I accidentally put my visage into half sepia and then I realised that it made my hair look softer than the first touch of two lovers reunited unexpectedly on a train platform after years apart, so I kept it
I don’t really have anything to say except my hair looked great today, like A+ tip top funky fresh, and also I’m about 60% sure that something awful might be about to happen but I am taking preventative measures to stop the thing from occurring (I am eating so much chocolate that I feel a bit sick and am changing my bedsheets)
Also, my coworker is in Paris. I am not in Paris. That hardly seems fair, does it?
Have you ever been to Paris?! I’m asking just out of curiosity. I don’t intend on tracing your footsteps and finding all the dead cells you shed there. Haha. I wouldn’t. No.
A moment of respect for the best of my Facebook statuses over the years.
When I get home, I might make a little video of me reading one of those short stories wot I wrote once
I also might not, but I might
so be on the look out for that, or alternatively don’t be
also I’m trying to do a VAT return and it’s not working at all as I planned and so I’m going to hold a pen really tightly in my fist for a few seconds because that will definitely help. It can’t help any less than what I’m doing right now (sitting and staring at a list of paperwork I need but don’t have)
I hope you are all having a tip-top Tuesday and that you woke up this morning with a spring in your step and joy in your heart and money in your bank account and a sense of purpose in your soul
In my life so far, I have met someone called James Kirk and someone called Edward Cullen. I won’t stop until I’ve met a human being with the name of every brown-haired protagonist in a culturally important and commercially successful franchise. Hannibal is next on my list.
Guys I’m going to die because I was looking through old files and I found this on my hard drive and whaaaaaaaaaaaat
I was a bit ill one day and I ended up writing this and it takes place on a spaceship that’s crashed into a crop field in Luxembourg and it’s about aliens who want to live on the moon and the aliens have named themselves after important cultural figures on Earth and they basically embody their namesakes because they’ve assimilated all their knowledge and personality
and I totally forgot about it until today and
I should not be allowed near computers when I’m delirious on Lemsip oh my GOD I’m dfg;sfdihgt
Fun things: the gender neutral pronouns you end up using when trying to describe your dating history to people you don’t know that well because you don’t know how tolerant they may or may not be
Oh wait, it’s not fun at all, is it
I have a lot of messages to reply to and I will reply to them I will I really will but at the moment I think I am going to go to bed and maybe make myself into a circle under the duvet because that’s always quite nice isn’t it
It’s OK. I don’t blame you. Mum bought the wrapping paper cheap at the supermarket. It was a good deal. It makes total sense that you’d use the same stuff, right? It was such a bargain. I bet you always loved bargains. Having to buy all those toys for all those kids. You must’ve got at least some on a BOGOF, bought a few on a buy-three-for-the-price-of-two deal. Yeah, it makes sense. The wrapping paper was just a bargain. I bet everyone used it that year. My mum. My dad. You. It’s fine. It makes total sense.
Dear future me,
First of all, you’d better still be there, you bastard. I’m not writing this to a ghost. If something else made you that way – let’s say some sort of awful plague swept the globe, or you got involved in a shady government plot – then I suppose I can forgive you for that, but if you’ve been consigned to an urn or a grave by your own hand, then you might as well not have been writing this. I often wonder if you’re still there. I mean, obviously, there’s going to be some point where you’re not, because no-one’s eternal, but I hope that that point doesn’t come for a good few decades.
I sometimes find myself thinking that it’s a surety that you’re not there any more, that my future self is as fleeting as every present passing second, and that every day I creep slowly and certainly towards the final incarnation of myself, nearing it a little more every day, and that I probably don’t have much further to go until the last version of myself. But you know, most days I don’t think like that; most days I’m convinced that you’re better than me, that you found a way to be at peace with yourself. I hope that’s true. I don’t want to write to an unachievable ideal, either.
So, yes. Future me. How is life in the far and ceaseless void? Do they have hover boards yet? Stupid question. Of course not. Back To The Future has a lot to answer for. But really, I hope that there are things in the future that have changed, made things a little easier for you. I hope that society has evolved enough that you can talk to strangers about your dating history without having to use gender neutral pronouns, for one thing. I hope that it’s evolved to the point where you can be honest about yourself, and the things you wanted once, and might still want. I don’t know how you feel. I just hope that, however you feel, it’s easy to feel it. Does that make sense? Probably not. That’s something else I hope – that you’ve become better at articulating and expressing things. You always struggled with that when you were me. You always used too many malapropisms, got flustered when you spoke and sunk into spoonerisms and vacant discourse. I hope that’s passed. You probably have a lot to say. I hope you can say it.
There are other things that I hope have happened for you, too. I hope you’ve realised that what happened to you before you were me – that wasn’t your fault. None of it. Even though I can say it now, I don’t fully believe it. I know objectively speaking that it’s true, because I’ve heard it said enough times. But I’ve lived through it too, too recently to quite detach myself and view it from the periscope of scar tissue that only time well spent can build, and it’s still a little too raw to inspect too thoroughly. At the moment, it was all my fault. I only hope that it wasn’t yours, too. It’s a lot of guilt to live with. You’ll remember that, of course. And I want to apologise for that – I’ve put you through a lot of things that weren’t mine to put you through. I took liberties with myself, and therefore with you. I was too harsh on all the people I’ve been, and the people I’ve yet to be will suffer for that. So, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all the bruises. I hope it’s all healed.
Lastly – never lastly, because I’ll never run out of things to say to you, to ask you, even if there’ll never be an answer forthcoming (I’ll learn that in all the steps it takes to get to you) – I hope you did something. I really hope you did. I hope you wrote those books. I hope you saw all the places you wanted to see. Venice! I hope you went to Venice. I hope you went to Venice and took awful photographs of the buildings and wrote horrible poetry on restaurant napkins. I hope you left a bit of yourself in all those places for me to find when I follow you. I hope you did and were everything I wanted you to be, because you (I) had (have) a lot of potential. I only hope you used it better than I did, and you’ve left enough of a path for me to trace. I need all the help I can get.
Thanks for all the memories. I’ll let you know when I get them.
PS please, please, always have been yourself.
Here is my entry for the You Know You’re British When accent challenge! I’ve lived in Cardiff for 21 years, with a 3 year on-and-off interim spent in Aberystwyth, so theoretically I should sound as Welsh as a leek riding a sheep. I don’t, though. I just don’t. How crushingly disappointing.