Album: The Youtube stream, Lo-Fi Hip Hop Songs to Revise/Study to.
Food: A whole bag of Thai Sweet Chilli Sensations.
Sending over the work I’m about to publish on the fucking internet for one person to proofread I feel as if I might be sick. I can be anyone I want in a space I’ve created and oddly, I’ve chosen to be myself. Michael McIntyre, a man who must disappoint even himself with his level of mass appeal, once quipped that on Google Earth, (a once marvel concept, a lost internet relic, an over animated app where one could look at any location in the world), everyone always chose to look at their own fucking house. Well here I am. Looking at my own house. I write about nothing, I write about everything, I scribble every thought that meanders its way through my vapid brain slow enough that I can process it. I write in the style of whatever I’ve read that day, I take on the voice of my surroundings with putty-like ease, sticking until something else comes along to mould me. And it’s enjoyable. A crisis of sense of self is thoroughly ridiculous when you’ve read enough Butler. Socialise me! Fuck me up with your own insecurities, make me hilarious with your jokes and impassion me with your opinions.
Private banalities made public. An investigation of the self through repeated action, through writing as performance, through observation, through lack of observation, through unadulterated outpouring, through a love affair with Dee Heddon and Maggie Nelson and a careful love/hate balancing act with the skin I try to live in.
I will mark time with its two universal distinguishers. Food and music. Food has, and will always be, my single greatest pleasure in life. Music requires a higher word count than I’m willing to give at this moment. Let me say for now that as much as I love music, I love the sounds that exist without it.
The dates might be made up. As may the names, as may the places, as may be every single event I decide to record. Or they might all be true. The concept of truth is as useless as time: relevant only in the exact moment of experience then lost forever in our personal mess of perception.
Of course, I’m masking a vanity project in research. The book I write about self-discovery will be as interesting and as widely read as an 800 word blog post about crumpets. Or is my modesty all part of the performance?
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