My version of individuality.

My version of individuality was a compound of lesser quantities of perfection.

My less ideal version of individuality didn’t add up to inspiration. No one took my words as gospel. No person did seek me out, professing my brilliance. No critics acclaimed. No songs were sung of my legacy, no eulogies rasped through fake tears in cathedrals. No memory of whatever part of me that may have shone through the canopy of the majority and into the spaces of legends. No story to hold on to.

My less desirable version of individuality didn’t amount to love. No hearts were damaged on my behalf, no emotions altered, no heartstrings tugged. No fantasies constructed, my face as the protagonist. Love is a fleeting notion more transient than a breath of airspace already polluted with an abundance of false declarations of love.

My less intelligent version of individuality didn’t amount to a discovery. No theory was named of me; no institute established in my name. No page in a textbook remembering my actions, no momentous phenomena holding the origin of its moniker to my own.

My less tragic version of individuality didn’t conclude in misery. It had no hardship in its yarn, no struggle plagued the continuation of its tapestry. No shocking retelling to be sold to the sadistic masses as ‘entertainment’, no ‘true story’ placard to be brandished at the flyleaves of its tale. No real sadness tore its world to shreds.

My less attractive version of individuality was never a muse to greatness. It never stood apart from a crowd. None singled me out as the one blessed with a golden ratio. I never caught half an eye in my years — never would I have tried. Never was I given the chance of a second glance. The scenery claimed me, and the walls were my refuge where I bloomed and withered, always watching, waiting.

My version of individuality did not supersede any other, neither did it come below. My version was merely a version, separated by degrees from the next.

Conform!” they said. “Be normal!” they said. What is ‘normal’ if not a method of satiating the human urge to fit in?

I was contented with my version, my edition, my attempt at something exceptional, even if it did appear to fail.

Because, after all:

Imperfection is merely unappreciated individuality.



I will never be able to face the world again.


So, this morning I realised I had left my walking boots in the car. At this point, I was still in my pajamas. I looked out of the window, weighing up the situation with meticulous precision, and devised two plans:

Plan A: Haul myself up the stairs (in the morning, equivalent to Mount Everest) and make my appearance socially acceptable to the point where I would not scare small children.

Plan B: Risk being seen in full PJ gettup (messy hair, pas de makeup, flowery pajamas and all).

Bearing in mind this is at 7am.

I took the plunge and chose Plan B.

So, I did a weird walky-jumpy-running thing to the car (yeah, I had no shoes on either) and opened the boot.

Now, at this point I’ll mention that I have had Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance With Somebody in my head for the past 48 hours. So on the way to the car, I was humming this under my breath.

In true meerkat style, I did a little pop-my-head-out-and-scout-around thing. Beside the car, there is a small hedgerow separating our drive with next door’s. Because I’m short, I can’t see over these. The only other place I could have be seen from was the house over the road, and the owners are away.

So, naturally, I saw no one. Because of this, without consciously realising, I started to hum a little louder.

I grabbed my walking boots and then spotted my rucksack at the back of the boot.

I was now faced with yet another predicament:

This is a big boot.

I have short arms.

So I (very ungracefully) climbed in the boot, all the while rapidly approaching the chorus of the song.

Then, bestowed with rucksack and walking boots, I wriggled back out of the car.

I did another little peer around, and I was still alone.

Now, the chorus was upon me.

The catchiness was overwhelming.

I had no choice.

I sang.

I cannot sing.

But I sang.

And I did a low-key jig on the spot, funky shoulders and the rest.

In pajamas.


In public.

Then, mid-chorus, I closed the boot, singing: “I wanna feel the HEAT–”

And then, my life ended.

My elderly neighbour was standing on the other side of the hedge.

He had been there the whole time. Gardening. At 7am.

“Hi.” I said.


He just stared at me, looked vaguely confused.

Cue uncomfortable silence.

Then I calmly (!) scuttled back into my house.

And I have officially lost the last morsel of pride I possessed.

Why am I even here

Why do I even care anymore.

Well, sh*t.

This is going to be awkward.




Knowing someone is a strange concept.

Knowing someone, by definition, is made up of direct interaction on a personal level to the point where you are familiar with them.

But you never really know anyone. All that you know are the things that are made obvious, like names, or occupations, or birthdays, or hobbies, or likes, or dislikes, or physical appearance.

These are fabrications, superficialities. You never get to know what a person is truly made up of; what they are at their core.

Knowing people can also be quite a disappointing experience. The once mysterious, unknown individual that could potentially bring a dramatic divergence in a life’s path turns out to be a regular human being like the rest, with the baggage, the flaws, the backstories.

I think this might be why I find an obscure kind of solace in being in large crowds of strangers. None of them know of my baggage, my flaws, my backstory, and I their’s. All they see is a uniform ocean of humans. It’s this kind of anonymity that I find comforting. A sort of transient freedom from the constraints of everyday that transforms me into a blank canvas to be drawn upon.

Then, in a way, anonymity is an anaesthetic to familiarity: it does not permanently eradicate the memories or the people that know, but it palliates the symptoms briefly; like rubbing a hand over a chalkboard, it blends the outlines, though the words are still present underneath. It blurs the colours for a while.

It makes the world liveable for a while.



Why the hell do I do this to myself?

I let myself think I like (like, like like) someone. Then I construct an alternate eventuality wherein they could (somehow) like me too. Then I come to this massive-ass EUREKA moment a few days later that goes: holy shit, they don’t like the effing potato in the corner, they like the pretty, slim, funny, kind, intelligent, popular, not emotionally volatile girl. What an effing surprise! I did not see that one coming! It’s not like that’s happened every other time you try to think you like someone! This discovery is completely UN-EFFING-PRECEDENTED to the human race! Let’s call the press! Hell, let’s get you an EFFING NOBEL PRIZE FOR MORONIC PEOPLE WHO DON’T LEARN FROM THEIR MISTAKES.

My inferiority complex is having a field day right now.


I want to sleep, but I can’t.

Sleep and I aren’t exactly in a functional relationship right now.

We’re on the verge of a messy breakup.

Much collateral.

Such fatigue.

I have been having waves of nausea all day, and there’s a pain in the left side of my chest so effing bad I want to asdfghjklxyvkrnsoehrpsjdnfkhf.

I am lying in bed listening to Ben Howard.

I like his voice.

My chest hurts a lot.


Dear chest,
Keep your shit together please, I don’t have time for your rebellious teen phase right now. Regards, brain.

Can you tell I’m sleep-deprived, or is it just the lighting in here?


I feel like I’m shouting into the void right now.

How do you think the void feels?

Everyone just shouts into it.

No one ever bothers to talk to the void, ask how it’s feeling. How its day went.

I need to shut up.

This is what I’m like when I have nothing vaguely pseudo-intellectual to contribute to the internet.

This post began sounding like quite an arty-farty commentary on teenage life.

Look where I am now.

I’m just flipping starchy.

I’m debating whether to hit publish on this now.

Will I regret it?


Will it make the world a better place if I do?

Probably not.

Am I going to do it anyway?

Eh. Probably.



This post was sparked by me reading an old diary of mine from a couple of years ago. I was leafing through it and it seemed alien to me, and yet distantly familiar; like seeing a postcard of a far-off country I’ve never visited but feeling a strange déjà-vu sensation anyway.

The diary accounts a time when I was in a low, low place. The world seemed grey and what colour remained inside me was slowly fading. Self-esteem was nonexistent in my mind, and whenever I looked in the mirror, all I felt was revulsion. I couldn’t fathom how I was worthy of friendship, worthy of love, worthy of life. I felt as if I was in some kind of dream state, experiencing a faint detachment from myself, wandering without purpose or cause.

And within me, somewhere beneath it all, my core felt like pure resentment: for others around me for not understanding; to myself for being so damn unworthy; to whatever ultimate being – if there be one – for making me as I was; to whatever inside me that was making me feel so angry. Every single minute stimuli felt so amplified that at times I wanted to implode; I felt like there was an infinite amount of matter squeezing itself into the finite space in my ribcage, pushing out until I wanted to tear down every single wall that surrounded me. But still, I felt empty. I felt cold. I felt utterly alone.

Whenever I tried to open up to someone, even my closest friends, it felt like there was a gulf between us. If someone said I know how you feel, I’ve been there too, that did not feel like consolation; I would never, never want anyone to feel like I did then. There didn’t seem to be anyone who could fully comprehend whatever was in my head, including myself.

There wasn’t a definitive point at which everything stopped being like this. I still have issues with myself a couple of years on. The truth is, it never gets better, you just learn how to deal with yourself as you are. The emotions that were once red raw dull themselves, like a bloody wound congealing. It never fully heals, the scar tissue will always be there (mentally and physically). And this is the ultimate cliché, but being in that state makes you more grounded as a person. The amount of perspective you gain is huge.

The main message, I guess, of this is that if anyone who is reading this feels even slightly like what I have clumsily and dumbly described, what you are feeling is not your fault. You are not unworthy. You are not inferior. You are not stupid, unattractive, undesirable, weak, childish or pathetic for going through this. This is you. You know yourself better than anyone, and somewhere, somewhere inside you there is a flicker of hope, a spark of something that you can draw on to stumble through this.

You’re doing okay. Just keep doing okay. Okay is good. Okay?




I have come to a conclusion.

Deeply philosophical. High intellectual. Muchly thought-provoking.

Are you ready?

I am a potato.

Yes, blogosphere, I have been lying to you this whole time.

I am no girl.

I am a complex carb.

I certainly feel like one today.

Today just felt…


Know what I mean?

But hey. Haters gonna hate. Potatoes gonna potate.

I think it may have originated from when I was talking to a guy (who, I admit, I find very attractive), and then he turned around and started to talk to another (so-pretty-it’s-annoying) girl.


Hello, Potato-dom.


I hope anyone who is reading this had a less root-vegetabley day.

Much like,

Your friendly neighbourhood potato.