Deeply Superficial

A new weekly column

I sat down to write this. That’s it. I sat down for fifteen minutes and nothing came to me. I started to panic that I had lost the ability to write, to create. My last post on here was in the midst of a nervous breakdown when I was convinced I had contracted 10 deadly diseases at once. I have since been lulled into a (false?) sense of calm by 20mg of Citalopram, prescribed to me by a perplexed doctor after I told him in no uncertain terms that I thought I was dead and everything that was taking place wasn’t actually taking place and I was in some kind of Mulholland Drive style fantasy dreamworld. He probably regrets not giving me 40mg.

My life is weirdly good. I keep waiting to get pounced on by misfortune, it waits in the corner like the spider you spotted on the wall that’s edging ever closer. I do find that when my life is going well I have nothing to write about because I’m so used to only writing about misery, my own misery. I am not going to sit here and give you a play by play of the time me and my boyfriend went to Morrisons the other week. I am so unaccustomed to what I’m sure is a normal life to others that I’m finding being truly happy to be an alien world. What I’m used to is hedonism and daft knobheadism. I don’t go to house parties anymore, neither do I throw them (what happened to house parties, by the way?) I barely go out on the weekend and I very occasionally stay out past three on a weeknight. I sometimes feel like Henry Hill at the end of Goodfellas when he goes into witness protection. I spend most of my weekend in bed. I spend more time in Leeds than I do anywhere else and the idea of staying up for days sends a shiver down my spine. It’s supposed to be my Saturn return this year, I’m 28 in three weeks, and I’m starting to think it might all be past me. I can barely remember past incarnations of myself but I know they were embarrassing. Maybe I’m finally growing up!

It seems deeply superficial (hah!) to think that anyone would be interested in my life or what I’m doing with it. Now that I’m no longer humiliating myself on dating apps and sharing it to the world I briefly felt like there was nothing else to write about. It was so central to my existence, shamefully, that I thought “oh my god what else is there to write about?”

It turns out a great many things.

I’ve been watching Sex and The City once again, the 9000th run, and I thought to myself if Carrie Bradshaw could somehow pull a column out of her ass every week whilst essentially doing a whole load of nothing then so can I. I will write about my two new Vivienne Westwood bags if I have to. I will not lose my ability, one of my only talents apart from being able to fit thirteen Pringles in my mouth, from a lack of trying or a lack of interest. I am still writing various bits and pieces, they are all languishing in Google Docs waiting to come alive as we speak. Perhaps one day I’ll get round to it.

Welcome to Deeply Superficial.

I’ll see you next week x