I lack the ability to be good to myself. Or for that matter, the sensibilities required to ensure I take care of myself.
Like going to bed at a reasonable hour.
Like deciding to save money instead of wandering into a shop and somehow leave with a whole new outfit.
Or eating proper meals instead of a can of full-fat coke and a Marlboro Light.
Or going back upstairs to get a jacket instead of walking to Morrison’s in just a jumper thinking the drizzle will go away by the time I get out but instead walk across the road in a depressing downpour.
Or buckling down and writing an essay before it was due instead of gravitating over to a neighbour’s birthday party after coming home from dinner with friends and staying way way longer than expected which meant having to postpone doing the essay (tragic, I know) another day.
Such callousness usually results in me sitting in a cramped room the next day, be it from delicately reintegrating myself into the world of the living or working to meet a deadline to the hour (this happens more often than I’d like) before inevitably turning out the lights, because reality can go bite my ass.
These past few days have been spent doing all of the above; as we speak I’m currently hiding under the duvet, sticking my hands out of it to type like some sort of flower-printed turtle, taking my time to slowly, but surely whinge about my self-inflicted traumas.
Top - H&M (pack of two)
Belt - New Look
Jersey Pencil Skirt - H&M
Shoes - Primark
This was the outcome of wandering in H&M unchaperoned. In my defense though, they’re all things that fit my style pretty well, although I say that about most things I buy in a sad attempt to justify my careless spending. Like a bowler hat that’s way too big for me that I can’t be bothered to return. Shame too, I’m sure there’s a distinguished, dapper stereotypical British man with a very large head that’d appreciate it more than me.
I need to go hide my phone, turn out the lights and sit in a very quiet room now.
- Diana xxx