Before you go wondering whether I’ve fallen off the edge of the planet (again), allow me to
reel off some excuses explain why I’m a little late with this post.
Okay, I actually did write a blog post three weeks ago. It’s just that I never posted it. I couldn’t really bring myself to post it because it was… well… quite depressing. I redrafted it several times, each time trying desperately to make it sound a little more chipper. And each time I thought that it was finished I’d tell myself to sleep on it and review it again in the morning before I published it. The next morning I’d wake up and start the editing process all over again. This went on for days and eventually I realised that I just couldn’t bring myself to publish it.
The post was about the fact I was consistently worrying about my future. I was worrying about being a writer, why I wanted to be a writer and if I’d ever really be one. I also wrote about how much I was worried that people saw me as deluded – and how sometimes I felt like there was some sort of judgemental crowd regarding my writer-aspirations as ‘something I should get over’ and that I should grow-up and get a proper job.
In my post, I suggested that in order to combat such worries of being deluded, aspiring writers should join together in some sort of support group. It would be Alcoholics Anonymous meets The Book Group – but with more tea and biscuits. And we would wear badges like this:
Anyway, not to completely launch into this whole debate all over again (and rewrite my original post for the 9 billionth time), but the reason I didn’t publish the post was because it was becoming a snowballing issue, and while it helped to write about it, I don’t think that the internet is the right place to broadcast feelings on an existential crisis (but it might make a very good book). I like to blog about my neurotic ways, and the embarrassing situations I get myself into on a fairly regular basis – but I couldn’t bring myself to confess all the anxieties I have about my future. That kind of chat is reserved for unsuspecting close friends after a few Mojitos.
So, basically what I’m saying is, by not publishing my post I saved you 5-10 minutes of your precious time. You’re welcome.
Realising the overly serious tone of my blog post of existential crisis (which I never actually published), I decided that (if I did publish it) I should maybe follow it up with something a little more light-hearted. So I considered writing a post detailing how much I cheated on my Primal diet – which involved scoffing a sausage and egg McMuffin, some sort of artisan luxury French chocolate gateaux and a pizza (or two). Sadly, I never got around to drafting it and since having the idea I’ve been on a jaunt to Spain and eaten my way through Easter. This means that previous diet cheats are comparatively insignificant. If you’re still curious as to how much I cheated on my Primal diet, then simply consult the following mathematical equation:
The day before I left for Spain, I was chatted up. Twice. In the same day. This was very strange for me, because I’ve never, ever been chatted up before. By anyone. Ever. This is because I have spent my life, in equal parts, being every girl’s ‘unattractive best friend’ and a total social recluse.
What happened? Well, it was a sunny afternoon and I had decided to spend the afternoon in town reading. A folded piece of paper was slid across the bench in my direction. ‘For you’ said man’s voice. I quickly discarded my initial thoughts that God was addressing me, and looked up to see a man scurry (with impressive speed) from the bench in the opposite direction. I unfolded the note:
Underneath was (presumably) his phone number.
I was about 9% flattered and 91% amused. The flattery stems from the fact that I’ve never been called beautiful before. Certainly not on paper. To put this in context, here’s a list of other things I have been called:
- Gale from Coronation Street
- Funny looking
- An airhead
- Flat chested
About an hour later, a boy (I don’t think he could have been older than 17) sat next to me and almost immediately struck up a conversation that went something like this:
Boy: What are you reading?
Boy: Are you a student here?
Me: Not exactly.
Boy: What do you do then?
Me: I want to be a writer.
Boy: Oh. Is that something you’re… passionate about?
Me: Er… Yeah.
Boy: YOU’RE VERY PRETTY!
Me: Er. Thanks.
Boy: [Laughs Nervously/Manically]
Boy: I can leave you alone if you want?
Me: [shrug] It’s fine. – I didn’t have the heart to say ‘Yes, please go away…
Boy: Sooooooo…. Can I er, see you again?
Startled, I shook my head and in a slightly more frantic manner than intended blurted NO! Then modifying it to a more polite ‘No, thank you,’ before realising that didn’t really make any sense. Then the boy laughed nervously again. Then he scurried away in the same direction as the last one.
Then I decided to do the rest of my reading at home.
In other news, Smoking Guy has had a haircut and developed a cough. We have still not conversed. Also, someone recently found my blog by Googling “professional smoking job”. Seriously, is that a real thing?