Tonight I spent hours writing a 1,000-word story about things to do on the Irish Loop, only to get to the formatting stage to realize that I’ve written the exact same post back in August. Like, word for word.
Because it’s really fucking hard to write anything about travelling when you’re not travelling.
And sure, this blog is meant to have a more lifestyle approach to it these days, but I actually don’t have much of a life either.
I went on a Tinder date last night and thoroughly enjoyed myself, although according to my past experiences there’s about a 10% chance I’ll hear from him again. It would be really nice to have an activity partner but I do not seem to suit the standard conventions of men in this city. And this is not an invitation to my readers to ask me out on a date. Please don’t.
Then I went to a dinner on Wednesday night and drank a bottle of wine to deal with the 800-word story about Hard Rock I spontaneously took on because I really, really, really need money to undo all the idiotic damage I did to my finances while living in Europe.
So that’s my life.
My friends don’t seem to want to do much anymore but last week a few of us had tickets to go see Wintersleep in concert, and not having had a social life for most of January, I took things to the extreme. I woke up with a fry in my purse.
Those binge nights out are expensive as heck, by the way. I don’t recommend it. It’s a vicious cycle. Work myself to death to make money to pay off credit cards, stress out so much that I blow all my money on a big night out, and repeat.
So, that blog post. The suffocating rage that overcame me when I realized my folly nearly tipped me over the edge, screaming. Because I could have been reviewing the new films submitted for the festival, or working on the copy for my friend’s new website, or writing my BBC piece, or pitching CBC Arts some new ideas.
Instead, I wasted precious hours on that fucking useless blog post.
And I’ve gotten really good at managing my time and stress, until things go off the rails, as they do. I haven’t been to the gym all week because of other commitments. I go at least five days a week to keep sane, but not this week, so I reacted to my stress by walking to the corner store in my pyjamas and buying a tin of Pepsi, a bag of Doritos, and a Wunderbar.
Not even a fucking Crunchie bar (my fave), but a Wunderbar.
I have this big empty Trello board opened on one of my browser tabs that just keeps taunting me. I drop story ideas into the board normally, but for weeks now there’s been…nothing. A few ideas that I’m not particularly passionate enough to write about.
So tonight, after the bubbling rage slightly subsided. Tonight I traded my hot pink fleece pyjama pants for a more subtle, downplayed red pair of pyjama pants to go to the corner store, and miraculously the guy at the cash hasn’t started judging me yet, although I’ve already been there twice in the past week for beer and chips and chocolate. I always hope that the other people in the store aren’t ogling my purchases as I slide another Wunderbar into a plastic bag because MY NIGHTS ARE SO WILD NOW YOU GUYS.
And then I walked home taking deep gulps of cold wintry air trying to centre myself with those breathing exercises I learned in my 30-day yoga challenge group — the one I quit halfway through because I DO NOT HAVE ENOUGH TIME.
I have written a lot of posts lately about how I’ve gotten my shit together and I’m really happy right now and it’s all true. But then I go through periods like this where I’m one bad day away from setting fire to my hair and running away to Lithuania with a hippie named Lennon.
Nobody has their shit together.
Especially not me.
And if there’s an editor out there who wants my polished piece on the Irish Loop, please do let me know. I’m tired and I need more beer money.