Yo-Yo In An Elevator

Trigger Warnings – Mentions of death, self-harm, suicide, cannibalism

British people, calm down, I know to us it is “Yo-Yo In A Lift” but that didn’t have the same ring to it. In case the title leaves something to be desired, this is a personal post, insert the standard apology for doing more personal blogging than political or topical stuff, lord knows my view stats are taking the bullet for that one, the past week has seen a steady decline in my reader base but when I have an agenda, I don’t want to make a hack job of it by blogging about it when I don’t feel up to it so tonight is some more personal stuff.

My mood has been fluctuating again. Remember recently I did a post about being really content with my life and having this sense of well-being? And remember how I enjoyed my birthday celebrations and stuff and was happy then? Yeah well I feel flat now, perhaps there’s more to my mood issues than I thought, it had previously just been a constant crushing sadness but now it temporarily vanishes and clears away to blue skies before coming back as one hell of a storm. I’ve decided as of next week I shall keep a mood diary listing my mood each hour, on the hour, and what I was doing at the time, see if I notice any patterns and I’ll take this journal to a doctor, who will probably dismiss it as needing more sleep or a job I enjoy more than the one I have but hey, worth a shot, maybe one day one doctor will actually admit there is something wrong and help.

I’ve been having some weird dreams lately, some are pleasant and normal enough but some are very disturbing. Last night, I dreamt I asked someone out, won’t say who, but I was so overjoyed they said yes that I wasn’t looking where I was going and stepped out in front of a bus. Yes, Doctor Who-ey I know, your dreams are influenced by that kind of thing but anyway, I didn’t wake up. Well I did, I woke up in the dream and found myself in a rundown abandoned military building with some friends and strangers, who told me the place was safe except for the West Wing, which is full of cannibals and the only reason the cannibals are kept at bay is the sacrifice of one of the group once a week. We couldn’t escape, we had no weapons, we had limited supplies and we were all scared. I dreamt I was being told to go give the cannibals their sacrifice, they’d chosen someone, but when we turned up there the sacrifice attacked me and locked me in the wing with them so I was eaten alive. Then I woke up for real, confused, horrified and nervously lying still in bed for half an hour.

I do not self-harm, I kicked that habit when I was fourteen (Roughly, can’t remember exactly) and I don’t contemplate suicide. I looked into it, it can mean either a crushing realisation the pursuit of happiness through wealth is impossible or it can be a metaphor for feeling overwhelmed by sexual desires. I don’t sit well with those ideas, the wealth thing sounds silly and my sex drive hasn’t been this low in a long time, the desires I have in my heart aren’t lustful and depraved, I desire someone to be with, to laugh with, to hold close, to enjoy a relationship with, not a fuckfest. I’m still jaded about all that though, I see a pretty face now and then but otherwise I’m resigned to being single for some time now, I accept that fact

Anyway, my other dreams have mostly been along two themes – my own death or a new romantic relationship. The romantic dreams are fairly standard, they’re clearly subconscious, well… conscious fantasies playing themselves out but the death dreams? I’ve been eaten, shot, hit by traffic, stabbed, pushed off a cliff, drowned, it’s disturbing that I’m dreaming about such things and it’s one main reason I don’t sleep very well lately, I’m not sure what awaits me, a dream so perfect I don’t want to wake up or a nightmare so horrific I’m scared straight for half an hour when I wake up

I realise this is deeply personal and very disturbing, I’ll have to look into professional help I can afford but I need to talk about this stuff but actually forming words on how I feel and think is incredibly hard, I’ve never been very good at it. I struggle to express emotions through my own personal behaviour, I can barely cry unless it is something overwhelming and even when I lose people I care about, my face doesn’t budge an inch, I haven’t wept for a loss in so long. I’ve heard it’s a common male issue of being pressured to be tough, so tough you struggle to allow yourself to be vulnerable and being a boy who lost a lot as a child whilst being the elder brother of two young boys and having male role models who were never shown to be weak, I guess I’ve internalised the constant rule of never admitting to weakness or need so the written word is how I do just that. Heck, even romantically, I struggle to say the words out loud and some feelings have remained unspoken forever because I just can’t face the rejection and humiliation

Urgh, that was a huge emotional dump and after all that, I feel no better really. I’ll keep this diary as of Monday and track my mood up until the New Year then see a doctor about it, see what they say. Here’s hoping they’ll take action this time


Tattoos and Teenagers (Originally Published – 11th July 2012)

I decided today that I should write out my little qualms with modern society into mock articles simply because of the fact it’s better than going around bitch slapping people (apparently) and I figured that some of you may get a kick out of reading the typed ranting and raving of a teenager who thinks he’s forty-seven. I warn you in advance readers that the subjects of these rants will be subjects that I can get quite worked up about so expect some effing and blinding, some serious sarcasm and general nastiness, which will either be hilarious or tasteless or somewhere between the two so if you want some happy sally story about how Molly the cat was recovered from the wreckage of a bomb site, safe and sound, don’t look here? In all fairness though, I should point out I’m not entirely vile and the vicious retorts are just my style in flow, not necessarily just me being a grumpy prick, however grumpy and prick-like I may well be

So I bet you’re wondering what I’m gonna rant about now aren’t you? No? The title on the article gives it away? Well fuck you then, you know what the article is about so I’m gonna stop pissing around and start being a sarcastic little jerk, deal? My peeve to poke fun at today is tattoos, but not just tattoos in general, I mean as in how modern society treats the art of tattoos. I do not have a tattoo for several reasons, the biggest probably being that it’d hurt like a bitch and I can’t be arsed with that for a picture. I am not here to say that I hate all tattoos, I think that if you get a seriously good tattoo done then that’s pretty cool, I might have to agree with some people there. However, what I hate with a passion are people who get tattoos of totally random shite or in fact, totally predictable shite, simply for the sake of having a tattoo because it’ll decorate their dull personas with a little doodle. Allow me to elaborate on my rant here by going over the categories of tattoos that do my head in:

1.  The Stars, the stripes and other cutesy nonsense

Yes, the stars, cupcakes, fairies and birdies that girls insist on tattooing onto their wrists and ankles as a sign of how magically fantastic they must be, because nothing says original more than copying that picture of a star on your mate’s wrist and then going to get one for yourself on the opposite wrist. I mean, it is all well and good to get these cutesy pictures printed over yourself like you’re a Japanese schoolgirl’s imagination in human form but when you’re thirty-five and trying to get people to take you seriously in life, try to be a commanding presence when you have Pinkie Pie tattooed on your writing hand or when you’re showing yourself off to your boyfriend and he’s giggling at the picture of a budgie you tattooed on your hip. What does the tattoo even say about you? You’re a starry person? A cupcake lover? A pony? I’m Jacob Wolfe and I love cake, won’t see me tattooing furry animals on my ass and cakes on my ankles, no sir

2. Wings

The human body has this large slab of meat (or canvas, if you’re a tattoo lover) that we call the torso and time and time again, it’s made to suffer this inked indignity of tattooed wings across the top of the back. Once upon a time, a man went into a tattoo parlour and got wings done on his back and when he took his shirt off to show his friends and the ladies, he looked genuinely cool and got laid. However, the artist kept hold of the design and passed it around until eventually, every man or woman who can successfully remove their shirt could get a pair of wings done. The wings don’t even work as wings, just a permanent mark to symbolise how much of a massive bell you are. You are not an angel, or a demon, or a bird, you do not have wings and the ink stains on your shoulder blades do not make you some sort of spiritual beauty. You wanna be an angel? I want you to look for a shady man in a hoodie and some second-hand jeans, ask him for a bag of the good stuff and then sit in your bedroom smoking it until you grow wings. Deal? Now go get those wings removed, you tart

3. Names and Faces

I suppose human interaction is inevitable in the modern world if you want to live in a house with food and electricity isn’t it? You’ll meet friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, family members, work colleagues, class members, posh twats, poor twats, smart people, dumb people and every other kind of human being in between. You may even decide you like a few of these people, especially those you share blood ties with, periods of intercourse with or, best of all, the intimacy of you and a celebrity by means of you stalking their every move in the media. So of course, since you are obviously going to forget what this person of obsessions looks like, or is named, you simply must tattoo such precious information onto yourself for future reference! Michael Jackson’s face fits nicely on a thigh and hey, what do you know, your nephew’s name is just long enough to be tattooed across your wrist so why not do that eh? There we go, you’re a fully certified creep now, complete with obsessive artwork on your own skin! You know what, the word ‘dick’ is also just long enough to cover your forehead? You know, because of Dick Van Dyke?

4. Ah why not? Tattoos are cool!

Tattoos are cool aren’t they yeah? You’re so hardcore that you willingly suffered the pain of the tattoo process to get that awesome tattoo of a skull on your arse. You got up one morning and realised you’re a walking sketch book with nothing drawn on it but then, doodling ‘I am awesome’ in biro down your arm doesn’t last does it? How about a tattoo, they’re permanent and you have to be cool to have one right? Why not get five? Five times the cool factor, you’ll be pissing in Charlie Sheen’s face with your winning streak! So many designs to try so give them all a go won’t you? How about the stars, the wings, some Chinese bullshit on your shoulder and ummm… a big-ass tiger picture on your chest, cause you’re that radical!

I’m not saying I despise every single tattoo or tattooed person under the sun, I just think that if you want to make a permanent mark on yourself in picture form, make it meaningful and applicable to you ok? Stars don’t mean anything, wings stopped being cool when they became synonymous with those deep and meaningful sods on the internet that run around topless, don’t tattoo a celebrity on yourself for fear of what it’ll look like when you’re fat and fifty and don’t just go out there covering yourself in crap to look better ok? Please, be tasteful. I will never get a tattoo but if I did, it’d be something with meaning, a motif of who I am as a person. I hope you’ll do the same… oh no, is that your daughter’s name on your wrist or your girlfriend’s?