What is depression?
Is it just a chemical reaction, in the pit of your stomach like a cancer?
When you are told by 'professionals' that you cannot write, your confidence will inevitably be affected. It is then up to the aspiring journalist to do something about it, be proactive, practice until your fingers bleed - until you start to inhale the stench of cheap plastic keys eroding from the mesmerising flurry of digits protruding from your palm.
I, on the other hand, do not take criticism well, even constructive criticism. I am, as they say, depressed.
Fuck everyone and the stinking world we live in.
Fuck the media, fuck London, fuck Bath, fuck writing, fuck inverted pyramids, fuck careers and, most of all, fuck games.
Fuck game company PRs masquerading as games journalists . Fuck T-Shirts, fuck jeans, fuck trainers. Fuck short haircuts with a bit of fucking stubble.
Fuck the Internet. Fuck blogs. Fuck advice on how to write videogame news for 16 year old gamers.
Fuck getting a trendy flat near a trendy bar. Fuck expensive rent you can afford. Fuck art on your fucking wall. Fuck intelligent comedy/music/film.
Fuck awards shows, fuck festivals, fuck scouting the Internet all day for a nice cultural news story that would make a good feature. Fuck freelancing.
Fuck thinking you have a valuable opinion of games. Fuck thinking you can express your useless opinion in words. Fuck thinking you can add to the heap of shit people read every minute of every day, for the rest of your life.
Fuck it all.
I tell you what, how about I go and get the easiest, boring, pointless job this rotting society offers, spend my life playing games, die and wish I was back in my mother's womb waiting to explode in a fury of blood and dead tissue so I could try all over again.
Because that sounds infinitely more fun than going to an interview, getting pissed off, getting over it, trying again, getting pissed off again . . .
I'll get over this, don't worry, and I'll try again. Because I'm too much of a coward to give up. If I had an inch of bravery in my gaping soul, I would jack it in, but I can't.
The scariest thing is, if I come to realise I'll never be good enough to write about games, I have nothing to fall back on. I'm trained for nothing. All of a sudden I'm reminded of the summer, when Wayne Rooney got injured against Portugal and everyone started asking what Plan B was. Nobody had an answer. And we all know happened next, don't we?
I'm going to post this now before I lose my nerve.