I will turn 30 on the 30th of this month, which was not an age I’d really planned on reaching and was in fact previously supposed to be the point at which a friend of mine and I enacted our grandiose suicide pact. As the gentleman in question now has a) a stunningly pretty boyfriend, b) a flourishing and well-regarded business that he recently took to the London Alternative Fashion Week, c) a frightening quantity of good friends and d) a really good relationship with his parents, I somehow doubt that he’s any more into “take acid and jump off a carpark” than I am, now.
This just goes to show, I suppose, that a lot can happen in the seedy years between adolescence and what will have to pass for maturity (I’m not sure it’s actual maturity until I’ve stopped doing energetic dances at dinosaur skeletons where members of the public can see me or learnt how not to refer to things as “bangin’!”, especially when said things are, for example, pre-Raphaelite paintings). While I’m still medically and legally completely bonkers and not likely to be cured of it, all the frantic wallbanging and hideous desperation has been drained out in a long series of slowly improved friendships and less hateful jobs, and in the company of one very patient man who is currently trying to fry bacon with his arm in a sling.
I can’t really muster the requisite introspection just yet – I’ll save that for the actual birthday – so I’ll settle for being surprised, pleasantly even, that I still haven’t joined the choir eternal and no one dislikes me quite enough to shove me under a bus any more. Oh, and for prodding people at my Amazon wishlist, because why the hell not? It is a little weird-looking, primarily because I use it as a reminder list rather than a hopeful request to the kindness of passing strangers … usually.