Friday 04/9

Oh my! What is that? "Eat me!", cry the Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Macadamia Ice-Cream, whilst wiggling its hips suggestively. I had just opened the door only to be confronted by the ice-cream.

Oh no, I reply, and I am appalled at the carnal thought. I will get FAT, I say to the ice-cream. "But I will give you PLEASURE", says Ben.

And you, Jerry? What will you give me?, I ask the ice-cream, which has somehow transformed into two distinct yet sweet personalities.

"I will give you REGRET", says Jerry. "But REGRET tinged with PLEASURE", chips in Ben. Ah. Such is the difficulty and vagaries of choice.

"REGRET and PLEASURE defined great men of yore, from Napoleon to Bonaparte". I am confused. But aren't they the same? "No!", cries Ben.

Well, if you say so, I tell Ben. But at this point I am unsure of anything anymore. Unsure if I'm talking to Ben or Jerry. Unsure if I will even get fat.

So I ask Jerry (or Ben).

"That is not the question you should ask", they tell me. So what is the QUESTION?

"There is no QUESTION", they solemnly inform me. "There is only the matter of EATING the ice-cream". They are now doing a curious dance on the table-top. "EAT WITH PLEASURE AND REGRET", Ben and Jerry begin to chant.

I stare at them, still unsure.

"EAT WITH PLEASURE AND REGRET".

Maybe just one bite.

"EAT WITH PLEASURE AND REGRET", they continue.

I look around. The monkey sneers and I throw a banana at it.

"EAT WITH PLEASURE AND REGRET".

I pick Ben and Jerry up, but notice that the tub is empty and this confuses me and suddenly I realise that my mouth is smeared with chocolate and that I must have somehow eaten it. And my hands are also covered with chocolate. Chocolate and blood. The blood is regrettable. Maybe, I think. I am still unsure.

And at this point I look up and see a sign above the door and on this sign above the door it says THIS IS NOT AN EXIT.

Sunday 16/8

A food review

Yesterday Tim and I decided to head down to Albert's Shed for today's Sunday roast. Albert's Shed is a really good restaurant, and I think served the best food in Manchester. I had been raving about this restaurant to Tim, but when he found out that Sunday Roast was £15.99 for three courses, he balked at the cost—I have no idea why he would feel that way because it works out to about £5.30 per course which is cheap.

Anyway with this being my final Sunday in Manchester, and with Tim knowing that none of his friends would go with him, he agreed.

So after visiting IKEA (why not), packing, doing the dishes, and doing my laundry, I find myself walking with Tim along the pleasant canal path which meanders along the Manchester Ship Canal. Along the way, I see the geese and suddenly I'm struck with the realisation that I will never feed them again. This makes me sad. It's probably for the best because I might kill them someday with my increasingly bizarre food combinations (sushi rice and chili anyone?) but they look so fat and content sleeping by the embankment that I have to resist the urge to pick one up and sink my jaws into its neck.

We arrive at this restaurant promptly at 2pm and was lead to our table by a waitress (fit rating: 4/10). It's relatively empty, perhaps because we have arrived towards the later part of the lunch service.

"It's not bad, this place. And looking at the menu, things seem reasonable. I thought it was going to be expensive." "Oh no, it's pretty reasonable, and the quality is probably a step lower than 1 Michelin star."

We quickly determine that we are going to go for the Sunday Roast set menu—after all, this is why Tim agreed to come in the first place when I said that they serve one of the best roasts in Manchester. (The other place is the Old Wellington—but that's another review.)

Then suddenly a waiter with dark, brooding but good-looking looks approach and smiles at us. "Hello gentlemen, what can I get you to drink?". Essex, I think. Great smile too. (Fit rating: 6/10)

At this stage I have no idea I will write a review, so I forget to take a picture of the menu or note my wine choice (all I remember is that it's a Cabernet Sauvignon from Chile, but I forget to note the château or the vintage). Sorry.

Tim orders a Diet Coke. Bah. The waiter compliments him and says, "Very good, sir. Watching your figure". Tim smiles. Double bah.

I then decide to order, as a starter, their soup of the day (spicy vegetable, according to the waiter which to me sounds a bit vague). Tim has the chicken liver pâté. We both order the beef roast and the gingerbread cheesecake for dessert.

As we wait for our drinks to arrive, I spy a waiter arriving. He looks familiar, I think. And suddenly I knew: I've shagged him before. As this isn't a pornographic blog, I shan't go into the details. But it was worth it. (Fit rating: 5/10)

Anyway, we shall move on.

We start with the appetiser; as mentioned, I had ordered a "spicy vegetable" soup. Our waiter—let's call him Alex, because he looks like an Alex—serves Tim first but the first hints of my soup hits me even before he set my dish down. Cumin, coriander, and onions. A dahl curry, I think. Then Alex sets my plate down, and I see a gold-brown watery liquid which gently shimmers under the restaurant's halogen spotlights.

"I can smell your soup from here." "Yes it is very pungent isn't it? A bit like a curry."

The first sip brings me back to the curry mile in Manchester. Exotic spices in the soup such as cumin, coriander, turmeric, cinnamon, and cloves mingle in my mouth and evoke memories of curries and grilled meats. This soup, however, was cooked with carrots and potatoes which had the effect of toning down the harshness of the Asian spices, and made it geographically ambiguous.

"I used to come here a lot with my mate. Then when he left for London no one would want to come here because they all thought it was over-priced."

However, I spotted what looks like dried herbs floating in my soup. Dried herbs are usually machine-chopped—and thus very fine—and because they have been freezed-dried, they tend to lose their colour, becoming a dull dark green and turning green-brown when cooked. Fresh herbs, on the other hand, tend to go pale green when cooked.

Ah-ha!, you say. What if they've cooked the soup long enough that the chlorophyll bleeds out and the herbs absorb the turmeric and becomes green-brown?

Ah-ha!, I say. I happen to bite on a carrot just as you ask that impertinent question, and I can confirm that it retains a slight bite to it, a sure indicator that the soup has not been left simmering for hours.

So I can only conclude that they have used dried herbs in this soup. Not a sin, I might add, but a MORTAL SIN. Despite the soup tasting nice, I would rise in a huff, create a scene, and then storm out of the restaurant if I was a Michelin inspector. But thankfully for them, I am not.

"It used to be a shed, owned by a bloke called Albert. Hence the name. They then converted it into a restaurant a few years ago. I've only discovered it when I moved to Castlefield a year ago, but I have not heard of it despite living in Manchester for four years prior to moving." "I think my mates go to Duke's for drinks after work." "It's a nice place, but the food here is infinitely better, though they're both owned by the same group. They've bought Barça, you know." "Oh great, I'll look forward to going there then."

There is a slight delay before Alex brings out the main course. He hesitates before setting the dishes down. "Did you order the beef?" he asks. Yes, of course, you silly-but-good-looking waiter. "Enjoy your meal. Don't forget to ask for more gravy if you want some more." I want you, I think.

The dish is a sight to behold. Three slices of roast beef, covered with silky-smooth thick gravy. It is accompanied by four different kinds of potatoes: mashed, roast, new jacket potatoes, and mashed sweet potato. Then to the side they've served some boiled purple cabbage and peas in their pods (a bit like serving a baby animal in its placenta, yes?) and these were topped with a golden Yorkshire pudding.

I quickly slice off some beef. The saltiness hits me immediately. Over-salted, I think. But then the gravy kicks in and to some extent, it takes away the saltiness. I quickly move on to the mash. Both the mash (regular and sweet potatoes) are creamy and done to the standards of Michelin cooking: 1 part potato to 1 part butter. The best bit is that they're both shaped in the form of a quenelle.

If you're not familiar with a quenelle, it is essentially an emulsion shaped like a rugby ball with the bottom slightly flattened. It is a hallmark of great cooking because getting a quenelle shape right takes effort and time, and if one puts in effort and time into the presentation, chances are they would have done the same during the cooking stages. A quenelle can be formed using a large tablespoon and steady hands.

"What's a quenelle?" I recite the above information. "Why would they want to make it a cor-nell?". I recite the above information again. I sigh. "How's Becky?". He sighs. "We could have asked her to come along. Perhaps Felix too." He ignores me and busies himself with his beef.

I'm glad to report that the gravy has the right amount of viscosity and the colour was a nice deep red-brown. I can tell that they've used good stock and have added a splash of wine to it. I make a mental note to get more gravy from Alex.

The beef is glorious. It is slightly too salty but crispy on the outside, but the meat is tender (though well-done) and full of flavour. They've also left some fat on. Normally, I'm not a fan of fat because they tend to be tough and tastes disgusting. This time, however, the fat literally melts in my mouth and its richness complements the gravy and the cabernet sauvignon which I had ordered earlier. I absolutely love the beef. Tim agrees with me and says that it is "gorgeous". That is his term for everything nice. It's either "uuugh" or "gorgeous". There's nothing in-between. He also approves of the Yorkshire pudding, and being from York (Malton, actually), I take his word for it.

I ask for my extra gravy, and I do a quick look around. Unfortunately the restaurant is getting a bit busier and I don't think I can get away with drinking the gravy from the gravy boat. What an utter shame, I think.

"Who are you texting?" "I'm texting my former co-worker who's now working for H_____. Remember I told you about my interview tomorrow? Well, I'm going to ring him later to get some tips, and I'm texting him to find out when I can call." "Are you nervous?" "No, not really. I haven't got much to study or memorise." "Well I have pills if you want to chill." "Maybe."

I can tell that they've blanched the peas and shocked them in ice water because it retains so much of its colour and freshness. Biting into a pod, it reminds me of the Easter weekend which I spent at Sam's and his parents had fresh peas growing in the garden. I tried a few and never thought that peas could taste that sweet and fresh. The peas on this dish have done just that, and for that I think it is worth every penny.

The only disappointment is the boiled purple cabbage. It was well-seasoned and cooked, but to me it is nondescript after the richness of the gravy and the freshness of the vegetables.

Then to my horror, the waiter—we will call him Craig, because that is his real name—whom I had shagged brings out our dessert. I avoid eye contact. He avoids eye contact with me too. I suppose the feeling is mutual. Tim doesn't notice anything and promptly digs in.

To my slight disappointment, the cheesecake isn't of the baked variety. Instead it relies on gelatin to give it structure and firmness. I think a cheesecake should be baked, but nonetheless I carry on eating because I am a glutton for punishment. But from now on I shall refer to it as a 'cheesecake', because it is a pretender to a real cheesecake.

The kitchen staff have artistically smeared toffee sauce on the place, placed a 'cheesecake' on top, and spread candied ginger on top of the cheesecake. They then placed what can only be described as a thimble—because it can just about fit a dessert spoon—filled with vanilla ice-cream next to it. The ice-cream was made with real vanilla pods because I spot vanilla spots in the cream. But there is simply not enough of it.

I slowly eat the 'cheesecake' because at this point I am feeling very full, but at this point also, I am craving lots of sugar and I have finished my wine (it isn't a dessert wine). I suppose the dessert is the weakest link during this meal, but oh well, innit.

Rating: I will award this restaurant 7/10. I had initially thought that this restaurant would qualify for a Michelin star, but small slip-ups like the dried herbs and salty beef and uninspiring dessert has let it down.

Friday 14/9

Today is my last day in my flat as Tim's flatmate. Tonight Richard will be moving in. I shall miss Tim very much as he's as rare as gold dust; Tim is a great flatmate.

This is why I have decided to live on my own in Birmingham for the first 6 months. If one imagines obtaining the perfect flat as maximising one's utility (which I suspect may not be pareto efficient, but who cares about others innit), and if it is possible model the quest for utility maximisation, it would be as such:

And as you can clearly see from the above, variable (flatmate) is the only exogenous variable for which I cannot control, and what I cannot control upsets me.

Thus if I omit the variable (flatmate) I will have more control over my utility, and though it will not be maximised, marginal externality caused by the utility gap will be worth the reduction in the level of stress which I may or may not experience with a flatmate.

From the equation above we can clearly see that the error term u' > u, but this is ok, because I have decided to settle for less.

Of course, I have no idea if the above regression model is linear (I can only assume it has to be) or if my preference (or time-preference) will vary as I place emphasis on difference priorities, but as of now I shall ignore that.

Thursday 13/4

The past few nights have been nightmarish—I dreamt that I was back in an exam hall doing my exams but not being able to remember anything; I dreamt I was arguing with someone justifying the non-existence of god; I dreamt I was in all sorts of trouble.

And I woke up a lot.

I suppose a lot of these has to do with the elevated levels of stress I've been experiencing. I've also stopped taking the escitalopram because I've been rationing what little I have, with the intention of getting a good (read: more persuadable and gullible) doctor in Birmingham and getting a new batch from them.

One person that is hugely responsible for my stress levels is my estate agent. I've always believed that estate agents are one of the most despicable creatures ever to have roamed this Earth, and it turns out that not only they're despicable unethical bastards, they're also so manipulative that they would put the North Korean propaganda machinery to shame. It is hard to believe that such unethical practice goes unnoticed or unregulated, but I comfort myself with the thought that someday, this estate agent will meet her match, and hopefully, a grisly end.

. . .

Today I decide to see my doctor and attempt to get some beta blockers which will help me calm down and allow me to face the uncertainty and unsettling task of moving to a new city. I walk up the doctors office and sit on a torn leather seat, no doubt a melding cauldron of a motley of pathogens and flesh-eating bugs. An old lady is sat opposite me, wearing a purple satin blouse that is rather unflattering to her figure; rolls of fat bunch up pushing up against her breasts which are trying their very best to obey the inevitable ramification of gravity.

I feel sick in my mouth.

Then sat next to me is a middle-aged Asian man who smells a bit. There is something rather putrid about the odour emanating from him. Or perhaps it is the humid and hot conditions of the waiting room—there's an air-conditioning unit but it's not been switched on. Bastards, I fumed. Further analysis of the situation, I conclude, will only increase the chances of me losing it and punching the man next to me, because at this point the most obnoxious ringtone starts to blare out of his pocket.

Danger! Danger! Wife calling!

And it is accompanied by horrible synthetic Bollywood-style music.

I am slowly curling my fists and start to wish I had bothered to learn kick-boxing so that I can sterilise him (if he has to be warned about his wife, surely he has no need for his reproductive system because he will not want to be near his wife) by kicking him as hard as I can. Perhaps I should have also brought a knife along. I make a mental note.

Then suddenly my name is announced and I find myself seeing the doctor and things happen and we exchange pleasantries and... and I leave with my prescriptions for: escitalopram, omeprazole, and beta blockers. I consider this trip a success.

Sunday 19/08

It is Saturday and I wake up vaguely remembering what happened yesterday. I seem to remember drinking 1/4 bottle of Rioja, 1 Kopparberg, and then 1 bottle of awful rosé (Echo Falls) at Label on Deansgate. Then at 3am I was awaken by a telephone call—it was my flamate, and the first thing he said was, "Hi, are you sleeping? I'm drunk". A few minutes later my flatmate and a few of his friends stumbled into the flat, and I heard the most random statement ever, "I couldn't fuck her, she had massive tits but it was so cold and if only I was sober I would be able to".

Anyway, I am wearing a striped Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt, Abercrombie & Fitch Jeans (low cut) and Fred Perry trainers and with this outfit, I go to the gym. I meet Graeme at the gym, I think the time is 1200 but I'm not sure. Graeme's my new gym buddy and he's signed up just because I am there despite it being a shit gym (I'm at that gym because it's cheap).

And here I am at the gym, and I'm thinking, this is far too early for any exercise. My head is still pounding and I feel I could do with more sleep. Yesterday at dinner, Graeme, Simon, Hannah (Simon's girlfriend), Ryan (Graeme's flatmate who's really fit but a complete cock), Sam, and I went to this underwhelmingly shitty restaurant in the Northern Quarter. I'm normally not a fan of pizza, but everyone urged me to try their pizzas because they are amazing. Unwilling to argue—but quite possibly I was agreeable last night because of the alcohol in me—I agreed and went ahead and ordered the margarita. It was absolutely awful and the base was either stale or undercooked. I sent it back and demanded a better pizza. I got it in the end, but at what cost? My stomach's aching today.

Graeme and I start doing chest, and for this we do: bench press (I managed 80kg), incline flys (24kg), incline presses (26kg), flat flys (24kg), decline cable flys (22kg), machine flys (62kg), and cable flys (20kg).

Once we finish at the gym we both decide to get some lunch, and we find this restaurant that serves Thai food, and the waitress who looks like she is 16 comes around and asks (in a strange sing-song accent), "What would you like to order?"

"What is good?", I say to her.

"Everything", comes the unhelpful reply. This irritates me slightly, and I seriously consider whether I should leave a tip, but this is usually futile anyway as I never leave a tip. Stupid bitch, I mutter under my breath.

The next few minutes I ponder upon the menu, and then I order a Beef Red Curry and Graeme has the sweet sour chicken. As I tuck into my food, I suddenly realise that I prefer his dish, but as they say, the grass is always greener innit.

...

I am no longer feeling the symptoms of depression, perhaps partly because of my anti-depressants, but quite possibly—and I am hoping that it is—because my circumstances have changed. I've recently been offered a graduate role at ____. No words can describe how happy and ecstatic I felt; it's the same feeling as when I found out I had an upper second class degree. I beat all odds to get this job; I also beat all odds to get an upper second class (I was expecting a lower second class).

And this job offer came on the day I got fired from my job at this bank where I work (for reasons which I will not get into, but which I think are completely unjustified).

I can't wait.

Saturday 04/07

Apologies for the lack of updates. My flat's only just been ushered into the digital age (that is, Sky has finally decided that they'll connect us to the Internet). If anyone can come up with an app which allows me to post items from my iPhone to Blogger.com, that would be much appreciated.

Whilst I write a proper post detailing what's been happening, I'd like to share this poem by A. A. Milne which I found. It details how I feel at the moment, and how I see myself in this journey through life.

Halfway down the stairs

Halfway down the stairs

Is a stair where I sit:

There isn't any other stair quite like it.

I'm not at the bottom,

I'm not at the top:

So this is the stair where I always stop.

Halfway up the stairs

Isn't up, and isn't down.

It isn't in the nursery, it isn't in the town:

And all sorts of funny thoughts

Run round my head:

"It isn't really anywhere! It's somewhere else instead!"

A. A. Milne (1882–1956)

Wednesday 20/5

After eight days of working 9-5, I am finally ready for retirement. So if someone can offer me a £1.4m pension (like Michael Martin, the ex-Speaker of the House) that would be very nice thank you very much. I struggle to find time and energy for the gym after work and I’m not crazy enough to go at 6am before work. Also, I have to postpone my therapy sessions because I’ve been told I’m not allowed time off work for the next 5 weeks or so.

I’m now in my new flat with my new flatmate Tim and I’ve discovered Tim is a lad’s lad. And I love this very much. He drinks beer, talks about football, and doesn't smell. My old Stupid Flatmate drinks cheap cider, plays geeky games, and smells.

And on my way to work, I frequently come across this boy on my walk to work:

He’s so hot and fit, and on his bag I saw ‘Canterbury’ which is a rugby brand and I love him even more.

So today I was offered a brief one-hour respite from this thing called work, and during this brief one-hour respite people would usually eat lunch, and I considered joining my work mates. But obviously I don’t because I don’t have any cash and was sick of being in that building.

Here is my outfit for that day:

Sorry if I've not been posting regularly. I don't have internet and have to steal my neighbour's WiFi, but he's not that considerate so he doesn't leave it on (and unlocked) 24/7. The bastard.

Tuesday 12/5

So you may have heard, I am now working. Working for a company that deals with banking, or perhaps trying to placate irate customers, or perhaps I've not yet been exposed to the evil side of the business, but who knows. What I do know is that I have less and less time for myself and to write blogs so I'm posting this from the future which means that

Friday 08/5

I started my day early, about 0400 because I had a dream. And in this dream I went to the cash machine and it wouldn't let me withdraw any money and the dreaded words "Insufficient funds" flashed across the screen. I pressed the button to check my balance and it said "£18 remaining".

At this point I woke up and had trouble going back to sleep because I can't sleep after having a nightmare.

Then at 0941 the following email exchange occurs between me and Brent:

Me: I seem to have made a mistake

Brent: With?

Me: I have put on Britney Spears, and now I am singing along to it. BUT I DON'T WANT TO.

Brent: Haha, I wanna see britney again!!!

This leads us nicely into the next highlight about the time I saw Britney Spears in a dingy club in Maidenhead last week. Now this club isn't your average club. No, it's worse than that. It's the club where you would take your girlfriend if you want to breakup with her after she informs you that she is 2 months pregnant with your baby.

Anyway at this amazing club, we find that we have stumbled upon a Britney Tribute Night. I was expecting a shitty act, but oh no. Run down clubs don't do things shittilly. They got the best Britney Spears impersonator ever (I've not seen one before) and she was good. So good that I start to believe that it is actually Britney especially when she said, "It's Britney, bitch".

I felt like I've been transported to an intimate gig with Britney just for her most loyal fans (me).

So anyway, she had two backup dancers with her, and I must describe them because I think they are essential to the story. One is thin and ugly, and the other is OK and fat.

• Thin and Ugly (T&U): She's an average dancer, probably a single mum who's been forced to reek out an existence by dancing for a glamorous woman (Britney). She hates Britney, but does whatever it takes to keep her job, including walking the dog (Fifi), wearing a see-through top, and learning how to play poker on long trips on their tour bus (they only do the Home Counties). But T&U is learning to accept that it's Fate which has brought her to this point in life despite her protestations, and Fate will not allow even the slightest deviation from it's carefully laid-out (some say obsessively laid-out) plans.
• OK and Fat (OK&F): OK&F is what it says on the tin. She's OK-looking but is unfortunately fat, due to her fondness of pick-and-mix. She knows that she is a good dancer and harbours ambition to join the cast of Mamma Mia but she knows she needs some exposure to the wider world. These include: learning how to hump a woman, learning how to fondle a woman's boobs, learning how to lap dance, learning how to expose your fat arse to crowds of horny baying men, and learning how to dance provocatively like she has no morals whatsoever. These are all true because these events did really happen. I was, of course, shocked at her blatant display of feminine flamboyance because I am conservative. She should only do this for me and not for other men.

(click for bigger images)

Anyway, I have some news. And this news is that I am now employed as of Monday. This is a temporary position (contract) with a bank. But I am not sure about this, simply because I am unsure of anything anymore. If we look at this in the usual cost-benefit analysis of an economist (because I have spent the last four years learning how to be an economist but as Fate would have it, I am not one. Yet.):

Cost: No more free time, No more going to the gym in the morning and meeting Greek God, not being able to marry Greek God and have his kids, clashes with me moving flats, not being able to go down to London on the 20th (I had a trip planned already), less time to apply for proper permanent jobs.

Benefit: I have a job, I will get money, I will have something to do during the day instead of the usual "fuck all", I will have some semblance of normality because routine is normality in my opinion.

See, the costs outweigh the benefits, but I suppose I need to attach weights to each of the attributes (which I have not done) and because attaching weights is so subjective, I may be stuck doing this a long time so I might as well take this job.

Thursday 07/4

And today is Thursday, and on this Thursday I feel worse than all other days, not because of my depression because I have learnt to accept it and that the escitalopram is working wonders, but because I have been struck down with a combination of the plague and swine flu. I suppose I must point out that my doctor doesn't think it's really swine flu because I have never been to Mexico, but consider the evidence:

• I spent 1 week in London. Now we all know that London's Underground is a hotbed for diseases, and with 2.95 million people riding it everyday, that's approximately 39.27% of the Greater London population. And there is always a chance that at least one of those 2.95 million people a day will have swine flu because there are people in South London who are infected with it. And they will have infected me too.
• I came into contact with Spanish people. We know that Mexicans speak Spanish, and Spanish people speak Spanish.

Anyway last night at 2130 I was ready to go to bed because I was tired of being ill, and we know that when you sleep you tend to forget your troubles. So instead of taking my traditional shower before bed (because I like being clean) I just washed my face and brushed my teeth. But at 2148 I hear the dreaded doorbell, and Stupid Flatmate's friend (and my mutual friend) came up. Let's call him Claudio.

I heard Claudio say, so what are we going to do for 10 minutes? I like Claudio, he's easy to get along with, and he clearly knows that I want to go to bed at 2200. But unfortunately he has to be good friends with Stupid Flatmate and Stupid Flatmate says something which causes them to play together on the xbox.

So I get angry and contemplate having a panic attack (I rule it out because they wouldn't notice) or perhaps an uncontrolled screaming rage at them (I ruled this out too because I am ill and cannot punch anyone), but instead at 2215 I go to the bathroom, making sure they heard me, waited 2 minutes, then came out again and said, "Please guys, can I go to bed? I am ill and I need sleep".

Stupid Flatmate: Hmm really?? [he frowns]

Me: Please [I beg]

Then I went into my room but I hear Stupid Flatmate grumble to Claudio (my walls are thin) and after faffing about for 10 minutes they leave.

Today I am still ill so I take a combination of ibuprofen (1200mg), vitamin C with Bioflavonoids (1500mg), and caffeine (100mg). Obviously this is in addition to my daily routine of propranolol hydrochloride (80mg) and escitalopram (now 10mg).

I have confined myself to my flat during the morning, and being bored as fuck, I log on to gaydar and manhunt, get bored, listen to Götterdämmerung, get depressed (as much as my anti-depressant will allow me), eat some Thorntons chocolates, feel guilty (because I cannot exercise when I'm ill) then go take a photo of myself to make sure that I can see bits of my abs.

So I go eat one more chocolate.

Then I decided I needed a shower, and whilst having this shower, I hear my computer making a sound indicating that a new email has arrived. I've been waiting for an email from this company for which I had interviewed last week, and suddenly this fear gripped me whilst hot water pours down on me. It was like a net just tightened around my chest and gripped my throat and things began to blur and I saw black and I closed my eyes really tight. And a thought flashed through my tortured mind, and this thought was that it would be nice if someone shot me right now through the head but then I realised that it was a suicidal thought and think perhaps the the anti-depressant isn't working, but suddenly those thoughts are gone and I get dressed and check my emails only to find out it was an email from Twitter.

....

I also decide that I want to infect Stupid Flatmate with my virus and solicited suggestions from Twitter. Most common was: cough on his toothbrush. So I did that. I also coughed on his keyboard and mouse and on his door handles and made sure some particles of saliva came out. I must mention that I was very pleased that some mucus came out when I was hard at work coughing on his door handles. Normally I'd be very disgusted at this but this time I smeared it liberally over his door handles and I know for certain that he will get infected. Or at least I hope so.

I wasn't sure if it would be better to cough up saliva or phlegm, so I texted my pharmacist friend: What's the best way to transfer the flu virus to someone? Perhaps via saliva or mucus? Which is more effective, and how long will a virus stay 'live'?

No reply yet.

Wednesday 06/5

Last week was spent in London, Birmingham, and Maidenhead.

I won't say much about what happened in London/Birmingham except that it's for a job interview. Also, I managed to meet have coffee with James from Twitter, and he is totally hot, and he was going to take me to XXL on Thursday but unfortunately he had things to do on a Friday morning.

On Thursday afternoon I decide to step into the sunlight at Old Bond Street and wondered the aisles of HMV. And for this trip I wear my ____ cream-coloured khakis, Fred Perry shoes (which also doubles up as my gym shoes), and a green American Eagle polo shirt. At HMV I ponder buying a CD but a smelly man next to me put me off so I decided to walk towards Grosvener Square.

For anyone who's not British (even those who are British) who's not heard of the Grosvenor family, they own most of Mayfair and Belgravia.

Anyway, I walk past the American Embassy and saw a man in a jogger's outfit strolling with giant headphones and smoking a cigar. How fucking classy is that?

I must add that at this point I felt a great need to take a piss but I was determined to hold it so that I can piss in the toilets at Harrods, a 15-minute walk away. I made this trip successfully and in the process I saw a lot of hot boys working in Harrods offering anyone who would stop a squirt of their perfume. Obviously I stopped for one particularly hot one (but the perfume was awful—it was something by Ferrari).

Then I bought a chicken escalope wrap and ate it at Hyde Park, making sure to position myself close to some hot builders.

Next I walked past the back of the Queen's house (sadly she wasn't there to invite me in) and popped into this amazing shop in Belgravia called the Chocolate Society. I think this is one of my top favourite shops. And I want to live in Belgravia. Everyone is so preppy much to my delight.

Other things which I did in London (not necessary in order):

• Met up with Si
• Went to that gay ____ ____ gym in Oxford Circus / Soho where Aussiebums were the required uniform.
• Went to A&F against my better judgement because they only hire perfect male specimens and they make you feel so inferior. But they were so hot. I thought of buying a shirt because I saw someone at a shitty club in Maidenhead wear an A&F shirt tucked into his tight jeans (more on this later) which I thought was so hot. So to emulate him I needed that shirt, but sadly it costs £70 and we all know that I am unemployed.
• Went to the Tate and was confronted with a huge expanse of emptiness and I liked it very much so I took a picture:

I'll write up the trip to Maidenhead tomorrow. I need to go to bed now because I have swine flu. [sad smiley]

Tuesday 05/5

First, I spent the whole week in London and soon I'll write up what happened there.

Anyway today I get back from London and I am greeted by this sight:

This is of course Stupid Flatmate's handiwork because I've been in London all week. I am not pleased to be back, but I am incapable of feeling sad / depressed so I guess it doesn't matter innit.

Oh, and the protein powder's mine.

Then I go to the gym and see Greek God and his rugby mate and I am happy again.

27/4 Monday

Yesterday was a boring day filled mainly with menial chores which we have to do in order to keep up the appearance of a sane and civilised existence. This centres mainly around doing laundry and emptying the bin and wiping down surfaces, etc. You get what I mean.

And during the night Kerry calls and says that she wants to go see a movie and I think, why not, I have fuck all to do anyway. We ended up watching State of Play which must be the most confusing movie known to mankind whilst Kerry feeds me chocolate which she had sneaked in to the cinema. Oh, and we also got student discounts.

Anyway today I am in London and I log on to MSN and see Stupid Flatmate on Xbox because Xbox signs you on automatically and tells the world that you are geeky/rich/sad enough to actually own an Xbox. It also tells everyone what you are doing on the Xbox. And Stupid Flatmate's status says: Xbox 360: FIFA 09 (Stupid Flatmate*) *where Stupid Flatemate would replace his real "gamer name". God I feel so dirty just saying, "gamer name".

I have written a lot about Stupid Flatmate and I suppose that everyone would want to know why he deserves that nickname.

Let's document what he does when he gets home from work.

• At 1830 he'll come in, goes to his room and turns on his computer.
• 1900 he will turn on the oven, then stick in a supermarket-branded pizza. He will buy the cheapest supermarket pizza he can find (no Taste the Difference for him, in fact, he does not even shop at Sainsbury's because he's such a parsimonious miser). To make himself feel better about eating such shit food he will put a couple of olives from a jar onto the pizza, sqeeze some anchovy paste (stolen from me), and then at the same time cook some oven chips. Yes, he eats pizza and chips almost every fucking day. It's amazing he's still managed to stay that thin.
• 1920 he will then sit in front of the TV, turn on his Xbox and choose a selection of "internet videos" to watch. This "internet video" is somewhat like a podcast, but it's very geeky and centres around the lives of geeks using computers and is fictional but the production quality is horrendously amateurish. Sometimes he puts on something decent like the Simpsons and I sit and watch it with him because I like to imagine that we are flatmates and we do what normal flatmates do including banter. Sadly I am deluding myself.
• He eats his oven chips with a curry sauce which costs 4p. I know, because I bought it too out of curiosity (I threw it out because it tastes exactly like it's worth 4p).
• 1945 he finishes his meal but instead of washing up, he'll leave it by the side of the sink despite the fact that we have a dishwasher. He will do the same the next day and the day after for about a week until he decides he has run out of plates or I tell him to clean it. Clearly putting dishes in a dishwasher is too much work for him even though he's not actually cooked anything and it's all ready meals. He will then go back to his room and mess around with his computer.
• 2030 his friend (our mutual friend, but he is closer to Stupid Flatmate) who lives in Block 1 will come over, and together they will play the Xbox, probably FIFA 09 (like they are at this moment I guess). He will also probably offer his friend a can of Stella but he won't offer me one which I think is fucking rude because I offer Stupid Flatmate food/drinks when my friends come over to eat.
• Stupid Flatmate and his friend will play football till late. I like to go to bed by 2200 because Stupid Flatmate has to wake up at 0600 and I need 8 hours sleep whereas Stupid Flatmate doesn't. When I tell Stupid Flatmate that I have to go to bed and if he would mind either turning the volume down or asking his friend to leave, Stupid Flatmate will sulk and not speak to me the next day. He'll also argue and say that 2200 is too early to go to bed. Admittedly it is true, but then I say to him that 0600 is way too early to wake up. *I must explain that the walls are really thin in my flat. I can hear him toss and turn in bed. Stupid Flatmate once even dared to tell me to take sleeping pills so that I can sleep whilst he plays his stupid Xbox.

When I told my friends this, they couldn't believe it. As one friend put it, "He wants you to drug yourself so that he can play his video games!?".

Anyway, we continue:

• So he will keep playing until 0000 unless I really make a scene (and I hate making a scene) and his friend will leave because it is a school night and his friend wakes up at 0800 unlike me. Stupid Flatmate will then go back into his room and then watch another video. I know, because I can hear him laughing to himself quite loudly. He'll carry on till 0200 and fall asleep with the lights on and video still playing.
• At 0600 his alarm will start to beep. He is such a heavy sleeper that sometimes he sleeps through this first alarm, and it goes silent after 1 minute. Naturally this alarm wakes me up from the very first beep.
• At 0610 his second alarm will start beeping. This is when he'll probably turn it off. Then go back to sleep.
• At 0620 his third alarm will go off, and he'll turn it off and go back to bed.
• At 0630 his fourth alarm, this time on his mobile phone, will go off. He gets up for real, goes for a piss (I mentioned that my walls are really thin?) and then comes out letting his room door bang shut.
• So from 0600 till 0700 (which is when he leaves) I am kept awake by him being noisy. Any sane person would have gone crazy by now, and to suggest that I go back to bed at 0700 is just crazy because it is impossible. Anyway I like to wake up at 0700 because it's an appropriate time to start the day.

You might notice that I omitted the part about him having a shower. That's because he doesn't. In the nine months I have lived with him, I don't think I have ever heard him have a shower. I have, however, heard him spray lynx deodorant. He is really smelly and rumour has it that he doesn't shower because of his eczema which I think is totally stupid.

Once a friend came by and she poked her head round his room because I did mention that he stinks and she agreed and said, "His room smells like someone who's not washed for days". Her words, not mine.

He is made extra smelly by his clothes. See, he washes them at 0˚C because he is, again, such a cheapskate that he's not willing to pay for that extra bit of electricity to heat the washer's water up to 30˚C for clean clothes. His clothes smell of stale sweat and damp. When he hangs his clothes out to dry in the living room, the whole flat smells terrible and I frequently feel like retching.

He never does housework either. OK maybe just taking out the rubbish once a week but that's about it. I do all the cleaning and scrubbing and vacuuming and I have asked him if he would help, but I got a very non-committal "OK'.

It feels like I'm living with a 15 year-old teenager whom I have to constantly nag and I hate nagging at Stupid Flatmate to do things because he's a fucking adult (23 years old).

I feel I've devoted too long a post to him. I may continue discussing his disgustingness in a different post, but I feel that this has gone on long enough for today.

Saturday 25/4

Tim came up from Halifax to see my flat because we're thinking of getting a similar one at a different block. See, Tim's my new flatmate and he seems like a decent guy and I met him on Gumtree. I had originally planned to ask Tim to move in with me in my current flat, but because Dandara are pricks they've initially claimed that I wasn't allowed to do that because of the way my contract's been drawn up with them. This means that when Stupid Flatmate moves out, I'll have to move out too. Now Dandara says that they will let me stay at my current flat but they want to increase the rent by £50/month. They can very well stick it up their arses.

So I have asked/begged Stupid Flatmate if he would reconsider and perhaps give me a bit more time (because I have two interviews) and if he could delay his move by one month. All he could say was, "No, because it would be inconvenient for me". Fine then. I shall remember that. I'm like an elephant, I never forget anyone who crosses me especially if done on purpose.

After many agonising hours of pouring over our options, we finally settled upon a flat in the same development as I am living at currently, but it's a slightly smaller flat. I'm paying £312, and obviously for someone unemployed it is a lot of money plus the deposit is a killer.

Tim and I had to go speak to the Lady Boss of this estate company. Barbara (that's because she strikes me as someone who would have the name Barbara, but I don't know her name really) is your typical rich snooty old lady who smiles at you because she wants your money but exudes an almost intangible aura of superiority. If ever I was to become an old lady, I want to be like Barbara.

This is what we know about Barbara:

• She has a house in France
• She hates the French
• She does not usually work on Saturdays and made sure we were aware of this just in case we decide to be ungrateful for the hard work she's putting in for us despite us paying her to do so.

Barbara said, "It will be £150 for securing the flat and £150 for our agent's fee". Knowing that agents do fuck all, I said, "Jamie (my estate agent) said you're doing a special promotion, where it's now £100 for the agent's fee". She looked at me incredulously. "£100 eh? Well that will have to come out of his commission".

I win.

Because of all the stress and now I'm even more worried that I don't have enough money to pay for an advance (1 month's rent) and that I have two interviews coming up, I forgot to take my Cipralex, omeprazole, and propranolol hydrochloride (beta blockers) and as a result I have become a nervous wreck today.

Then during the night I met up with Graeme and we go play at Dukes and I have 1 Corona and 1 Peroni and he has 2 Coronas. For this I wear my Fred Perry t-shirt which sadly has faded slightly due to my over-use.

Graeme has just returned from an epic 2-week trip to Thailand and he regaled colourful tales of debauchery and visits to brothels though he swore that he did not have sex with any prostitutes. I believe him. This got me thinking, perhaps I ought to sell myself for sex. I have a problem paying for sex because I think it's wrong and if you can get it for free, why buy it? But obviously I am unemployed and perhaps it will be a good way of making some money because:

• Zero capital
• Instant gratification
• No taxes
• I may even enjoy it

What's not to like about it then?

Thursday 23/4

Let's analyse a few items which arrived in the post for me the day before.

The first was a card from Sam's parents. They've written, "We hope that life is looking a little brighter for you". I cried a bit when I read that, because they've been like parents to me in place of my real ones, and I've not got a card from my real parents. Mind, my real parents do support me financially, but I guess it's nice once in a while to actually get a card from them.

Next is a present from Sam himself. Sam's one of my bestest friends, although I've not come out to him because he's a Christian, and Christians hate people like me. Anyway, he gave me two tickets to the Hallé which is brilliant. This particular concert features Howard Shelley and I think I might have heard of him which is always a good sign. Sam's also spent quite a lot of money on these tickets because the value was printed on the tickets—like I've mentioned, he's one of my bestest friends!

Then I got a surprise gift from Andrew from Twitter. Now I must add that I've not even met Andrew, yet he's willing to spend money on me and send me a gift (which I've listed on my Amazon gift list and linked it to Twitter. I've linked it as a joke and hadn't really expected anyone to fulfill my wants on my list!). I am genuinely touch, so thank you, Andrew.

In this gift, which is a book called "How to make {almost} everything", there is a section titled "how to break through your own glass ceiling" and I think this section is very apt for me and I shall read it very carefully.

And on this day which is also St George's Day (the significance is not lost on me as I live at St George's Island) and also Shakespeare's birthday and deathday I decided to try and complete a job application. Obviously it did not go well or I would have written about it here. This endeavour, however, was interrupted by a call from my grandmother and she wished me happy birthday and I miss her a lot. My mum came on the phone after that and just said, "happy birthday" and hung up without saying anything else. I felt like crying.

Anyway I forget all this and had flat viewings. This is where it got interesting because the estate agent was a really fit blond guy and I definitely felt some sort of tension between us. He "accidentally" brushed and held my hand whilst reading a brochure which I was holding at that time. I had visions of me pushing him onto the bed and shagging him in those flats, but I restrained myself and decided to be a good boy for once.

Then it was time for the gym where I did triceps. I like doing triceps because you can get away with using just one machine for it, and on this occasion, the machine of choice is the cable machine.

And at night a couple of good friends and I went for dinner at Carluccio's, a decent Italian restaurant.

• I had Risotto pollo con limone
• Sherv and Jess had Pasta with Aubergine and Mozzarella
• Kerry and Tim had Pasta with Sausage Meat Sauce
• Monica had Lasagna
• Liv had the Penne Giardiniera
• I forgot what Michael had, but I suppose it doesn't matter

The eight of us had a jolly old time, and I had a birthday cake (chocolate, I ate 1/8th) and I was given a packet of Thornton's chocolates (bye bye abs), a block of duck fois gras (yay) and a bottle of M&S 2006 Lurton La Chapelle. Though the wine was from M&S and seems very middle class, I shall not fault them because I suppose it was given with the best of intentions and not everyone knows how to shop at Nicolas for good French wines.

And when I returned I made a mental note not to give the Stupid Flatmate birthday presents next year because I did give him a bottle of 2005 Bordeaux and bought him a nice birthday card which cost me £2 but he's not even wished me a happy birthday.

Tired from the day's adventures, I take 2 sleeping pills and fall into a nice long sleep.

Wednesday 22/04

I had my second doctor's appointment today at 1050, so I thought I would try and be good and get some gym time done before that. I had a sleepless night, but nonetheless had to wake up at 0600 because of Stupid Flatmate again. I ended up in the gym at 0900.

And at the gym I did just biceps because I like to work my muscles till they are sore. This routine involved:

• Preacher curls (15kg each)
• Dumbbell curls (16kg each)
• Cable curls (40kg)
• Reverse cable curls (35kg)
• 21s (20kg)

Fearing I'd be late I left the gym at 1020 and made it in time for the doctors.

At the doctors, I saw this cute guy, but obviously so troubled because he looked worried. Perhaps he caught an STD whilst shagging this chick the night before. But I'd still do him, he was fit.

Anyway the doctor was quite chirpy and—this is controversial—slightly patronising. “How are we doing today?”, she chirped. “Not so well”, I replied.

That's true, I'm not feeling that upbeat. It's my birthday tomorrow, and I'm getting depressed that I've still not got a job. I've just spotted someone wearing a suit as I'm typing this, and we all know how that makes me feel. I want to wear a suit. I want to be in a job where you'd have to wear suits. I want to earn some money whilst wearing a suit. Perhaps a suit, to me, is like a shell, a shell of respectability and I want to command that respect. But at the moment I am nothing.

As a result of that visit I am now taking 5mg Cipralex [escitalopram] (instead of 10mg previously because of side-effects), 20mg omeprazole (for the side-effects), and Phenergan [promethazine] 20mg (for my insomnia).

When I got home from the day's adventures which consisted of the usual gym and the doctor's appointment and also viewing some flats and seeing an old mate for some volunteer work, I found a birthday card from Sam's parents, Sam's present (2 tickets to see the Hallé), and a note from the concierge saying that there's a package waiting for me. Curious, I went and got it and opened it and to my utter amazement, it was from @tappmeister, a friend from Twitter (if you're reading this, many thanks! You made my little heart happy there).

Then I start to prepare dinner, but my flatmate comes back and I lose my appetite and leave the chicken sitting on the kitchen top. Is it happy there? Who the fuck knows.

Hopefully I can sleep tonight.

18/4 Good Day

Yesterday was a Good Day, where I managed to stay asleep for more than 6 hours, spent 3 hours at the gym, and went clubbing on Canal Street (more on this later).

And for the gym, I decided to try out something which I had never dared wear: a vest. Only fit people wear vests at gyms, and as I was previously a fat kid, I had never adjusted to the fact that I am no longer fat, and showing off some hard muscles might be an acceptable thing for me to do.

And with this vest I wore: a navy blue nike shorts, white socks, and a pair of Fred Perry trainers. I looked frickin ace and decided to do my shoulders, triceps, and abs.

There was this guy there who, for the lack of a proper term, shall be described as a Greek god. He is so well-proportioned, short blond hair, and amazingly well-muscled body. He plays rugby too. He is, however, not Greek but Irish, but I love his accent anyway. I thought I would just like to mention him because it’s likely that he will get mentioned again as I am obsessed with him.

And in the evening, I went over to Piccadilly Gardens to meet a friend which I’ve not seen in over a year. He wanted to see me to talk things over—he’s both a pharmacist and has experienced depression in the past—and thought I could do with conversation. But because Cipralex is so effective, I was feeling jovial and care-free and decided we should go for drinks of the alcoholic variety, and he got his boyfriend to come along. Obviously we went over to Canal Street (the gay epicentre of Manchester) and ended up in a bar called Company where it is mainly populated by fat older men (called bears, apparently) and there was a sign which I liked very much. And this sign said: Do not feed the bears.

For once I enjoyed being the hottest guy in the room, and it’s not often that I get to feel that. They played really good music and I danced and danced without a care in the world, whilst being mentally undressed by the unyielding stares of those bears around me.

Later we moved on to a few different clubs, but nothing special happened, except that I saw a fit muscular guy, but I did not make a move because I'm shy like that.

17/04

Today I woke up at 0610 because the flatmate has his alarm set to this time and this is frustrating because he sleeps through it and it goes off again in about 10 minutes.

I had a sleepless night—despite being tired and having taken sleeping pills—because I had stomach cramps and I kept waking up dreaming I had emails arriving through the night (in fact, I did, and it was my phone's email alerts that kept waking me up).

Then at 1100 I had my appointment with a psychologist near Manchester University. It’s ironic that just two years ago, as I walked past this psychology building with my then-flatmate, he pointed to the building and laughed and said, “That place is for psychos” and I am ashamed to admit that I laughed along. We know who’s really laughing now. No one.

I told the psychologist that a good day to die would be on my birthday. And this event comes up on 23rd April. I am determined not to celebrate it. Incidentally, it was also Shakespeare's birthday and deathday, and I enjoy telling people that he died on his birthday, and if there was a good day to die, this would be a Very Good Day indeed.

Feeling tired after my appointment, I headed back into town and got myself a carefully-chosen Mexican Chicken sandwich (because it has one of the lowest calories amongst sandwiches on display) but then decided to reward myself with an original glazed Krispy Kreme (£1.20—daylight robbery by any other name) and the fat cow behind the counter tried to tempt me to spend more money and to put on more weight by telling me that I get a free scratchcard if I buy 2 doughnuts instead. What utter shit.

Now it is the afternoon and I have done nothing useful the entire day. I have so much to do:

1. Get a new flatmate
2. Get a new flat
3. Beg parents to let me stay
4. Get a fucking job

But as it is with my condition, these four things are causing me so much anxiety and angst and I am avoiding them because it will just make me worse.

Typing about my problems and being open about my experience has indeed helped me, but has also helped open a can of worms. I have had a couple of people and friends coming up to me and disclosing that they too suffer from some form of depression/anxiety and are taking anti-depressants. I suppose my honesty about it has encouraged them to be open about it too, but it has destroyed whatever innocence we've had between us. It's almost like having sex with a friend: you'll never be able to go back to that same level of friendship once you've slept with a friend. Nonetheless, I'm glad that I'm not the only one who's going through this and I am not weird because lots of people go through the same things too.

Anyway I should be off to the gym despite feeling really sleepy (must be that Krispy Kreme-induced insulin spike). Today is chest day. I want a chest like his:

My ideal chest workout (I say ideal because I get really tired and sore after doing 80% of the workouts) is:

• Bench press
• Dumbbell flat presses and flys
• Incline dumbbell presses and flys
• Decline dumbbell presses and flys
• Cable flys

And here's mine. You can see I've got a long way to go.

That is all.

Oh, and this song:

And now that I have been prescribed Cipralex, I can look forward to a massive accumulation of seratonin in my brain. Today has been much better after the horror of the past two days, but being depressed is hard work indeed. I am knackered, and am ready for bed.

At 1644 I texted my pharmacist friend, M, and the text said, “Cipralex 10mg. Any good?”. I did not get a reply. Perhaps she’s depressed that I managed to get Cipralex and she can’t despite working as a pharmacist.

Today at the gym I did back and biceps, and I felt good doing this because most people neglect doing their backs. That’s the secret to a nice V-shaped torso and big shoulders. As expected, the post-5pm crowd is hogging the weights and machines, but seeing a couple of fitties made it worth it.

The exercises I did: wide-grip pull-up, chin up, reverse flys (56kg), single arm rows (50kg), barbell curls (28kg), reverse grip bicep curls (20kg), bicep curls (16kg), and after that I couldn’t be bothered to fight for the weights so I ran for 30 minutes whilst watching the Simpsons.

I must admit that seeing people in sharp suits made me depressed again. I am a fan of crisp white shirts with a soft silk tie and a tailored dark suit—if only I had somewhere to wear it!

Anyway, back to the gym. There’s this guy who was in the lockers and he was without a shirt. I could tell he was very fit because:

1. He was bending over to put on some socks, and if one has fat around the stomach area, you’d see it all bunch up. He had none.
2. His triceps were amazing. They bulged even when putting on a sock.
3. He had the most amazing chest.

Sadly I’m not allowed to take photographs or the gym might throw me out, risking agitating the troublesome condition which I have that is depression.

I’ve been told I need some photos of myself. Here’s my right bicep (apologies for the poor angle and quality—it was taken on my iPhone).

Whispy

I mentioned my depression is like a black cloud. Have I also mentioned that it is also whispy like a cloud—it comes and goes.

I ran for 1 mile and was on the cross-trainer for another. I felt good.

Now I’m on the bench and I see another fit bloke and that’s put me back into black cloud territory because I will never be as fit as he is.

I am being inspired by this music video. Skip the introduction.

Paris is Burning

I have attempted to rectify all that is wrong with my life. Here they are:

1. Saw the Crisis Support at the Manchester Royal Infirmary, and they are brilliant because they are going to speak to my doctor and get me anti-depressants.
2. Spoke to Sam at the _________ and he’s trying to get me a job and hopefully somewhere to stay
3. Spoke to Dandara Lettings (my lettings agent) and, well here’s the bad news: Once my flatmate moves out, I will have to move out. This is because of the way my contract’s been arranged. It’s a total setback, and has destroyed whatever optimism I had since speaking to Crisis Support this morning. I have 1 month to find a new flat and new flatmates.
4. I have also reached a new low in my life: I have gone back to Tesco to ask for a job. I worked for Tesco in my first year at uni and hated it so much that I’ve vowed never to go back, but things are so desperate that I have spoken to them and I hate myself so much now.
5. I found vacancies at a bank (hah!) but I have to get out of this cloud of depression before I can bring myself to do anything useful. Churchill called it his ‘black dog’. I call it my Black Cloud. It’s this cloud that surrounds me, blocks out all light, and sucks out the joy in me.

I hope I can get through today. It has been a long day, much longer than yesterday.

Pas Mange

I have not eaten for over 24 hours.

I feel weak. My stomach hurts a little but the pain in my head hurts more.

I cannot bear to put food in my mouth.

I Fucking Hate My Life

I had a complete breakdown yesterday. I felt like running away from everything—from family, from friends, from responsibilities—in short, from life itself.

I spoke to my flatmate about it late last night because, as I see it, he is partly the cause of what I was experiencing. I told him I wasn’t expecting a reaction but I secretly was. I was hoping that he would at least express some form of regret or even a glimmer of recognition that his actions has caused me such grief.

But all I got from him was a pursing of the lips, a hardening of the eyes, and a stony expression. I have seen this reaction before: he does it when I tell him that playing video games at 1am is unacceptable and that I need to sleep; he does it when I ask him for help cleaning the flat; and he does it when I ask if he could do me a favour and take me grocery shopping.

I suppose him leaving is a good thing, but his leaving is breaking up a lot of structures which I had so carefully put in place. It’s a bit like removing structural support from a building before it is completed. My building would be my career, I am building support to achieve that dream of landing a graduate job, but with him leaving, I will have to either move in with a stranger (which is causing me great anxiety) or move into a flat on my own (which I cannot afford). He has only left me 5 days to find someone to move in with me, and at the moment the search is not going well. I have asked if he could change his mind and extend his stay for another month to give me more time, and he’s said “no” simply because it is inconvenient for him. I should not expect anything less from him, really, because throughout our stay together in the flat, he has been nothing short of an inconsiderate and selfish little prick.

To make matters worse, I cannot get even a temporary job because I apparently “lack experience”.

So I decided to call my parents because I felt I needed to talk to someone. I did not get the support I expected—instead I was told to pack it all and return to Malaysia. I felt that that was the final nail on the coffin in which my dreams lie. I heard the pall of the bells of doom, and then something in my brain just snapped. I hung up, cried a little, bought a print cartridge from staples, and wondered around town aimlessly with red eyes. I finally made it back to my flat, but now the flat just reminds me of the flatmate and everything that is happening to me. I began sobbing, wishing it would all end, wishing that I did not have to struggle with depression and anxiety, and came to the realisation that I have no more strength—both mentally and physically—to cope with this. I cried for 2 hours.

Then I turned on the Simpsons but did not find it funny. The flatmate came back in the midst of it but there were no pleasantries exchanged (this was before we had that conversation above). I felt I couldn’t remain the flat any longer, and decided to take a long walk. That calmed me down a bit, and I saw a very good friend who talked me into not killing myself.

Yes I hate my life so much that I want to end it. This depression and anxiety is gnawing at my soul, corrupting it of innocence and removing any ounce of happiness. I don’t find happiness in Spring, in the sun, in the gentle breeze or even in the sound of children laughing. I look at children forlornly and can only gaze enviously at the life I will never have, wishing I was a child again and was able to choose a different path in life, one which will not eventually lead to self-loathing and self-destruction.