Y’know what’s weird? Friends Who Become Successful.

Y’know what’s weird? When you and a bunch of your not-successful old friends get invited to a dinner party by an old friend who’s become famous, and the night is pleasant enough, but as some of your old non-famous friends leave you notice that your now-famous friend is listing their character failings the moment they’re out the door.

And you realise that this pattern is repeating, and the moment you go the remaining guests are going to discover exactly why you’re a failure too.

And you then understand that the dinner party was never about friendship, but rather a chance for your successful friend and the old friends she considers acceptable to define exactly how good they are, using everyone else as a measure of how bad they could be and how far they’ve come.

And you grit your teeth and back away, knowing that even a hint of discontent is going to be read as an inability to cope with the frustration of being around old friends who make it, and are thus perfect, unlike you.

So you wave goodbye and say thanks, thanks because you know you’ve learned something sadly and horribly valuable. You even say cheerio to the wannabes who you know are a whole different kettle of fucked to your famous friend, and being judged inferior by them is beyond anything you can cope with considering you didn’t drink that much cos you’re driving a long long way away.

And as you drive away you don’t look back and you find you can now wretch in a way that produces no bile but feels even worse than puking up your guts.

And you decide then and there to embrace your procrastination and your psychological problems, and you even decide to forgive your friend for telling you that of course she can’t follow you on twitter because people look at that stuff and there are standards to be maintained (srsly).

And it goes well for a couple of months until one day you decide to put this shit on the interwubs in the hope that by neatly pruning the past some new blooms might grow in the future (but you secretly fear you’re lobotomising the past and reducing the future to nothing but drooling obscurity and longwinded dissections of minutia you’re better off putting in a little box labled This Is Why I’m So Fucked).

And what's going to happen next? What do you want to happen next? You don't know, any more than you know how you got here to Nowheresville in the first place. But at least you know that you genuinely like the people you invite into your house, and hey, you can list character failings in loving, pseudo-affectionate terms too.

That's what I find weird anyway.