I Want To Be Distracted

ILB materialized in the cafe in the early afternoon. We went for groceries, cooked ourself some foody things and settled down in front of the television with hot cross buns, a la Loverboy.

Eventually, after a brief spell of shut eye on his shoulder, he collapsed with sudden tiredness, which resulted in me dragging his arse to my room for a kip. We woke up and started out of the bedroom, out of fear of being late to the proceedings.

My lovely man had bought us tickets for The Distraction Club in Soho. For those that don’t know, The Distraction Club is a monthly musical comedy event, and also evidently where all the cool people are on a Tuesday night.

Of course, I felt a bit out of place, but Le Loverboy soon put me at ease.

As Mitch Benn and The Distractions kicked off the show, I relaxed again. I was enjoying this ish and I was enjoying it an awful lot.

But as the night went on and headline act Boothby Graffoe entertained the masses, I started contemplating stuff. Like, really important stuff.

I offered Loverboy a spot in my bed for that night, and he gladly accepted. Once in said bed, room reassuringly free of room mates, we talked. And talked. And slowly, the knots in my head started to unravel.

  • I don’t feel accepted in this community.
  • I don’t feel like I’m being heard.
  • And I have periods of time when I think I don’t belong here.
  • I feel the burning desire to perform.
  • I want a job.
  • There are certain things I need to ease away from.
  • I don’t like sharing a room with two other girls.
  • And I feel like I’m being patronized because of my age.

Read this list and then hate on me if you want to. Seriously, I dare you. This is how angry I feel at the world around me. If you think this is futile, well, good on you. I don’t.

And if this sounds like I’m throwing a hissyfit in the style of Chris Hollins’ paso doble, well, you obviously don’t know me.

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