Same dream again. Dunno what to do. Getting silly now.
Maybe if I have a Twix for breakfast, the problem will be solved. At least I’ll be happy while I’m eating the Twix. All that matters is the present anyway.
Who knows, I could die in the next 5 minutes. Then I’ll be well gutted I didn’t have a Twix. I’ll be in the afterlife trying to get into Heaven, and God will be like, “Mate, I was honestly gonna let you in until just then when you denied yourself a Twix. Proper lost respect for you. Can’t be dealing with people like that.” Then I’ll go to Hell and it’ll be fucking boiling so I’ll have to take my jumper off, which isn’t ideal because I’m really insecure about my skinny arms and all the hot babes are in Hell as well and they’ll all laugh at me. The Devil will come along and give me a Twix and I’ll think, “maybe this isn’t so bad” but on closer inspection I’ll realise it’s one of those Aldi imitations of a Twix. I’ll then cry for eternity.
5 minutes later, I’ve eaten a Twix, and I’m still alive. Back to square one.
Every morning is like this now, except sometimes it’s a Dairy Milk. I keep dreaming about this girl who rejected me. We’re sat opposite each other and suddenly we start kissing, really passionately. Like properly going for it. Her lips feel so real, and we can’t seem to separate ourselves; it’s like our mouths are two magnets that really fancy each other.
She loves me, finally she loves me. Everything I’ve ever wanted.
Then, without fail, a D-list celebrity will walk in and say, “time’s up now, lover-boy” and I’ll wake up.
Last night Paul Danan of late-nineties and early-noughties Hollyoaks fame did the honours. As soon as I recognised his barely-recognisable face, I knew it was over.
Those first few seconds when I wake up and discover the version of her that loves me isn’t real are unbearable. It’s such a horrible realisation – it’s like when you first find out Santa Claus or tax for rich people doesn’t exist.
Now I’m staring into my cup of tea. Reality is awful. I wish I could live in my dream-world. There I’m the man I wanna be: handsome and good at kissing. Things work out. There’s no war or famine; no Brexit or Trump; no rejection. There’re still rising sea levels, but in my dreams I’m well good at swimming and also I can breathe under water and me and the girl kiss while an octupus watches intently which is kinda weird but we also kinda like it.
In the real-world, it’s different. Reality doesn’t bend towards the narratives you’ve created in your head, no matter how much you dwell on them. Instead, there’s pain, and people let you down; you have to go through things that cripple you emotionally. Then you look in the mirror every morning and hate your stupid face for being so stupid and ugly.
And no one really cares. Because why would they? They’ve got their own ugly faces and unfulfilled dreams to stress about.
Meanwhile Trump is running amok – doing more mad-bastard shit every single day, somehow absorbing every scandal thrown at him. His twitter feed isn’t even funny anymore, it’s like a sitcom that’s run out of steam. Similar to that terrible final season of Scrubs where they brought in like 140 new characters that everybody hated.
And I dunno what I’m gonna do about the rising sea levels, because I can’t swim in the real-world and armbands look really silly when you’re 21.
I sit wishing the day away so I can go back to sleep and dream again.
I wake up the next morning. Same dream again, this time Nick Knowles from DIY SOS brought me back into reality.
Feeling overwhelmed, and once again convincing myself that I might die soon anyway, I have a Twix. I used the same reasoning as before about being punished in the afterlife for not having one. Maybe there is no God though – or Devil handing out knock-off chocolate bars.
Maybe it’s better than that. Maybe when you die it’s like your dreams, and you and the girl you fancy just kiss forever, occasionally reincarnating as like a rabbit or something, before dying again and going back to the smooching.
Either way mate, the Twix didn’t help.
Another empty day of nothing to look forward to.
The idea that this world can be the way we want it to be is laughable. There are so many things beyond our control that it seems delusional to think our dream-world can converge with the real-world.
But some people – powerful people –can bend reality. Despite his obvious incompetence, Trump convinced people he could be president. Bono told us he was a good guy while simultaneously avoiding millions in tax. The Tories tell us they’re the party of financial stability, despite the fact that the economic problems we face are more pronounced than the word “cunt” when Boris Johnson is seen in public.
These people take their delusions and they stamp them onto the world. They convince themselves that the things in their head are true, and bombard us with their bullshit until we believe it too.
And so much of our lives are just these lies, these preferable stories: history lessons of Britain’s “greatness” replace a past of colonialism and white-supremacy – and the fact that the whole operation is managed by an evil lizard-elite.*
I have to live in a world of other people’s fantasies, while my own are completely out of reach. But then, maybe I could learn something from this lizardy, tax-avoiding, Beautiful Day-singing elite. I tell myself that life is bad because I don’t look right and I’m not rich or powerful. But they’re just excuses. And excuses are like arseholes – everyone’s got one and poo comes out of them and also sometimes blood and oh God I should really get that checked out.
But if I try hard enough, stay positive, and lie to myself loads, then I can be like Bono too. I need to see existence as a dream come true. Because maybe when you die nothing happens. No God. No eternal smooching and reincarnation. It’s just over. And I’ll have wasted my one life being a miserable fuck. I can’t let that happen.
I can’t ignore the people who do care about me just because their love doesn’t fit in with the narrative of misery I’ve grown attached to.
So what if dream-girl doesn’t want to be with me? The idea that romantic love can save us is just another fiction, peddled by the capitalist elite to sell jewellery and DFS sofas and love-heart sweets. I don’t need anyone else – I’m already complete.
I might as well message this Tinder-girl though tbf.
An hour later, we’ve been messaging back and forth and our chemistry is electric. I ask her if she wants to go for a drink and holy shit she says she’s free tonight.
We’re in Weatherspoon’s and the conversation is even better than the Tinder messages. I tell her that I’ve been thinking a lot about Trump and tax-avoidance and what happens when you die and she says she likes those topics too. She says if she’s reincarnated she’d want to come back as a dog that gets bought by Trump so she could shit all over the Oval Office. I laugh and say that’s well funny and then there’s a pause and our faces move closer together.
Just as we’re about to kiss, out of the corner of my eye I see Preston from The Ordinary Boys** walk in to the pub.
I sigh. I should have known this was just a dream. Dejected, I stare at his D-list face and wait to be woken up.
…but he walks straight past.
“Is that Preston from The Ordinary Boys,” the girl says.
“Yeah… I’m pretty sure that’s him,” I say.
“I wonder if he’s still with Chant—”
I lean in. We’re kissing. Everything is magical. A dream come true.
I don’t care what happens when you die anymore – her lips taste so good.
Like a Twix.
Anyway, that’s about it.
Cya x
*Since I started this blog over 2 years ago, I have received dozens of messages asking me where I stand on the issue of whether the Queen is a lizard. Today is the day I finally break my silence.
**Perhaps better known for being one half of the Celebrity Big Brother super-couple “Chantelle and Preston”.
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