It's nuts really. How when there's a shit storm above your head so large and bulging, and everything, but everything, is out to get you, you envision yourself being delivered to a padded cell which you'll paw endlessly for weeks, while being sedated and frontal lobotomied.
In other words, it's hard to find the small things that are fantastic fantastic, when everything else in your life has gone franki bananas.
God: Well Peas, I'm afraid it's not over.
Peas: Why is that God? Surely a break-up, a special ex's engagement, a cold sore in my fucking NOSE and tonsilitis should do it? You know, pay me back for every single bad thing I've ever done?
God: Nope. Fraid not.
Peas: You sure? I mean, I'm close to hurling myself out of my lounge window right this second. Or maybe a toaster in the bath should do it. Or maybe just thousands of sleeping pills.
God: I tell you what, something bad will happen this weekend, but then, well, because I'm feeling nice – I'll throw in a free cell phone.
Peas: Really? A free cell phone?
God: Well actually I was kidding about the cell phone.
God: You'll get a new one from MTN, and it will be a nice one, but there's no such thing as a free lunch, my child.
I hold onto the small things that keep me from overdosing on Vicodin, however. Even still.
Because although I'm shrouded in misery, I hate feeling like this.
My flatmate and I had a photo shoot yesterday, in our living room. She was the photographer, I was her [inflamed at the neck and baggy eyed] model.
I needed photos for a story that is being written about me, and I needed photos for the column that I'll be writing freelance.
We took photos of the side without the fudging cold sore.
Abstract shots, not of my face or body in its entirety. (Had I agreed to a face full frontal – I would've been offered the cover. No, the cover. This is super exciting, but I declined the full shot.)
Never before have I had the chance to scream from the rooftops: “Hey! I was almost on the cover of a magazine!” And now I do. So that's nice.
I also heard from one of the most amazing and regal women I've ever known. I love and respect her so much. For six years, she was my other mum. I cried a lot.
But, careerwise, it's all happening. If only these things weren't so balanced. As in, I am not doing so hot in the love department, yet my writing is being recognised.
If I had the choice, I'd have turned down the cover simply if it made everything suddenly alright. Not even a question:
God: I'll make you a deal.
God: You turn down the cover, and I'll say, grant you comfort sex from a tall, dark and handsome stranger, with the possibility that he may just be....perfect.