ME, MYSELF, A PRICK

I found myself saying "Past Philip, you are ever my nemesis". I don't speak up like that often - to myself, I mean. I prefer to write such things down, as I tend to think I've gone mad when I talk to myself. This, however, was one of those days where I could not keep my so imagined talk out loud demons at bay. It's not that Past Philip had committed any serious offence, mind you. He'd merely forgotten to clean the rice cooker and had thwarted my plans of using it immediately.
Alas my nemesis, he remains. A twenty something year long unbroken blinking contest is how I can best describe our relationship. Me with an expression close to frustration and him with a blissful smile of ignorance. Smug, I'd say. As if he knows whatever he isn't doing will be none of his responsibility and all of mine. It's always me that's cleaning a tower of dishes instead of a small pile. It's me cleaning up folders filled with odd labelled files like funky vibe, as if I will know exactly what that's doing in the serene piano folder. 

I'm almost convinced he's unaware that this war of wit is in full force. He's currently winning by doing nothing in particular, which in my opinion seems a bit unfair. Pardon, maybe war might be a bit of a strong word. I'd say it's more a passive aggressive pen letter exchange. I suppose this piece of writing is a written variety of one such debate. My side of the story, obviously. I am soon to be Past Philip myself, and I'm sure Future Philip will have quite the field day when he realises I've been writing this instead of that novel or musical we are currently working on. Just as confident as I am of that, I am sure he'll have his own excuse for why he isn't working on those things himself. All I'll say is Past Philip has his own retelling of the events that Current Philip has willfully forgotten.

I suppose he’s not that bad. He keeps to himself mostly. He usually pops in for a quick glance at my irritations whenever small inconveniences cross my path. Like a singular piece of Lego on the floor of my life, ready for my metaphorical foot of anxiety to step on. He likes to put stuff in the wrong drawers, my computer charger in the first place I should look, but don't. I sometimes accuse my partner of things he's done. I'll be throwing a temper tantrum about where they've put a certain cable or USB drive and will have to apologise for what my past self has been up to. It's like a year long unfunny secret Santa on the verge of dying my milk green and hiding all the matching socks.

I'm not trying to make you pick favourites. Even if he does seem like the more villainous of the pair. This war is initiated by two unlikeable parties, with incredibly similar shortcomings and strengths. That being said, he was the one who was supposed to have stayed in therapy a bit longer, or taken an education, or appreciated moments more when they were actually happening. He was supposed to do a lot of things, as all our past villains were. 
I often think to myself, what if he had just made a different decision? If he had decided to swallow his pride and take that job then maybe things would be different. Maybe if he’d stayed at uni the people I have since lost would still be here. I have grown to accept that maybe those choices would have mattered, but Current Philip can do nothing about it. Unfortunately. 
As much as I can despise that smug grin on his oblivious little face, I can't help but be happy for him as well. He doesn't know of the hardships of a few years or months or days from now. And I suppose neither do I. I am my own villain - he said, trying not to sound pretentious. In a few hours time, when I get home and empty crisp packets litter my living room floor they will be left for Future Philip, that I am almost sure of.

As much as I often stare at Past Philip with infuriated twists in my face and flared nostrils, I sometimes stare back with a smug smile of my own. Just as punchable and hard to look at. Noone tell him, but overcoming the hardships he's left for me is surprisingly satisfying; even if the littering is getting a bit obnoxious. 

Get that sorted, you bellend.

Yours and Mine
Philip