The Things I Hate About Myself

Introduction

The street was blue. The sky was grey.
Below the dark polluted sky, below the smog stained and rain washed roof slate, shimmering in the moonlight, was something resembling life. The empty faces of the local residents blended and faded into the mass produced wallpaper. The slightly altered decor mirrored from house to house - just a reflection of a fad under every ceiling. B&M shops, Mrs Hinch tips, Home bargains and Primark prevailed. All this regurgitation acted as a frame for the empty mass produced lives contained within. Don't dare look through a window with an urge to find something different, don't look for a miracle or a spark of hope. This is not life, there is nobody out there. We exist in existence.

This is the Estate...

If I wrote an intro to a book that was based on my real life experience and observations and published it a chapter at a time on Wattpad, then this would be it.

Depressing right? Well how about this.

I am 34 years old and sometimes when I sit down my nipple touches my bellybutton. Process that for a second, imagine what that does to my confidence. I have spent my whole life wanting to look like Chad Michael Murray, to rap like Eminem and to change the world like the kid from "Pay it forward". However after all the internet diets, Paco Rabanne One Million, YouTube videos on positive thinking, detox tea, matte clay, drop crotch trousers, hopes and dreams and apple cider vinegar (with the mother, do not forget the mother) - I still look like me, I rap like me (questionable). The only thing I change is the screensaver on my phone.

Why are best intentions never met?

Am I physically incapable of loving myself enough to give myself a chance of even having a chance?

Life is passing me by. Instead of turning struggle into wine, instead of writing a movie script while living out of the boot of a car like Stallone, instead of forcing my way into a movie studio and reciting a monologue on the table while being forcibly removed by guards, instead of all these great feats of passion, of capturing the moment, of seizing the day and setting it on fire...I play GTA 5 online and eat crisp sandwiches. I just hope to keep enough energy so that i can go upstairs and get to sleep with my sleep sounds app. Sometimes the sounds manage to cloud the anxiety echoing through the mess of the pre-sleep thoughts, sometimes. Sleep to dream. Then i wake up the next monotonous day to play out the sad charade again like a failed comedian playing to an empty room every night and going back to his apartment and masturbating into the sink to feel anything at all. To feel his organs move so he knows he is alive even though nobody is laughing. Even though nobody is there.

The street was blue. The sky was grey.

The end could be now. Could be.

I really hope the end times are now.

I really hope the beginning is the end.

The End.