I'm a loser, baby.

Do you ever think, fuck, I did not expect my life to turn out this way?

Sometimes things work out differently than planned, but you make it work. Like when you have an accidental baby or have sex with your brother’s best friend. Unless you own a crystal ball, you don’t know a) how life will pan out and b) how you tweak things to make it better. Sadly, there’s more chance finding crystal meth than a crystal ball. Meth isn’t such a big deal this side of the pond (the UK), so it’s safe to say, I won’t be preempting my fuck ups anytime soon.

Have you heard of positive affirmations?

Sure you have, this is the age of information overload, but if you haven’t, it’s the practice of saying nice things to yourself. Posh white women like doing this. Across the world, middle-class females declare “I am enough” while working through a 10-step skincare regimen. I do the opposite of that. I negatively affirm as I wash my face with soap—and I don’t mean ‘beauty’ soap, I’m talking about Shield or Imperial Leather (yeah, the stuff that peels your skin off). I’m not consciously saying bad things, this isn’t some self-harm mindfulness. But I do catch myself singing the line “I’m a loser, baby”—not because I’m a Beck fan but because I feel like a loser a lot of the time.

(And now you’re upset coz I’m not a Beck fan. Thing is, I missed the Music for Cool People memo. When everyone else went full throttle 90s indie, I continued to listen to 60s pop. What can I say, I’m fucking odd.)

Calling myself a loser might be too strong a word. I sometimes confuse loserdom with dorkiness. I think I’m mostly being a dork—but not a funny, cutesy dork, the kind of dork who doesn’t know how to return a parcel to the post office. I rarely integrate with society, so I have no clue how we’re doing in-person communication now. But it seems to happen subliminally. I wait at the cashier’s desk for further instructions, but no one speaks. There’s not a flicker of recognition or a ‘thank you very much’—code for ‘you can fuck off now’. Cashiers assume I know how things work—I do NOT know how things work. I have the unenviable gift of being incredibly self-possessed and awkward as fuck.