunate events.
Another symptom of my existential crisis has been the recent development of a fake stutter. This is a desperate attempt on my part to make myself more attractive to the opposite sex (and just generally the entire population of the world), but provoking sympathy from those around me. D-d-d-d-do you think that’s a good idea? My squatmate Simon seems to think so as he’s jumped on the bandwagon as well. To be honest, though, my attempts thus far have been fleeting. For example, stuttering doesn’t seem to help when trying to get the Turkish man in the off-license to lower the price of Glen’s Vodka from £8.99 to £7.99. It also fails to persuade bus drivers to let you on the bus without a ticket. It has also yet to trick anyone into sleeping with me. (Apparently ‘p-p-please f-f-fuck me’ isn’t an uber sexy turn-on.) Still, I’m not giving up that easy. I’m going to hold out for a while longer. I have a f-f-f-feeling thing might take a turn for the b-b-better.
Yesterday I cried while making a salad. I just started sobbing, mid cucumber. No prior warning. It scares me to think that I’m the type of person who has vegetable induced emotional meltdowns.
In other news, my nose is going to rot off. Over the past few weeks I’ve put more shit up my nasal passage than I thought humanly possible. I am now suffering the repercussions of my actions. Most of my days are spent either wiping liquidy snot from above my upper lip or running to the bathroom to clean up a nosebleed. The worst was when I got a nosebleed on the first day of my new internship at Tank Magazine last week. Talk about embarrassing. Thankfully the head of editorial, Xerxes, is just as much of a wastoid as I am. When I returned clean-faced from the bathroom after the shameful episode, he looked at me sympathetically and said, “Don’t worry about it. I puked on a duck this morning.”
However, in between blowing my nose and not having sex, I’ve been spending most of my time trying to “figure it out.” And by that I mean I hired the book Introducing Existentialism from the library. I chose this particular book because of the quote on the cover that reads, “Feel smarter almost instantly.” Sounds good to me. Unfortunately, with every page I read I feel more and more like a fucking idiot. “Every step forward in reflection is a step back from immediacy.” “Subjective life can never be made the object of formally abstract knowledge.” Like, what? I’ve been reading this shit for days and the only conclusion I’ve come to is that I’m a retard. Amazing. Put a gun to my head and paint the walls with my brains. Actually, I take that back. If I’ve learned one thing from my studies it’s that suicide is not the answer (despite how glorious it may seem in my current state of self loathing). At least I think that’s what this God forsaken book is trying to tell me anyway. Sartre says this: “Suicide, as the last act of life, is denied the future and is therefore meaningless.” Looks like I’ll be s-s-sticking around for a w-w-w-while longer then.