Don't let the voices get to you

I feel as if I need to justify this blog.

I have to because most bloggers are self-involved assholes who like to put up photos of angry looking mudcakes they've recently baked or dumb pictures of unwearable paper mache clothes made purely out of soy beans. The problem is that I can’t cook and I don’t know how to wear clothes. In a Shakespearian tale, baking would be my literary downfall and protesting pants would be my primary character motive.

Hence the need to justify this blog (with graphs!).

I’ll be frank; I have a pretty fucking mundane life. A metaphor for my life would be the waiting room of an STD clinic that consists only of books entitled: 'the history of grass growing' as distraction material. In other words: uneventful, mildly disconcerting and with a healthy dose of anxiety that you might be HIV positive. Here’s a venn diagram of what makes up majority of my time:

The thing is that most people’s daily lives are pretty banal if you really think about it. Most of us glorify the 1%. The 1% being that one time something amazing happened to you – like that one time I threw accidentally threw a duck at my dad. As a result people are lulled into a false sense of perception that your life is thrilling, glad-wrapped in glory, glamour and g-strings, where you spend most of your time throwing ducks at your dad. Add the lights and cameras of advertising, nonstop social network, James Deen being a pretty decent writer/blogger and you’ve essentially created a generation of people thinking their lives are remarkably unremarkable comparatively.

That’s not the case though.

I am here to break that myth. The difference between me and most people is that I have an overbearing need to share the entirety of my life.

The thing is that there hits a point where people stop giving a shit about what you want to share. If you’ve ever witnessed a cold distant semi-translucent glaze screen over the person you’re conversing with know that that isn’t a mucas infection –you’re just way too self-involved. And probably an asshole.

This basically means that most of your friends get sick of you. While you think all your thoughts are equivalent to the Mona-Lisa or Hegel’s causation theory, they are, in brutal reality, ridiculously unnecessary. The problem is that when you have an overbearing inner monologue with a Scottish accent, like me, bottling in these thoughts are borderline unhealthy. Add onto the fact that your friends are now beginning to avoid conversations with you in a German social isolation process known as 'The Restraining Order', it’s no wonder that terrible things begin to happen to your psychosis.

With no outlet, in real world terms, this manifests in a bad way. Here are a few examples:

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Basically I’m doing society a favour by blogging.

There is no alternative.  

Starting this blog is like deciding to start gardening as a hobby.

Nobody really knows how you get to the point where you feel the intrinsic need to take up gardening, but it’s just feels like the natural progression when the cares of the years have worn you down and you’re basically waiting for death. Blogging is the same, but replace a lifetime worth of esteem crushing experience and replace it with a disposition of finding yourself in front of the computer at 3am in the morning, white glow of the screen altering the natural chromosome make up of your facial cells, where you are youtubing ‘animals eating their young’ and you’ve got the same rationale. Between dealing with expectations, society, annoying hipsters and the supermarket running out of Cheerios tonight, this blog was pretty much inevitable.

I’m sorry in advance.