My fake life

Smoke fills the air. The lights are flashing - blue, pink, green. It’s so loud. I check my phone - the decibel meter shows 112dB, well above what's considered a "safe" level to prevent hearing loss. But everyone in here makes it seem so normal. It's no wonder divorce rates are so high. Would rather live alone then to have to repeat myself a trillion times on the daily.

That song "the final countdown" starts playing and everyone squeals with excitement. I forget about the volume and just dance. I love to dance. Everybody loves to dance. My friends are pumped. Dressed to the nines - blonde, Botox, big booties, snatched waists. If you ever saw an insta-worthy flock - this, was it.

My friend signals for us to head to the bathroom mid-song. Hell no. What is she thinking? I'm too intoxicated by the beat. "After this song!" I shout. Another friend appears with a round of drinks. I thank her, trying to remember her name. I almost forget. By this time, everyone looks the same with their duck lips. Wait. Should I be thanking her? I don't feel like I need more to drink. Why is she bringing me more? I wish we didn't need drinks to dance. Yet, I drink it anyway. Cause that's what you do.

"Nooo worries babe!" she manages to reply, her speech slurred. I wonder how she even managed to get served - we've had at least 6 drinks each, 2 above the Governments "safe" drinking range. And that's just in the club. You don't even want to know about pre-drinks. We're in "binge drinking" territory. Isn't it the licensee’s responsibility to "prevent a patron from becoming unduly intoxicated?" Oh well. Why fight it? We're just having fun, aren't we?

We head to the bathroom. I notice that my friend doesn't even use the toilet. She just wants pics. Selfies. We're always living for the gram. I look at the photos. We're pouting. I remember the days when pouting meant you were angry. I think these days, it’s a mechanism to look more attractive. Or are we angry? Who is that girl in the mirror? I can barely recognise her anymore. But I post the pics anyway.

A few minutes later I hear my phone buzz. The messages start filling my inbox. "Damn you look sexy" "You're gorgeous!" "Where you at?". These men are certainly visual creatures. Do they realize we use filters? I thought they liked the natural look. Well, at least that's what they tell me. I'm confused. I feel like a fraud. I don't actually look like this. You haven't seen me without make-up. I'm not that beautiful. It's all an illusion. But I love the hit of likes. It makes me feel good, doesn't it?

It’s now 6am and I'm doing the walk of shame home. I couldn't ask my fling for a lift. He'll see the mascara under my eyes. My patchy foundation. My bed hair. But I can't afford an Uber either - my accounts in the negatives. I stop by Maccas for a coffee - $5.50...the last of my change. But so worth it.

I pass a junkie near the footpath and look down as he asks me for $2. "Mate, I can barely feed myself, let alone you!" I laugh as I walk past, sipping my warm, delightful almond milk cappuccino. My bogan Aussie accent always more pronounced after I've had a few. My guard is down now that I'm not around my crew. I'm vulnerable. "Please girl, I know you're good for it" he begs. I chuckle to myself as I realise that, with my $10,000 credit card debt, this homeless dude is actually richer than me. I keep on walking.

As I progress through the 20,000 steps home, I contemplate my life. It’s actually quite a nice walk. The sun is rising, and the sky is a beautiful pink orange. I feel a bit seedy but at the same time, at peace. This moment feels so...insta worthy. I reach for my phone. No battery. I resent myself for not being able to just enjoy this moment for myself. What is wrong with me?

I start to compare myself to the junkie I'd just passed. At least he spends his days outside in nature. He doesn't live through an electronic device. I wonder where we both sit on the life fulfillment scale. How wide of a gap is there between us? I'd always assumed that my life was so much better than his. I mean, he injects heroin for a high. But then, I inject Botox for attention.

I try to alter the angle of my observations. Surely, I'm more content than he is? He has no shelter, no food. But I can barely afford groceries this week. Am I an addict? An alcoholic? What is an alcoholic exactly? I binge drink at least once a week. Or am I addicted to social media? I can't go 10 minutes without checking my phone. A phone addiction? I guess that looks pretty insane from an outside perspective. But it's normal, isn't it? Everybody else is doing it. What if I stop? Will I be lonely? Am I already lonely?

My head is full of questions. Nothing is black and white anymore. It’s just...all grey. I feel exhausted. I feel like I'm suffocating. My psychologist says I have anxiety. Is there something wrong with me? Or does everybody have anxiety? Is there something wrong with everybody?

I reach the end of my street but decide not to go home. I keep walking until I arrive at the beach - one of the perks of living on the Gold Coast. I start running like a crazy person and dive deep into the salty, refreshing ocean. My mascara is running down my face. My hair is drenched and I'm pretty sure I lost an earring on my way in. But I don't care anymore. The feeling is priceless.

After a few minutes of bliss, I realise that my phone is in my pocket. I'm guessing its dead by now.

My brain starts tick...tick...ticking. I try to shut it off. But the caffeine is kicking in. Is this how you give up a phone addiction? Cold turkey? Will I be a social outcast? Should I get a new one? Is it possible to live without it?

Yes, it is.

I can do this.

Today is a new day.

I’m sick of the need for constant attention.

The pictures. The pouting. The duck lips. The fake life.

No more phone.

No more social media.

Please...no more pouting.

I'm done.

I'm out.