I took myself on a luxury retreat to Brighton this week. The last time I was there was for a gig and a man said sorry numbers are low, I think it’s pride. The thing is, I don’t think it was pride, I think he’d just seen a few young people in a group and made a big leap. I booked a themed hotel because themed hotels are the best type of escape even before you go- you can plan outfits to to that theme and pretend the world isn’t falling apart.
I took 100 photos of myself and read Ego is the Enemy.
I highly recommend everyone takes themselves to a fancy hotel and takes photos in their underwear. A lot of people said it was a sex hotel. Like my colleague commented on my instagram “did you take yourself to a sex hotel?” I said “It’s not a sex hotel but also yes”. I didn’t know there were sex hotels. I thought that was all hotels? I just liked that it had mirrored ceilings above the bath and the bed, I thought that was 70s and apparently it was, in a sex way. Also, the in-room brochure had a “hangover cure” for sale which was two mint teabags and three condoms!
Sarah said it was like an old witches cure: drink this sacred potion, and dance the devil's dance- thrice! Three times is a lot for a hangover isn’t it. Why do people love morning after sex? I’m like I sort of get it but let’s be ~completely ~ still ~. The worst type of hangover is when you can’t fully open your eyes nor fully close your mouth. If you catch yourself in a mirror you just think “what have I become?” Never buy the cheapest whisky. I met up with a friend who is studying at Sussex and it made me feel older but I was okay with it. Unlike when I forgot my young persons railcard and when the conductor asked me to prove it I just started flossing. They charged me for an OAP ticket and threw me in jail for the rest of my days. Fortunately I have a millennial railcard now and if I forget that I can just show them how easily I can smash an avocado, sing “oh Jeremy Corbyn” and eat ass. I can’t imagine the near future- is that a corona thing? I’m at that part of depression where the things you get joy from are dwindling but you can still go to stuff and try stuff and mostly not cry. That kind of down where you have to keep busy like non stop like CAN’T FEEL SAD IF I DON’T STOP. BUSY BUSY NO TIME FOR FEELINGS. It’s when you stop the problem starts. It’s like that film Speed but miserable. Speed 3: Clinical depression. Instead of CAN THEY JUMP THE GAP it’s like CAN SHE MAKE IT INTO WORK And I work from home. At brunch today, Shirley said she’d been kept up late by her neighbours having a party and playing loud music- you know the kind. Well, I thought I knew the kind until she said it included Cotton Eye Joe.
I was imagining dunky dunky music not a 90s school disco. That sounds…
Then she said next time they were doing one she’d get her binoculars out and be like is that… is that...Chelsea?
And I’d be like "sorry Shirley it’s lit ;-P". I went in to Alex's room and saw he had three mugs and said "are you having a mug party!". Sometimes you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.
I am very much in love.
Fun fact, most people' can't actually see that I am in this photo.