the list

Make new friends, become the genius you claim to be, fall in love, impress all of your tutors, crack down on the novel (and the other novel), make sure the society you are now responsible for doesn’t crumble, keep an eye on your friends, call your mum, nan, grandad, brother, aunty, friends far away as often as possible. The grand gesture is never enough. You have to do it every day. At least! You’ll have your own extensive list of shit you need to do every day so that your life continues to live. Maybe the list is useless. My list is the grammar of my day-to-day, the (previously) unwritten goals that are expected by me and those around me.

         The list’s use is an interesting one though. Because it misses out the biggest obsession of them all. What all of this is about. The image. The utterly juvenile, least artistic, most unbearably unbearable aspect of me, and all those who share the obsession. The image. This Instagram grid, the clothes, the lists, the friends, the lovers (ew), the ews when my flatmates ew at me in my head so I need to ew so that they know I’m being ironic duhhhh. The fucking image. Breaking the image for five-hundred words because I need to write about it but also only allowed to because it probably doesn’t hurt the image too much. Maybe it even helps it. The self-aware are less unbearably unbearable, right? Exhausted yet? Yeah, me too.

         I like to think I have a very carefully cultivated image. Obviously images mean a thousand different things to a thousand different people but you’re generally cultivating for the masses. That said, I also like to think I can cater the image for different audiences in order to garner similar impressions from different people. Absolute nightmare fuel writing this shit down, swear to God.

Some days the list is shorter, some days it is longer. But you never get to the end of it. In fact, nothing is ever ticked off. Nothing is ever complete. Just like you’ll never be. You’ll never be the dreadful person you fear you are, or the great person you wish you were. Maybe it’s time to scrap the list. Impossible. Maybe it’s time for a new one. New priorities? But then you look again, and they don’t look that bad. The image list or the existing list? Maybe you need a third one.

Dead, dead, wish I was asleep.

         I need one more list to finish this off. Like a list of alcohol brands, or days I can’t remember, maybe one on words I use like I know the meaning of but don’t, or insects, opioids, Chanel fragrances, or one on different lists I could write.

Anyway, maybe I should knock one thing off the list this week. One less thing to ruin my day. Maybe.