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Selfie nation and a night at a pub

Selfies are a rarity for me, very much unlike my peers. Which is interesting to me because it makes me wonder why I never got into the art of selfies. But then, it isn’t really all that much surprising because I know about my lack of want to look at myself in the mirror. I actually can’t stand to see myself in that reflective thing. I get scared I’ll see too many flaws, too many things I want to change. I hate myself enough as it is already. Why do I need to fuel the fire with something as substantial as my physical being? 

So, I don’t really know what angles work best for me because all my old angles have aged into new ones and I’m unfamiliar with the terrain that has laid to be. I’m often confused because it just doesn’t make sense anymore. When did I get that jaw? I’ll ask myself astounded. When did I lose all that baby fat? Is that really my nose, my hair? Hey, my acne scars are clearing up, who would’ve though?! I’m actually genuinely confused about all the nuances that have formed on top of my skin and around my body. I generally prefer to stare away from my facial features. 


Unless I want to freak myself out.

Then, and only then, do I look straight into my eyes in the mirror until my brain shifts and it all becomes too surreal to do that anymore. Out of body experiences and all that. Love them. That’s probably the only time I get to see my face. When I’m forced into a state of mind too complex to comprehend so my brain is pressured into over compensating by dragging my whole consciousness out of its ordinary being and into a completely new one. Only then do I see my face and my body in a clearer light rather than through the mere shadows I pass over it. 

I guess I mention all of this because my friend sent me the first series of selfies I have done in a subsequent row without the prompting nature of an experienced friend anchoring a picture with her own angles. No, this is the first time without that. Just me, myself and I. Tipsy from just two light alcoholic beverages (WKD and Smirnoff) and pouting quite horribly through the dimness of the bar.

I probably haven’t been that giggly since I found out that my father hitting me as hard as he had done was an act of abuse. Nor have I been so open about my life since my paranoia had made its onset a few weeks ago. It was actually quite refreshing. Though, I almost realise that a lot of what I said that night, spoke up about had lost its genuinity because I was drunk and not sober. But didn’t someone somewhere once say that drunk words are sober thoughts. At least I can grasp upon some validity from there if anything.

But that feeling of slight euphoria and freedom I achieved before slipping into my ready made depression is why people become alcoholics. Because its hard to feel as good any other time. 

But I guess the only plus side to not having a mild hangover is that the sun doesn’t look like an ugly monster out to get me, I’ve stopped feeling so nauseous and I’m now being suffocated by the comfort my bed once offered me. Which is a good thing. Trust the girl that has been stuck in it and unable to move from it for the last 24 hours. Trust the girl who has an exam today that she hasn’t revised for. Trust the girl who doesn’t trust you or anyone else and has slipping in and out of depression for the whole time. 

Trust me. 

Trust me.  

Nakedstreetkid out x 

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Fast forward on exhaustion

For the last two weeks I have been exhausted.

Sleeping for an extended period of time after school everyday as if I don’t have work to do. As if my homework and revision can wait for me to become energetic again. But it can’t. Because despite my lack of energy, the world is still moving all around me. Sometimes in slow motion feeding me with the illusion that I do in fact have time. But, most of the time it is as if someone had hit the forward button so that everything is destined to pass me by. And with everyone just passing me by, I’m just getting even more exhausted watching images of people flicker past my eyes.

Nakedstreetkid out x