A Warning Sign



I’ve gotta tell you what a state I’m in
I’ve gotta tell you in my loudest tones
That I started looking for a warning sign

-Colplay, A Warning Sign


A few months ago, yet another psychologist (there have been a few over the years) labelled me as “normal”, meaning that despite certain issues pertaining to anxiety, I don’t need psychiatric help and I’m not a danger to myself or to others. I have had a whole host of problems with work, family, friends and relationships, but these are apparently not irregular.


I beg to differ.


I don’t go around mutilating hookers or chopping up former colleagues, but I do look at life through a slightly skewered lens, shall we say. I become massively angry over little things, like when a bar changes it’s music policy or when a supermaarket runs out of certain sized boxes of flapjack. I’m insatiably horny. I can flaw you with equally massive displays of intelligence and stupidity.


There were warning signs of this difference- this distinction between the norm of human behaviour and my own odd persona- throughout my whole life. Something wasn’t right. I was different. I was uncontrollably weird. And I was always a writer. Let’s look at my teen years- an era frought with educational disappointment, harrassment, dissociation and perversity.


I kept my diaries from ’96 onwards. Reading them makes me pity myself somewhat, but, Goddamn. I was a funny twat. Stay tuned for these memories, typed verbatim. I might also search for pictures online that corrollate, in some way, somewhere in the world, with the date of the diary entry.

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