1:32am… Mood: I want someone to grab my butt and tell me I’m good looking.
Part of being older is learning to deal with your own issues. Learning to identify when you are being unnecessarily you – in my case, being too paranoid about my future and relationship and all that. In the past, I’d carry my problems to my friend’s laps and moan and groan about my deep insecurities, but now, I just try to figure it out on my own. Sometimes it can’t be helped because who you would have loved to talk to is probably just as paranoid as you are and withdraws into his shell when you bring your issues up.
So, I tell myself “Down boy, sit! That’s a good boy. Now what is the problem?” I become my own shrink, like Aku in the new Samurai Jack series. And usually, I realise there wasn’t a problem to begin with or I realise worrying wouldn’t solve anything or I work myself up worse than I was before.
Like right now, as I’m writing this, so many things are on my mind. School, mother, father (my father has become a problem, but not in a way I’m inclined to share), boyfriend, existential crisis, artistic crisis, same old shii. It doesn’t help that I have become vainer than I usually am; these days, I hate that my stomach swells after each meal and that I have laugh lines which make me look like an older, uglier version of Sasuke’s elder brother, and that my face feels chubby. And I’m wondering if this is old age catching up with me as my metabolism slows. And then I’m thinking, the fuck! I am 23 and I’m growing older, and that in itself is scary, and I don’t know why it is scary, but maybe it’s because I was 18 just a little while back and now it’s crept up on me, and fuck, I’m growing old and I’m here accomplishing nothing… Yes. This is how I panic.
Then I try to do something. I paint. I sing. But it all seems like rubbish or like I’ve not moved past where I was last year. It’s the same old brush strokes or the same old strumming pattern and I still don’t have the hang of what this ‘Show, don’t tell’ is in writing that seems to be the magic key to unlocking unbelievable writing skills.
And it kind of just spirals down like that till I have to distract myself with a movie or something. I wonder how I do it and not crack under the weight of my thoughts. Maybe they really aren’t that heavy. Maybe I’ve just gotten better at telling myself that people have it worse than me so I shouldn’t complain. Maybe I’m scared of complaining because it’d either show cracks that have always been there or cause new cracks to appear.
I guess one of the blessings I have is routine. Routine helps. Part of the reason I probably (remember to) feel like this is because I have time to. We are on strike. If we weren’t, they’d go to the back of my mind as I attend my 8 – 5classes.
But yeah, I keep things to myself mostly these days. And if I share, it’s probably not that serious.
My mum told me in the car as she dropped me off at the garage that she got a revelation that I’d be a professor. I told her that I’m not going to read another vet-related book because of school. She was like, “Masters will be different.”
I have wavered between being miserable to being sort of okay (more of the former) while doing this course. What makes you think me doing my Masters for the course will make me feel better. Are you trying to kill me? And why are you still blind after all these years? Is it really for my own good or because you want to burst with pride while telling your church pals that your son is now a professor? Is it some sort of inferiority complex that I have started to smell on you that’s starting to show itself?
I wish I could say all that I’ve said in the above paragraph to her, but I couldn’t, because home training and I’m a coward.
3:17am, on a Saturday, and I am pretty intoxicated. So I am going to write what is on my intoxicated mind and I am going to send to Pinky.
First of all, I love Pookie… I think I do… I dunno… I hope I do.
Secondly, being intoxicated is awesome because you know it feels like you’re floating on air and your inhibitions are gone. But my inhibitions aren’t gone too much because I don’t think I’m going to tell my people to fuck off and let me live my life.
I need to pee… But I have a shy bladder and humans are around me.
I’m such a sucker. I hope everything ends out right in the end, but I have a feeling it won’t and then I’m going to have no choice but to kill myself because the pain will be too much. But right now, I feel like I’m floating on air, and it feels good. Is this how people become alcoholics?
I didn’t write for a while because I got scared of writing. I’m not good at it. I’m not good at a lot of things. Maybe singing, but I’m just faking it till I make it.
It’s so difficult when you’re a Nigerian. And it sucks to be a poor Nigerian. Otodogbame is a good example, with the vicious Lagos government and the woebegone denizens. Somebody fucking died and I feel helpless, so helpless. I don’t know what to do because people have lost their homes and it sucks and all people are doing about the horror is tweeting and retweeting, and that won’t do much good in the end because people’s lives have been disrupted, and I have all this privilege because I was lucky in a way.
I hate myself. And I love myself. I have a rocky relationship with myself and I’m tired of it. I want to be happy in the end. Is there happiness in death? I don’t know… I want to know.
In the end, we will all be free… In life or in death, we will be free. As atoms or in the sky as angels, we will be free.
Written by IBK