I know, I know, I promised I’d start posting weekly blogs again and I know that you’re probably disappointed because, as it turns out, I lied. But fuck you. I’ve been in a bad way. It often happens at this time of year. Can’t write, can’t eat, self-esteem jumps out the window and I realise I haven’t been laid in so long that my virginity has potentially grown back. If, in fact, I ever lost it. Who can tell, through the haze of time, what’s real and what you’ve made up in the recesses of your brain to give your life momentum?
Christmas is a long, cold drag, and this year I’m like the Grinch, except more sweary; hating my Facebook friends list from A-Z, refusing to shave unsightly excess bodily hair and locking myself away so as not to deplete my already dwindling social circle any further. I’m not eating glass, but I am crunching on whisky-soaked ice cubes with alarming regularity.
So, you see, I haven’t written any blogs this month because I haven’t had anything nice to say; by which I mean that I only wanted to slag off everyone who had ever wronged me and some people who had done nothing to me at all, except get on with their lives and post self-satisfied updates about the best bits of it on social media. However, I realised that writing bitter, bile-infused missives about friends, acquaintances and the girlfriends of men I want to sleep with was unlikely to endear me to a public audience, and so I paid heed to the old adage and, rather than say something horrid, I didn’t say anything at all.
But now I’m back and I want to tell you about this problem I’ve been having that is nothing to with the vapid lifestyle-PR of morons. That problem is my face.
You probably haven’t seen my face recently, due to me not having left the house or posted pictures of it on here, so you’ll have to take my word for it: my face is bad. Which isn’t always the case. It was stunning for about a week-and-a-half in August. It was bearable for most of the autumn. But now, it’s like the face of a plasticine animation; except if that plasticine were, instead, shit.
A thing has happened over the past month, wherein my face has, in a reverse yuletide miracle, aged both forwards and backwards; so that not only have I got jowls and crow’s feet, but I also have bulbous great baby’s cheeks and teenage acne, which will just not fuck off, even though I have spent six weeks cleansing with a terribly expensive sonic cleansing device.
To make matters worse, I made the tragic mistake of appearing on a daytime television show (favour for a mate, don’t ask), with a hangover, unwashed hair and no make-up; so that even my own Nan called to tell me how dreadful I looked, broadcast to the nation with my greasy skin and glassy, gormless eyeballs. A stranger on twitter described me as looking like a member of Wheatus. And I have to say, I could see his point.
Of course, it is utterly objectionable that I should even care about my face. It’s not as though I am a fashion model, actress or similarly employed professional (escort, Harrods’ floor assistant) who has to rely on her looks for money. I just read books and write convoluted cultural analyses for a living; it would make no difference if my face fell off and got eaten by the dogs. Except that then I’d probably never get laid again because, as it turns out, men are bothered by looks – which is why I ain’t getting any, even though I have razor-sharp intellect and breasts like firm Seville oranges.
It’s not easy, looking like the back of a bus.
And before you start (Mum, I mean you, if you’re reading) I know it’s not all in my head. My face has definitely gone to pot. It can’t be my personality that’s keeping the lads at bay because what with the rock-bottom self-esteem, the hatred and the bitter, tarry, Christmas bile I’ve been spewing, I’m fucking excellent company. My personality is like a mash-up of Joan Rivers, Janice Soprano and Princess Diana. Who wouldn’t want to tap that?
What I’m saying then is this (except Mum, if you’re reading, I don’t mean you): Fuck being single. If you fancy waking up to an ugly face in the New Year, I’d be well up for that. I’m not joking. Let’s do this. You got my number. You know what to do. (Although you might want to give it a few days – I’m on my period.)