I’m thirty-years-old now. Well, have been for like, four days. Thirty! Can you believe it? Well, dear friend and reader, I can’t really believe it myself. I thought I fucked my twenties up so badly that it’d kill me, but here I am, even fitting the same clothes.
Yeah, I dunno. What have I learned? Not to use mint & tea tree shower gel on sensitive areas unless I want to feel like I sat in Vapo-Rub all day? How to isolate myself so extensively that I’ll happily pay for delivery fees instead of leaving the house and walking two blocks? How to steam-clean pet smells out of any type of carpet?
What would my tombstone say if I died really soon? Here lies a really great recycler of paper, metals and glass. Fair to middling with the plastics. Dearly missed and probably annoyed about typos and queue jumping in another dimension. Another meatbag who tried to assign meaning to the chaos of life. Witness her desire to be remembered, and remember that not all types of plastic can be processed a second time, and forgive yourself for forgetting which ones.
Ugh, what the fuck. Is it midlife crisis time already? It’s good that I’m already kinda into prosecco and comfortable pants, then.
It’ll be fine.
*worries about property prices and finally remembers where the cat’s worming tablets are*