Sunday, 13 November 2016


They say you can tell a lot about a person by the kind of underwear they wear. Me? I was always about as adventurous as my cotton reasonably-priced three packs.

Somewhere along the way that changed, and I'm not just talking about my lingerie habits.

You see, not to be that person, but well, shit happensThings fall apart; the center cannot hold. And it only seems fitting to act out in retaliation, do something crazy, maybe even a little Elvis-y like putting a bullet in your television set. Or you know, the pedestrian equivalent– 

Like impulsively getting a dramatic haircut or highlights in a bright shade of pink. Maybe getting a few piercings, or even a back tattoo. Or you could choose to find comfort in making out with crappy boys, sneaking cigarettes into your bedroom, partying way too hard and guzzling way too much alcohol just because it makes you feel invincible for those five seconds. Then you attempt to balance your giant shame spiral by binge-watching every adaptation of Wuthering Heights ever made while nursing a bad hangover and eating stale french-fries from the day before in bed. 

I'd know. Because in the last couple years, I sprinted through all of these phases. And why? Not because I'd been feeling particularly rebellious but merely because I'd just been trying to keep up with all the constant change happening around me. And the only way I could see how, was to take Gandhi's be the change dictum waaay too literally and change myself. Rejecting everything I was and trying on different selves like they were hats— to the point of self destruction. Because when everything feels like it's slipping away, all you desperately want to do is prove that there are some things in your life that you can control, right? Right.

And for a while it felt good. To be able to burn the candle at both ends, carpe-ing the fuck out of diem, making all the mistakes, for all of the crazy stories I could tell the next day.

But here I am now. It takes no life-altering epiphany, maybe just a particularly bad hangover, to become drastically aware of the state of mediocrity that you currently reside in, to finally realize that maybe it's time to take some proactive steps to better your life. No, I'm not talking about going on a juice cleanse or burning all your junk food or anything as ridiculous. I'm talking about being true "to thine own self", the way Polonius intended for his son Laertes in Hamlet; because maybe I'm not built for downing five shots of rum neat. Deep down I know I haven't changed at all. I'm still that girl who makes bad puns and is too scared to watch horror movies alone.