Dear Diary,

My life is sometimes like a lost episode, or breaking bad when they have the flashbacks. I am constantly reminded of memories of the past. That's often in the background of my mind and experiences.

Thursday:

Editor has left the magazine and we are going to a piss up in his honour. Editor says: 'I don't have as much social anxiety because everyone here is here for me tonight!'. I get lots of bizarre comments about my body which make me feel uncomfortable. Not because of what they said (although it is), but because of my own issues.

One guy hugs me and says my body is like stone and he could rest in my arms all night, which was a bit gay for a very macho man to say. What liberating times we live in to be so genderfucked to say such things (not sarcasm). Editor then says I'm the buffest guy on the desk. I feel strangely proud of that. But then that pride turns to Christian/Catholic pride (the sin which should invoke shame).

Another guy says to me later on in the night: when you have your hair down (out of the bun) you look like a God. I blush. I then say trying to hold my composure - I know that a little bit already. I then wink at him

Flashback: Sweaty sex with my first love, my hair over her face as I'm on top of her in penetrative sex. She loves the feeling of my hair fully over her head and face, longer than hers, longer than most men's, down almost to my hips (when wet). I Didn't realise it then but I really was a sex god.

I smile, thinking of this memory, in another conversation, in another time period, in another era of my life, in another version of who I am supposed to be.

I went home on the tube, with some colleagues.

I am in my darkest points of my life. In hospital, being assessed by duty nurses. Filling out forms in a panic. I believe my life is over

I try to hide the fact that I feel a real sense that I fit in to this motley crew of folks.

I get home. The olympics are on. I watch the badminton. I eat some shitty junk food and can't be arsed to eat my protein. I sit in my clothes

I've come home on my own after many nights out. Feeling alcohol filled and alone with my thoughts. In those instances I wonder what is worse: facing my demons while drunk, or facing them sober. Of course sober means another thing to me - not the absence of any influences of alcohol or things like that, but the calm reflective and hard look on my life

It's a night out, everyone is about to finish their master's degrees. I am eating with a world famous Kant scholar with university professors. I am star struck.

Last night was a night out, I met esteemed cartoonists, editors of big wig publications, radio critics, tv critics, people who know people, media types and I hold my own in conversations. I like how I am asked personal questions from my colleagues and team. I never thought my life could be like this.

It's a wednesday, I think. I can't remember. I wake up at 6-7pm every night because I can't sleep and I can't stay awake atthe same time. The only succour I have is through masturbating and going to eat horrible chinese food that isn't like the place back home. I think about how I want to kill myself. I was going to go back home this weekend to for a family birthay, sister's 30th. I never made it. Yet I didn't die.

But maybe I did. I sometimes believe that I've been dead for a while, and the life that has happened since then is some bizarre sorcery that stops me from decomposing. I am decomposing, my mind and body warping into something I don't recognise.