Sometimes, not all the time, I make myself sick. Not physically sick. Internally sick.
Did you open this with a morbid intrigue that I might declare a long-standing battle with an eating disorder? Firstly, shame on you. And secondly, great clickbaiting – am I right?
I’m what some people might define as “weird“. Not weird like eat a goldfish, weird. But weird in a way that would be deemed ‘uncool’. I love awkwardness; I get a kick out of watching people squirm, and I’ll purposely contort social situations to make them as uncomfortable as possible for all involved. I’m obsessed with sharks and if you’ve ever been on a date with me, you know that my last ditch attempt for affectionate redemption is to indulge you with my impressively unimpressive facts (DYK that sharks rely on their livers for buoyancy?). My favourite Tom Hanks film is The Burbs – perhaps the most underrated movie ever – and I can very-nearly recite it word for word. I would choose Christoph Waltz over Ryan Gosling everyday of the year, I can lick my elbow and I only recently stopped eating my dinner one food group at a time.
I’m weird, but I like that about me.
I ache for those that rely on false personas to be accepted; like those do-you-have-this-in-a-darker-shade-of-black fashion girl caricatures. Or the men that desperately attempt to live their lives like a high street knock-off of Dan Bilzerian – the type who has “Live fast. Die young. Make money.” as his dating-app bio, but still asks to borrow £10 off his mum on a Friday night.
Yet, as arrogantly self-assured as I am, sometimes I too say and do things that just aren’t me.
“Oh my god, I love what you’re wearing. I saw that Instagram post you shared in Mykonos – it looked sooo incredible.” – this said to a blogger whom I’ve never met, but habitually follow on social media. A person whose paid to share pretty filtered pictures of themselves in exchange for double-tapped likes from impressionable teenagers. Someone who is everything that I am not, and everything I never want to be.
A little bile hits the back of my throat, as my ears redden and the self-deprecation consumes me. In that one sentence, I morphed into everything I so adamantly hate.
On dates, my writing has become a predisposition of my personality. Jovially referring to my scathing honesty and lax inclinations towards men, I’m told by the Tinder-profile-I-swiped-right-to, that my exaggerated and comical coldness is what led him to the bar we’re in. So there I sit, indulging this colder than death character that lives in my writing, so not to disappoint.
Those fleeting situations of falseness embarrass me to such an extent that I’d sooner crawl into a small cupboard and die than torment myself with the memories; at least there’d be more dignity in the former.
Why do I do it to myself?
Letting an ounce of my true personality surface, I recently joked to a leading magazine Editor that her shoe size would surely make her a good swimmer. Met with an equally bewildered and scornful glare, the atmosphere plummeted faster than I do after a few tequilas. If only she too could acknowledge the Devil Wears Prada parody that she embodied.
I don’t regret that joke. Mainly because it was perfectly timed (and hilarious), but also because I felt I’d somehow redeemed myself from my past false personas. I was me in a situation where it was wholly unacceptable to be.
When will people realise that being real is what it’s all about? I mean, sure, it might turn out everyone actually hates you, but no one does weird quite like you can.
Images via Giphy.