I hate being away from my girlfriend.
I hate being away from my family.
I hate being away from Manchester.
I hate being away from The Lakes.
I even hate being away from London, which is weird because I don’t totally adore London.
I hate being away from people that I could, accurately or inaccurately, call friends.
I hate being isolated from what feels like everything I love, everything I’m only recently admitting I love, and trapped within a bubble of people I really don’t fucking get on with but have to smile at every time I go to the fucking toilet.
I don’t like people seeing me on my way to the toilet.
I hate feeling inadequate because of not measuring up to imperceptible, abstract ideals that I set myself on a case-by-case basis.
I hate not speaking the language but fucked if I’m gonna go out there and practise.
I hate beating myself up all the time for perceived mistakes.
I hate Philipe Pétain for no adequately explained reason.
I hate that nobody I know is as interested as I am in early firearms history.
I hate that I spent over £400 on a firearms and military history library.
I hate that I can’t stand by my interests.
I hate that if Scott ever finds this blog he’ll never let me hear the end of it.
Hate hate hate hate hate and anger.
I’m gonna play games and pretend this isn’t going on in my head.