Sometimes, I look at myself and think “fucking hell, you are utterly ridiculous.”
Despite my predisposition to completely overthink every aspect of my life, I don’t think I am exaggerating when I say I do genuinely manage to stumble through life in the most chaotic way possible.
Take a recent example: rather than asking a gentlemen if he wanted to go for a drink sometime, I engineered a situation in which I would be in the area to make it all the more convenient. You know, rather than going out on a limb and just asking. The night before this meet up, I got completely ratarsed and stranded in east London, miles away from the destination of said drinks, which in turn was a place I genuinely had no other reason to be at.
Rather cleverly, I managed to repeat this again this weekend, which involved me sending very drunken texts, arranging an impromptu meeting and subsequently passing out with inordinate amounts of rum imbibed to combat my nervousness. I wake up with a hangover that would slay a dinosaur and approximately 45 minutes to make myself presentable. Not an enviable task, I assure you.
It turned out to be a pretty interesting day as it goes, but for some reason I do tend to make my life incredibly difficult, for no real reason.
However, it does mean that most aspects of my life make for great anecdotes – my love life in particular. I ought to chronicle them, pass them down the generations. My kids can look back and have a glimpse into the life of their complete buffoon of a mother.
Still, by most of my friends reckoning, I don’t think they’d have me any other way.