It occurred to me one evening, laptop balanced on stomach, pyjama top covered in crisps, that if I was ever to be killed by a Killer Whale (like the poor woman in the documentary), Fiona Bruce would look up from her BBC News desk and describe me as a 24 year-old unemployed woman.

That was a turning point. I am not a 24 year old woman:

  • I still find pants in my drawer that are labelled by age rather than size.
  • I have three meals in my repertoire- two of which only call for a fork.
  • I have no job (granted I’m a masters student but that decision was fuelled by a previous existential crisis).
  • The longest I have kept a potted plant alive for was two weeks.
  • The jingle from an ice cream van excites me.
  • The mere notion that i’ve had to edit this list.

Maybe I’ll stay like this until I’m 80; still squeezing myself into a pair of white knickers labelled ’11-13′ while a video of a cat learning the accordion plays in the background.

I knew I should have learned how to use Photoshop, or tweet, or Instagram pictures of my butt with all the correct hashtags. Oh well. The world can wait for that delight.

This is basically for all the moments when you stop for a moment and think ‘What the fuck am I doing with my life?’


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