![]() But when it comes to me, all I can tell you is my brain is a mysterious fantasy kingdom, where the weather is ever-changing, and Joffrey Baratheon is the king of my inner monologue. And yes, it’s normal to feel sad about it. I mean who the fuck even knows? Yes, it’s lonely sometimes in a new country. Because fannies are many glorious things people, but if you could upcycle one with a cheeky bit of ylang ylang, why wouldn’t you?Īnd maybe, you might ask, why was Thursday such a bad mental health day? I mean, at times like these, could someone just lend me their fucking womb please?! And ideally one with amenities, like a kettle and a couple’a Yankee candles. I mean, I wasn’t expecting Richard Gere to march in and scoop me off the toilet like an emotionally fragile incontinent person, but come on fucking Gill from finance, give us a ‘chin up love’ and a biccie, would you?īasically, I was feeling sad about myself and I just wanted a fucking cuddle. Preferably from an older and wiser, motherly type, who speaks mostly in idioms and whose wisdom I can regurgitate as memes on the internet². THAT SAID, when I was dramatically doubled over in a pile, bawling my puffy eyes out, and pulling at my hair to feel anything outside of miserable, I at least wanted SOMEONE to feel sorry for me. (Pre-millennials, judge away, we really are all fucking dickheads.) And don’t judge me millennials – we all are. I’m mostly good and happy and clearly a low-level narcissist. I think what I’m saying is this: please don’t feel sorry for me. From sad movies to conflict anxiety, I’m a weeper baby, and proud. Once, I even cried at the memory of MY OWN crying. Yes. I was SO moved by having ONCE BEEN SAD, I made MYSELF sad. AGAIN. Like a heave-into-a-hand-towel-to-muffle-it, stick-your-face-under-the-cold-tap-so-it-isn’t-all-swollen-like-a-river-corpse crying. Yeah, that bad.¹Īnd, I’m not tryna’ to be all X-factor sob story about it – I’m just a cryer – it’s what I do. And not even in a delicate, quiet-sob kind of way. We’re talking, crying in the office toilets bad. Secondly, I'd just had a really bad mental health day on Thursday. Like, really bad. Along with a round of shots, a shit-tonne of power-posing, and I’ve DEFINITELY looked in the mirror at least once in my life and said: ‘you ARE a good fucking person, Becky’. (Notwithstanding all the bras I stole that time from Ann Summers.) ![]() Because getting out of my own headspace also requires a two-beer minimum. Well, firstly, that’s not unusual for me. So, why did I spend most of it inside my own head? It was midsommar’s eve.†† The beers had been flowing, the conversation was easy, and although I’d made a few social faux pas’, (I recommend a two-beer minimum before making any form of incest joke), it really was a great evening. ![]() Genom att skapa konto godkänner du Thatsups Användarvillkor och Integritetspolicy.
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