Dear reader,

I don’t think anyone enjoys the loss of a loved one, but I am so over death at this point.

We said goodbye to my nan this week. It was a lovely send-off, and it was great to see family who only ever seem to come together in the same room for a loss.

But, and this could be because I lost my adoptive mother just before my 15th birthday, I am so over the ceremony and pomp surrounding death. It’s not for the person who’s gone, is it? It’s for the people who are still here, and I find something narcissistic in that.

I don’t want a send-off. Just plant me under a tree and have done with it. That would represent the opposite of everything I hate in humanity, and frankly, it would be perfect.

With that said, I’m back home now and, aside from an hour playing Fortnite, I’ve been back on the job hunt.

It’s not going well, as anyone who’s seen my LinkedIn or TikTok profiles will probably have gathered.

Running theme here… I despise pomp and circumstance.

One particular question that’s got my goat this evening came courtesy of a Co-op job application:

“As a convenience retailer you will be required to provide additional hours of when you’re available to work over and above your contracted hours to cover sickness, holidays and during our busiest times. Would you be happy to do this?”

The same application then goes on to ask about my gender, with two qualifying questions, followed by my sexuality and religion.

Sorry, how does any of that reflect my ability to stack some bloody shelves? It’s ridiculous.

I’ve spent the last few years trying to find consistent part-time employment alongside my studies, and I’ve had virtually no luck. I’ve had my CV checked, my cover letters are okay, and I’ve taken advice from just about everyone willing to offer it.

Yet here I am, feeling like a fundamentally useless adult.

I just want to be able to support myself. Why is that too much to ask for in 2026?

There have been some toxic conversations with important people in my life about this too, as if I’m not trying at all. Everyone wants to tell you how easy it is, what you need to do and where you need to look, but the practicalities quickly become very real obstacles.

I don’t drive, and I live in East London. Getting around London is insane, and a part-time job needs to cover the transport as well as keep me fed and watered alongside my studies.

I’m not being fussy with the jobs I’m applying for. I am genuinely doing my best.

As if I’m not already living with bipolar, juggling studies, trying to do journalism and constantly convincing myself to take my medication in the face of how utterly stupendous the feat of being a functional human appears to be.

“Are you going on holiday this year?”

Girl, I’ve got £5 in my bank account, £4K in rent to find, and I can’t get a job for love nor money.

The shifts I do get as a student ambassador, a job I absolutely love, are sporadic, so I never quite know how I’m getting from one week to the next.

This is going to sound terribly dramatic if you exist anywhere other than in my head, and most of you, hopefully, do.

But I am genuinely starting to question the point of anything.

I’m not finishing this degree and walking straight into a job in journalism, not without a top-up course.

I am fundamentally just a gay, fat bloke with a theatre obsession and a website. Oh, and a Rising Star something-or-other award from the university, which probably just means I turned up to the end-of-year conference and award ceremony.

I want to get into bed and stay there, forever.

Surprisingly, despite feeling like I want to go on one absolute and definitive blowout, avoiding all my problems along the way, I’ve sent an email to the welfare officer at ResLife about my rent and how I’m going to get through the next few months.

So perhaps I don’t want to give up completely.

I just hope I can get through this without having to fight to pull even more of my life together after the last two months.

I don’t think it’ll get that bad, but you never know.