This time in three months, I will be in America. To say I am buzzing would be an understatement. I get to spend a whole week in this magical place full of wonderfully beautiful people who live in beach houses, go to Cotillions and speak like they do on the TV. A place where Man and Unicorn live in harmony. A place where everyone knows your name, and everyone has a smile on their face, a spring in their step and a song in their heart. Magical, wonderful America.
Yep, it's going to be exactly like that. If I don't end up at party one night with a bunch of water polo players, I am going to be severely disappointed.
Today I am a happy bunny. I signed off my Sunday with arguably my favourite film, and then woke up this morning with a spring in my step. And ALOT of sweat. MY GOD. Today most of Britain was basking in roasting hot temperatures. I was between the doctors and the office. Grand.
I am now taking a very mild beta blocker for my anxiety, which hopefully should help relax me. One tablet a day. It's the weakest one they can give me, and I imagine it isn't far off a placebo, but I hope it helps. I refuse to be strongly medicated. I'm a Mitchell, we're made of strong stuff and I can beat this thing without walking around like a zombie for months. Anyhow, I feel good about the whole situation. I'm feeling good about myself and I'm optimistic.
One Tree Hill returned tonight. I specifically cleaned the living room and kitchen and timed my dinner and coffee perfectly. Decaf, of course. I can't watch my favourite shows without an immaculate living room. If I have any unordinary distractions in my line of sight, I can't concentrate. Sean's shoe horn had to be straightened. Who the hell uses a shoe horn anyway!? It was a great episode.
Pub Golf is on Saturday. If you're not aware of the concept of pub golf, it's our annual pub crawl with a twist. Participants brave/manly/stupid enough to tackle the challenge dress up in golf gear and complete a 9 or 18-hole course. Each 'hole' is a different pub or bar, and at each 'hole' you have a different drink which has it's own 'Par' - the expected number of sips it should take to finish the drink. If you can down the drink in less sips, then you are below par, and vice-versa. Here are the scorecards for this year's event.
I'm the reigning Pub Golf Champion. I completed the whole card with a perfect score (every drink in one) but that was last time. That was before Guinness and John Smith's were added. And I was in a state that night. With being on medication and still in recovery from Magaluf, I am tempted to take the ladies' card this year. We shall see. I'm just really not sure I can complete that men's card right now.
Anyway, to sign off tonight, I wanted to post a song. When I'm in a good mood, I am literally bouncing off the walls. Now, I don't shy away from the fact that I love all sorts of weird and wonderful music. One of my passions I'm well-known for in these parts is cheesy pop music. If S Club 7 comes on at a party, everyone looks around for me, because they just know I am going to be sprinting straight towards the dance floor and dropping some of the craziest shapes you will ever see. This song is one of my current happy songs. It's pure uplifting cheese, but it just gets me in a real summery, feel-good mood. And I love Kate Voegele. She's something special. Sure, I wouldn't listen to music like this if I had the guys round, or a girl for that matter, but on my own, in my own little world (or my own little blog!), this is foot-tapping cheesy goodness and I love it. I hope you listen to it and smile aswell.
So I've been sitting on this sofa for twenty minutes now, and I have typed, then deleted, then typed again, then deleted again. I have a million and one thoughts running around in my head and tonight I feel like I need to try and get them into words. It's never usually this difficult.
I've been on a downer today. Well, all week in fact. Today I woke up hungover and regretting my actions of last night, and my heart was pounding so I'm heading to the doctors tomorrow morning. I just want to be back to normal. I want to go to the gym. I want to get up stupidly early on a Saturday morning for my overtime. I want to power nap my way through the next year, and I want to drink proper coffee again!
I watched one of my favourite films this evening. I think everyone has got a film which they love, despite the film flopping or being universally panned by critics. Chances are you would never have heard of 'Boys and Girls'. It was released in 2000 and stars Freddie Prinze Jr. and Claire Forlani, and it's basically your standard romcom: Ryan (Prinze Jr.) and Jennifer (Forlani) become best mates, end up sleeping together, Ryan falls for Jennifer, Jennifer doesn't want to let anyone in, yadda yadda ya and they all live happily ever after. Now, I absolutely LOVE this film. I remember watching this the summer before Uni (which we shall dub the 'Ella' Summer), and it got me really excited to be a student, living in dorms and meeting new people. The film basically painted the picture of exactly what I wanted University to be like. I remember having the film on VHS, and watching it every night as I drifted off to sleep because it was always the video left in my VHS player, and at that time I couldn't sleep without the TV on.
It just cheers me right up. There are a few stand-out moments for me. Jennifer's speech in the coffee shop always gets me.
"We've all been in love, but we never know it's not true love until it's over. So what if maybe there is no one or two or three or four or five? I mean, what if there is no such thing as true love, and we're just too afraid to admit it, so we keep on dressing up, we keep on pretending to be something that we're not. We keep turning our lives upside down, losing ourselves in something that we hope is better than what we think that we are. What if that something that we're looking for just doesn't exist?"
Good shout. How many times do we go through the motions of becoming infatuated with someone, spending incredible amounts of time and effort on someone who isn't the 'one'? What if the 'one' isn't out there for me? What if that 'perfect' person doesn't actually exist? Eventually, everyone ends up with someone, right? How many of these middle-aged couples are with their 'soulmates', and how many have just settled with what they can get? Settled for convenience? I'd like to think I will never ever settle for anything other than perfect, but you have to think that so many people must.
When I watch this film, it always reminds me of my life back then. This was five years ago. I had my whole life planned out. I had my 'Ella' summer, which was amazing, and then I was off to Uni, ready to go get my degree. And now, five years down the line, I'm sitting here on a Sunday evening writing a blog about that time. Life is nothing like I anticipated.
Five years ago, after Ella went home, I was wishing away my life, just dying to get out of Medway and get to Uni. To start a new life and to reinvent myself. And here I am, wishing away my life, just dying to get out of Medway. Again, I have no idea what I want to do or where I want to be, but I know it's not here. I've wished away the last 6 months of my life and I fully intend to wish away the next 9 months or so.
So anyways, there's always a silver lining. I have booked off my annual leave for Boston in September (Rosh Hashana, apparently!) so on Tuesday I'll book up my flights, and I am really SUPER excited about that. Five years ago, I may or may not have been in love with Ella. And now, well, I'm back where I started. She was saving up to come over and see me, and now I'm saving up to go over and see her. It's strange how things have turned out.
Well, here's to the next five years. I'm sure it will bring me almost nothing of what I predict it will bring me. But hey, it's all about the journey, not the destination. After all, it's just a ride!
You can't come running to me anymore, expecting to hear the things you want to hear. You can't use me to comfort you and sugar-coat the reality. That's not my job anymore. I did that for 4 years. For 4 years, I told you everything you wanted to hear. No matter how bad things got, you knew that I was always there to make you feel better. But those days are long gone and you can't rely on me anymore.
I'm going to be honest with you. I'm going to be completely truthful, which is how I would want my friends to be towards me. If you ask me a question, I'm going to give you my answer, and sometimes it's not going to be the answer you want to hear.
You look ridiculous. And it is demeaning. Degrading. I don't care what you say. Dressing up like that, showing off almost every inch of your fake breasts and wearing more make-up than a mime-artist is just not attractive. It's not my job to tell you you look beautiful anymore, because you don't. You look like any other Medway girl. You crave the attention, you want people to tell you how hot you are. But you're not getting any of that from me. Flowery dresses over hot pants and boob tubes anyday. Have some bloody respect for yourself.
The truth is, you are the most miserable person in the world. Lighten up, stop biting my head off and enjoy yourself. Stop torturing your body and eat a flipping burger.
I hate seeing what you have become. You used to be so happy, so enthusiastic, so energetic. Now I just see a gaunt reminder that people change. You changed so much.
I wanted to tell you today that I'm going to Boston in September. I wanted to tell you I was going to see Ella. I'm not sure there's ever going to be a good time to tell you. You're never in a good mood, and if I say something you don't like, you storm off in a strop. You don't know this, but I don't think about you anymore. I pray you're healthy and happy (which, quite frankly, you're not) and I miss your family, but I don't think about you. As far as girls go, I only ever think about Ella. Shoot me for putting her on a pedestal, but please, find me a girl in Britain who can match her intelligence, beauty and personality. I've yet to find one. You need to realise that you are no longer numero uno, and I won't come running anymore.
I can't be dealing with your mood swings, your hissy-fits and your constant bickering. I don't love you anymore. I haven't for a long time. You need to realise this. I hate the person you have become. I hate everything you stand for. I hate your hair, I hate your fake boobs, I hate your stupid earrings and I hate the fact you always try to one-up me. The reality is, I'm thriving, whereas you're merely surviving.
I'm home! Back to my all-too-familiar surroundings. My house, my bed (oh man, I've missed my bed!) and my neighbourhood. I feel absolutely disgusting. I have just returned from a week of solid partying and drinking and I am absolutely completely exhausted. I have a sore throat, a cough, a cold, my body aches, my right nipple has been bitten by a mosquito and swollen up, my skin is dry and my shoulders are peeling from the sunburn. So yeah, basically, I'm a complete mess right now. But boy, that was a fantastic week and exactly what the doctor ordered, although I can see myself having some serious holiday blues over the next week or so. I need to book up my flights to Boston ASAP so I have something to look forward to.
I have Death Cab to look forward to I guess. Although I haven't invited anybody, and I have two tickets. Part of me wants to invite Annie, because, well, it's Annie. Sure, she's a pain in the ass but at least I know it will be just two friends hanging out and I think she would really appreciate it.
So, my holiday was quite literally the most relentlessly fucked-up week I have ever had. From getting in a cab and driving half an hour away with two Dutch girls, to sleeping with a French girl I had only met half an hour earlier, to getting absolutely mortaled on the boat trip, to being dubbed the 'Virgin Slayer', it was one rollercoaster after another. And the 'Captain Cuddles' persona was born. See, there were a couple of girls I met on holiday who I didn't really want to sleep with, so we ended up just having a spooning session and chatting. Of course, the other lads mocked me, hence the moniker was born. 'Captain Cuddles'. Hey, I've had worse nicknames! And I do love a good cuddle.
So I got back today at around 1pm, and since then I have pretty much done nothing. Put a load of washing on, had a power nap and put the photos up on Facebook. I plan on spending as much time as possible this weekend sat on this very sofa. I have gaffer-taped the remaining cigarettes so I won't be tempted, and I'll pop round the rents tomorrow and give them to my Mum. No more smoking, and no more drinking, at least until the end of the month. I don't want to see a San Miguel ever again in my life.
So now Magaluf is all done and dusted, it is all about travelling. Monday I'm back in the office and it's back to working my socks off and saving as much as possible. I need to take it easy with the anxiety and everything, but the way I look at it, it's not so much the amount of time I spend in the office, rather the amount of time I don't spend relaxing or enjoying myself. There's nothing wrong with living hard, but I need to make sure I go out and enjoy myself. Work hard, play hard. May next year I'll be jetting off to Thailand and I'm hoping the time will fly by.
Leigh was absolutely fantastic this week. We are very similar and we got on like a house on fire. I think it could be the start of a great wingman partnership. We both wear our hearts on our sleeves and we both like to talk about everything and anything. He really made a great impression on me, so I think that this new friendship is one of the best things to have come out of the holiday. "ROOMIE!!"
Anyway, emotionally, I'm pretty much void at the moment. I don't really feel like I have anything on my mind, perhaps because physically I am in such a state, I don't have the energy to do anything. It's nice to go to bed and not sit there and ponder the world. I feel like all I want to do right now is sleep, sleep, sleep. I'd say the last week I've averaged around 4 hours a day, split over two sessions. So I probably didn't hit REM sleep at all throughout the holiday. That's seriously unhealthy. It's now 12:25am and I'm about to hit the hay, and I don't plan on getting up anytime before 10am. It is going to be pure bliss.
That's not even a nice word. If Doc is going to diagnose me with something, at least make it sound cool. Like Gastroenteritis, or Hypochondria. Murmur just sounds pathetic.
However, I am alive. And if my ECG and blood test results are anything to go by, I shouldn't be collapsing anytime soon, so I feel good. I still need to have an Ultrasound on my chest (I'm sure they called it something cooler than that at the Hospital but I can't for the life of me remember what it was) and I still need to take it easy, but I'm glad there's nothing wrong with my ticker. I don't know what I'd do without it.
So its Saturday afternoon and I've just worked my way through a mountain of celebratory cheesey beans on toast, and I am walking around the house trying to work out what I still need to get for Magaluf. I haven't had a workout for a week and a half and I still don't feel physically up to it, but I feel like I've lost definition and size already. Bad times. I always wonder whether women actually like muscles. Some women I've met love them, but a lot of women don't seem to care. I'd love to know what your opinions are, particularly my followers from across the pond. I picture all American college guys to be completely ripped jocks who play water polo. I might be wrong.
...
And it's now Sunday evening. At 23 years old, these hangovers are getting worse and worse. The 24-hour hangover is becoming a regular thing. What a fantastic night out though. And I hooked up with a gay girl, which I feel is quite an achievement. A UV bubble machine, my new Skechers and copious amounts of crazy green thick gloopy spirits make for one entertaining night. Good times all round.
Sheesh. I sure know how to jinx this Blog. There's me talking about a lack of life-changing revelations, and then BAM. Crazy things start happening. It's like the big man upstairs is reading this Blog and fucking with me. You crafty one, you.
So last Friday, at around 3pm, I had what I believe was a Panic attack (or Anxiety attack, I'm still not sure if there is a difference). I couldn't breathe and I felt like I was going to pass out. I was sent home and spent the whole weekend gasping for air and struggling to catch my breath after the most basic of activities such as eating a large meal or speaking a long sentence. But, being a Mitchell, I soldiered on assuming things would just get better in a few days. But they didn't.
So I get home from work yesterday to find the whole block has no electricity. After the initial excitement of the potential of an impending Zombie Invasion, it became clear this powercut was not one of the cool kind, particularly when the pneumatic drill decided to wake me up every ten minutes at 3am. Then, at just before 5am, the street finally lit up. And then the shit really hit the fan. The burglar alarm had reset and starting going off. And I couldn't find the reset code. So after 5 minutes of one of the most horrificly peircing sounds I have ever heard, I decided to cut the wire.
Stay with me. There's more.
8am. I'm outside the Doctors to book an appointment.
9am. I'm in Tesco replacing the defrosted contents of my freezer. The entire freezer. Did I mention I'm on a real strict budget with saving for travelling?
10am. Doctor's appointment. She whips out that crazy stethoscope thing. Turns out I may have a heart murmur. I'm sent for an ECG and a blood test, with the view to having an ultrasound next week.
1pm. I'm at the hospital. The doctor nearly had to shave my chest because the little sensor pads wouldn't stay on. IT'S NOT EVEN THAT HAIRY!!
2pm. Back to the GP to give her my results.
And now I wait, which is probably the worst part. I want to know I'm alright. I feel like I'm in limbo at the moment with the holiday a little over a week away and my attendance looking less likely by the day. No gym, no protein shakes, no beer, no cigarettes, no caffeine, no work. Just me, at home, with 6 One Tree Hill Boxsets to keep me company.
Wait. Why am I complaining again? :D
I'm trying to work out why I had the panic attack on Friday. I've come to the conclusion that it was lots of different thing. Stress from working so much overtime. Stress from breaking up with Annie last year and dealing with her mess. Stress from saving every penny possible. From worrying about what I'm going to do with the house, the furniture. Physical stress from the gym and the strict diet of massive amounts of protein and as little fat as possible. And that's just scratching the surface. It's weird though, I actually felt happy. The last few weeks I've been in a glorious mood despite all of the above. Very odd.
I miss Ella. She is in Istanbul this week. I think I'm going to go and see her in September in Boston. I figure, free accommodation, free cooking and free beer is too good an offer to refuse, especially when I'll be sharing that bed, food and beer with the girl I DEFINITELY AM NOT INFATUATED WITH. Definitely not.
Alas, I sit here with my green tea watching Red Dwarf feeling sorry for myself. I need cheering up.
