A squirrel was after my nuts.

You know those globs of mascara that ominously appear in your eye triangle (you know the bit I mean right? I don’t know the actual medical term for eye triangle but you follow me right?)

Yeahhh you do.



You put your make up on slowly and with great care, it takes ages and because of this maximised effort you think you look phenomenal.

While you continue to get ready to leave the house, you consistently return to the mirror a total of you 86 times, just to check it hasn’t slidden (slod? Slodden? What is the past tense of slide?) off your face while you were looking for your keys.

It hasn’t.

Today is a perfect make up day.


You leave the house.

You get in the car.

The sun blinds you momentarily, so like hundreds of human beings before you, and no doubt as millions will after you, you take the appropriate course of action.

You blink.

Just like the other 74 thousand times you blinked post make up application.

This time was different though, but you don’t realise that.

So on you go on your merry way.

5 hours later, after a truly awkward business happening, you nip to the loo, only to catch sight of yourself in the harsh strip lit,  but horrifically clear bathroom mirror.

There are blobs.

Blobs so big Athlete could have written a song about them.

Big eye triangle blobs, akin to coal coloured sleep, protruding self righteously from the corners of your eyes.

The most humiliating thing of course, is that you thought you looked a million dollars and so have behaved as such, and yet, even though you saw at least four of your ‘friends’ on route, no bastard thought to mention to you, that you look like Adam Ant and you had better go sort your shit out.

You know what I mean now?

Well anyway.

I am pretty sure that each and every time I have a conversation with someone I need to impress, my mascara joins forces with those rogue white corner mouth sweat bits and no matter how much effort I have put in to looking like a goddess, I end up looking like a swamp tramp.

It’s not just my face that lets me down either.

It’s my ability to act like a normal human being. (Have you seen my wedding photos?)

‘What’s that on your arm?’

I blink lots and smile a little manically.

The mascara begins to clump and there is a bogey in my nose making it’s way down to say hello too, I can feel it. (Because why not? The bogey seems to jump around saying. The other two are at the party, why not a bit of snot to lighten the mood?)

Meanwhile I am silent and awkward, running through a list of possible responses.

‘I was playing violin with a carving knife?’

‘Next door’s cat is Wolverine?’

‘I got my wrist caught in a fishing net and unfortunately the fisherman had not kept his nets in regulation condition and so therefore I was tangled for quite sometime, causing some quite painful discomfort to my lower arm area?’

‘My husband tried to murder me with a pogo stick so I sliced my own arm off in a bid to use it as a weapon against him?’

Out of all the emotions I would usually struggle through in a day, coping with this god awful illness, it absolutely has to be said, that embarrassment is by far the worst.

As I sit here tonight in my Wonder Woman pyjamas (the shorts are blue by the way, they are ace! They look especially brilliant when I have had a drink and am running around the shared garden, in slow motion, OBVS, to the theme of the million dollar man.) I am feeling anything but wonderful.

In fact.

One may say, as I sit here burying my head under the sofa cushion, my not so wonder woman arse stuck up in the air, such is my need to hide my face right now, that I am ruminating.

I know normal is overrated but come on universe! Throw me a bone here!


They taught me about Rumination during my holiday in the mental hospital.

It was specifically brought up and discussed for my benefit.

Unfortunately however, it was brought up during the group session where one of the other inmates was trying to get my attention by piling tissue paper on my head and giving me repeated and most definitely unwanted wet willy’s. (Wet finger in the ear. – stop being dirty.)

Unsurprisingly I wasn’t paying much attention.

Rumination is defined as the compulsively focused attention on the symptoms of one’s distress, and on its possible causes and consequences, as opposed to its solutions.

Now, I totally get it.

‘I had an argument with a huge dog, but I am ok, the dog is worse off. It didn’t need to be put down, but I am fine now, so lets move on….’

‘Oh that cut on my arm? Shark bite. Great White actually… yeah. I was diving in the barrier reef on my lunch. So what time are we starting as I need to take my flippers off.’

Rumination is similar to worry except rumination focuses on bad feelings and experiences from the past, whereas worry is concerned with potential bad events in the future.

‘Pardon? Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that?’

‘I asked what have you done to your arm?’

The room is quiet.

I now have the attention of four important people.

I had hidden my arm too by the way, but like a complete numpty, had got warm when I saw them coming and of course, had pushed my sleeves up without thinking.

I should have just said I didn’t know how it had happened and moved the subject swiftly on.

Rumination. (To be sung to the theme tune of ‘Imaginaaatiiionnn’ from here on in.)

I shouldn’t have been wearing that skirt, it was too short.


I shouldn’t have posed like an idiot for the photo.

I should have just acted normal and smiled.

I should just be quiet.


I should just stop talking.

Why why why why am I such an ugly fat fantastical failure at everything I do.

Everyone thinks I am a twat.

Oh god what have I done.


I need damage control.

There is no damage control.

Why is my mascara turning against me?

‘I have mental health issues and am currently experiencing feelings akin to suicidal thoughts. Except I don’t want to die. I want to cease to exist. To stop feeling. I cut myself with anything I can get my hands on as it dims the feelings of taking an overdose. If I die my husband will take my son to Ireland. I don’t want him to grow up more than 5 miles away from a Starbucks. It’s all costa in Ireland. SO. I can’t die, you see. I must live on.’


Oh no.

No I didn’t.

Oh dear god.

No I didn’t.

He is stammering and looking awkward.

This has not started well.

And it did not improve much from there either.

But hey! At least I was honest right?

I am flying the flag for mental illness?

Oh I am so embarrassed.


Not the best start to an interview. 

And also?

I pouted on the photo they took to go with my CV.


Why oh why am I such a prick?

You wanna know what I look like when I pout?

Screen Shot 2014-03-23 at 23.07.27


I look like I am having a stroke don’t I?

Today can just shit off!


5 Comments on “A squirrel was after my nuts.

  1. Sounds so much like the kind of social suicide that I perform on a daily basis. Sometimes I’m all poster child for bipolar, doing my bit for mental health. Other days I’m more wish I hadn’t spoken and convinced everyone on the school run that I’m a nutter.

Ah go on go on go on - reply?

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