I fuck a lot of stuff up. The long list of things I ruin numbers in the thousands but my most notable include great relationships (because who wants to be FUNCTIONAL?) and being at university (because who needs a DEGREE?). I like to think of myself as a modern day Midas. Only everything I touch doesn’t turn to gold but instead crumbles between my fingers, covering me in the inevitable stink of shit. My best friend is the same. We frequently rue the fact we are not “proper human beings”. We are like characters from Peep Show. Perpetually awkward. Incapable of making adult decisions. In an ideal world, we would have constant surveillance from some sort of motivational life coach. As it stands, we don’t. So we don’t do anything. Ever.
This topic has come to the forefront of my mind as I’m searching for a flat to move into with my boyfriend. This seems like something impossibly adult. A FLAT of my own? With a BOYFRIEND? HOW DID THIS HAPPEN? I could say that I had it all planned out but the whole sequence of events was just a long succession of good luck and haphazard avoidance of catastrophe. Needless to say, things don’t normally work out like that for me. Things usually fall apart before they even happen. I normally end up back in my bedroom, constantly refreshing my Twitter feed until something else happens to my life.
When I was at university, for one brief and unsuccessful year, I lived with a girl who personified the antithesis of me. Her notes were colour co-ordinated. Her sheets were always clean. She always got up on time. She probably always had a clean pair of pants on. Her room was ALWAYS tidy. In other words, she was absolutely everything I’m not. And you know what? She was boring as shit. The most boring human being I have ever met. Boring. As. Balls.
So basically, I’ve decided to stop worrying about the fact I’m a mentally ill fuck up. Right now I’m happier than I have been for AGES. I’m in a functional relationship. And it’s the least conventional relationship I’ve ever been in. I’ve embraced the fact I’m not the sort of person whose life runs smoothly. At least when I write my autobiography, it’ll be a fucking good read.