I consider myself, sometimes. And usually, it’s in a pretty goddamn flattering light. I’m great. I’m pretty goddamn fantastic. I have top-notch self-esteem. I know other people have low days, hell, I have low days, but as low days go they’re pretty damn high.
But when you’ve got a WordPress closet full of unpublished bling because you’re too lazy to touch it, a living space that took you eight hours to excavate out from all the knee-deep crap that’s been accumulating for the past few weeks and you haven’t even begun your homework or the laundry, well, it’s pretty damn easy to say “I suck”.
And then that tiny “I suck” morphs into this massive all-consuming tidal wave of fiery self-doubt that hovers over you all day, roaring in your ears, screaming softly into your unsuspecting ears
“You are not good enough”
“Nothing you do matters”
“If money grew on trees, you’d be damn successful–as it is, good luck ever moving out of your parents’ house, you underachieving good-for-nothing self-serving piece of self-centred shit”.
That was yesterday.
Today, I’m feeling unbelievably sexy. Seriously, people, come at me.
I will charm your socks off.
© Emily Bragg 2013