London – Day 5: Loneliness

It’s lonely here (for me)… others seem to make friends easily… I witnessed one girl make 9 friends in about 3.5 seconds. She just went over to a group and was like, “Hi”, “What- this, what-that?” You know, like asking lots of questions. But she was smiley and happy and young and pretty so of course people want to be friends with her. I’m not her so people don’t want to be friends with me.

Sometimes I say “hi” to other women and I get a response in a foreign language which reminds me this is an “international” community. Of the English speakers I hear Ozzy accents more than anything else but apparently they’re not Ozzies – they’re New Zealanders – but they sound like Ozzies.

I’m about 10 years older than a lot of people here so I sort of feel like a “mom”. I notice they refer to people my age as “the adults” but don’t really have anything to do with us. We’re on different sides of the fence. Psychologists say that at each stage in life there’s a sort of “death” – I forget the official name of this theory – who we are changes between baby and toddler, toddler and child, child and teen…etc. Although we may retain the memories from the past, we become fundamentally different people. Maybe that’s not true for everyone but for me I think it is. I can’t relate to the 20-something experience anymore, not that I ever fully could…

Many people here are ambitious 20-somethings. They travel the world having “experiences”, they talk about where they’ve been before (Croatia…New Zealand…), where they’re going next… (Tokyo… Dubai…). Stuff I can’t relate to. I’m 30-odd (old enough to have a teenage kid) and I travelled 200 miles from home and had panic attacks. Although I guess I was more ambitious in my 20s but I’ve always been a worrier and been cautious about where I go and what I do. I travelled America and Europe in my late teens and 20s but nowhere as exotic as these people go.

As I get older I find I’m more interested in comfort and familiarity than wild adventures. This experience has made me really understand that development and also understand that the unobserved life (the quiet life), at least for an introvert, is worth living and sometimes much more enjoyable than the observed life.


London – Day 4: Around the Hostel

Tuesday – today I tried the shower at the hostel after 3 days of not trying the shower for fear of it being cold or germy or cold – I hate cold showers! Well it was hot so at least that’s something! Especially with staying here a month, cold showers would be unbearable. But the shower only has one button which ominously has a “cold” blue button and you have to keep pressing it every 3 seconds to keep the water flowing which is annoying AF. And it was germy and awkward cuz there’s no where to put your stuff while you shower except outside the shower where it may disappear and 50 people used it before you went in there.

I notice there are many long-termers here. It’s so common that when I checked in for the maximum 30 days the guy on reception asked me to let him know early if I planned to staying longer. Some people seriously “live” here. As hostels go its not bad – near a tube station, curtains on the beds (bunk beds), ok bathroom (even if it’s a mile away from the bedroom) and people leave me alone. But it’s not a home, it feels like a refugee camp.

If I can stick this out I intend to stay other places – a new hostel every month – because… there may be somewhere better and its more interesting to move around but I would consider returning here at some point. My main goal right now is to make it through the week. We do a different module each day at university so I don’t really know what to expect at this point and that uncertainty is fuelling my anxiety. If I get through the week I need to get registered with a GP to get more meds for my anxiety and get counselling – although the though of doing those things fills me with anxiety.

London: Day 1 – Anxiety!

This is “the first day of the rest of my life” so people tell me. I’m heading to London from the North of England to do a Masters degree in Computer Science. Because of finances (I’m broke), I will be indefinitely staying in youth hostels where I’ll have to share dorm rooms with around 30 other people.

*trigger warning: post discusses triggers of anxiety and panic attacks

I’m not very enthusiastic. about anything anymore. In my 20s, everything was exciting. Now in my 30s, the opposite. People say that can happen with depression and/or anxiety but I think its just because I’m getting older. I still keep thinking as if I’m in my 20s lie, “Yeah, I’ll go to London and do a masters degree!!!” In my 20s, that would have been sooo much fuuunnnn!!! But, in my 30s, I feel mentally and physically ill equipped for such “fun”. I guess there’s still a remnant from my 20s which causes me to do these crazy things.

I have social anxiety and depression. My anxiety levels have been higher than ever in the weeks leading up to this journey. Everything scares me: people scare me, flocks of pigeons scare me, the London underground definitely scares me. It’s so hot and so noisy, it’s like screaming banshees are surrounding the train! I am trying numerous things to combat this anxiety (except proper therapy and drugs… but I may get to those soon if this carries on) but nothing is working well enough.

I’m like a time bomb, unable to control my own mind and body. I feels so fragile knowing I can’t trust my own self to stay conscious and calm. At any given time I can go from “ok” to very not ok and I have no idea when/where. It is a horrible feeling. I also feel very alone because I don’t know anyone in London. As an introvert with social anxiety, I usually try to avoid people (even more so since this recent situation!) but right now I wish I had a friend to talk to.

Dating In Your 30s

Sometimes I wonder whether I’m ever gonna meet a guy, before it’s too late…

Everywhere I look, I see couples loved up and making memories together. Every gal I know is perpetually in a relationship and they get to have all those lovely dating experiences like going to the movies, having dinner in a romantic restaurant, trips to the fairground, romantic holidays abroad, or even just cuddling up on the sofa – all that nice relationship stuff that you miss out on when you’re single.

And here’s me sat at a computer with messy hair, eating a massive bowl of cereal, realizing that the only long-term committed relationship I’ve ever been in is with my laptop computer. Well hey, at least it’s reliable!

I mean, I’ve dated more guys than I wish to remember. But most of my relationships don’t last longer than a three-course meal. A three-course meal at McDonalds.

Problem is, like a lot of introverts, I’m picky. Because introverts are generally OK on our own, we end up being less desperate and more choosy. And if we let someone in, they have to fit into our introvert lifestyle otherwise we’d go insane! But that doesn’t necessarily mean we like being alone. Some introverts do. But some of us long for a special connection with someone, to share our life with the right person, to put down roots.

But, it’s difficult to meet men in real life if you’re introverted. Or if you’re over 30. And especially if you’re both.

Dating in your thirties is different than dating in your twenties. First of all, once you’re over 30, most men are already married anyway. Else they have tons of baggage like kids, addiction issues, weight issues, kids, divorce, debts, kids.


Secondly, in your thirties, forty is hanging over you like a big cloud of doom and there’s a sense that, if you’re not already in line, you’d better get in line: get married, get a mortgage, get a family car, have kids, buy a white picket fence, pretend to be living happily ever after. I often relate it to musical chairs. Everyone is trying to find their seat before the music stops (at 40!). Because, like they said in Sleepless in Seattle, you have more chance of getting killed by a terrorist than you have of getting married over 40.


Another problem is that online dating tends to be the go-to for introverts (and us older folks) but trying to meet a guy through online dating is difficult. Trust me, I’ve on-and-off online dated for 10 years. Am I in a loving, committed relationship? Yes! With my computer, remember?

A lot of men online are unstable, insecure, and perverted. They think you’re supposed to marry them by the second date. Or sleep with them within an hour of meeting. Or they’re players. Or they’re psychopaths. Usually all of the above. To be fair, I’ve heard a lot of women on dating sites are just as bad. Online dating brings out the worst in people.

Meeting someone in real life is much better. But it’s hard. How do you meet someone in real life?! A typical introvert’s social circle is not particularly big (mine consists mainly of married women and gays). And when you’re over 30, who in your workcircle is not already married with kids?

Well, there’s always Larry…larry

Back to Meg Ryan crying…


It guess it’s like Prince said: Until I find my righteous one, computer blue.

Although, I actually have no idea what he meant by that… Oh well, back to my cornflakes.

People Don’t Need to Know I’m Gonna be Homeless.

Everyone thinks I’m going off to live this wonderful life in the big city; I’m too ashamed to tell them the truth…

I’ve been accepted onto a Masters course in the big city – London! Sounds great, right? I mean, this is a good thing! It’s great! I’m happy about it! This was my dream…

Rewind to how this all came about. A glorious spring morning in 2016, I was lying on the floor, bawling my eyes out and trying to think of the quickest way to kill myself. Because my life had counted for nothing. I had dreams… That’s only human, right? Some people have big dreams, some people have simple dreams, and some people are quite happy waking up and going to work and coming home and eating their TV dinner in front of some reality TV show and going to bed and waking up and living Ground Hog Day every damn day of their damn lives in Punxsutawney, Pissville. But, I’d had enough! I was literally sick to death of living in Punxsutawney, Pissville!

My dream was to move to America (where everyone I know lives) and be a professor. Y’see, I’m an academic person. Some people love hair & beauty. Some people love soccer. I love education. I love learning new things about the world. And everyone I know lives in America; I’m lonely in the UK. In that moment of lying on the floor, bawling my eyes out, I realized that there were only two options available to me. So I stopped crying, picked myself up and started working towards my goal of moving to America and becoming a professor. Getting a really useful Masters qualification is the second big step towards that goal (the first was getting my teaching qualification). America doesn’t just let anyone in. I need to become… impressive.

Problem is… I’m broke. I’ve always been broke. I’ve been sleeping on couches since I was 15. People talk about “2nd generation poverty” or “3rd generation poverty” but I don’t think any of my ancestors ever knew anything besides poverty. My great-great-great grandmother earned a few bucks by collecting dead bodies of sailors who had washed up on the shore. In fact, poverty is so normal to me that I don’t understand how or why other people my age have so much money… I see people with rich parents, mortgages, cars and stable jobs as, like, these magical beings… like, they must be blessed or something.

Rewind to summer 2008, I finished my bachelor degree just in time for the economic meltdown and ended up working dead-end, minimal-wage jobs. Like a lot of millenials, I was stuck in the infinity loop of over-qualified-under-experienced. (And they wonder why millenials aren’t having kids? We can’t afford kids!) Getting laughed out of low-pay interviews because we’re overqualified; getting laughed out of higher-pay jobs because we have no experience. Not that I get many interviews in a climate where 100 people are applying for every job and 99 of them have better CVs than I do.

I have to do this Masters degree. For me, there is no option. It’s this, or the roof of a multi-storey carpark. It should be a happy occasion. I’m moving to the big city! I love learning and this is a stepping stone towards my dreams. But universities are screwing over their Masters students with extortionate fees. So I’m going to be homeless. Not homeless like a tramp, but homeless like I’ll be living in youth hostels for the academic year. Although, considering I currently live on a couch in someone’s living room, and two months ago I was sleeping on a floor… perhaps it will be a slight upgrade. But I dread not having any privacy and I’m concerned about my valuables being stolen and I worry about sleeping next to strangers who could potentially be psychopaths…

Rewind to 2016, the government introduced student loans for Masters degrees. Which is great! I could not do my Masters without this funding. But unlike at bachelor level where you have two separate amounts for your fees and for your living expenses, the Masters funding is just one lump sum for everything. You get up to £10,280 total, maximum, final. As soon as the government announced this, many universities in England rammed up their Masters fees from previously being between £2,000-£6,000 to now being, you guessed it, £10,280.

Because they can.

Most universities in the UK are money-obsessed and have zero consideration for their students mental and physical well-being.

And so students are left with nothing to live off.

The government knew full well that most universities would charge as much as they could get away with. It’s criminal that universities don’t have to justify why a course has increased by up to £8,000 in the span of one academic year. On top of that, universities will toss out any student they think might struggle because they’re obsessed with ratings. The latter is understandable but the former goes against the ethos that educational establishments are supposed to be held by. How can an institution claim to be inclusive and support diversity and equality when they a) only accept top performing students, b) charge fees that exclude most people?

So now that the universities are charging such high fees, how are students supposed to live?

My university is not quite charging £10,280. No, they’re charging £8,500. I could study a cheaper Masters but that would mean ending up with a less useful qualification (think: Msc. Baby Farts), which would mean lower future wages and less ability to move to the USA, so that’s not a risk I’m willing to take. I can only do this once, may as well make it count. But this leaves me with £1,780 to live off for 10-months. That’s £178 per month….

Obviously, I’ll get a job, but I don’t know how long that will take or how much I’ll be able to earn in the limited hours available between studying.

Quick math lesson…

Costs for the academic year:

  • Hostel accommodation = $4,000 (MINUS £2220. Notice I’m already in minus figures by several grand and I’m homeless and haven’t even bought a damn sandwich yet…)
  • Money I owe people = £2400 (-£4620)
  • Food/Drink/Clothes/Toiletries = £1000 (-£5620)
  • Travel costs = £500 (-£6120)
  • Stationary & Books = £300 (-£6420)
  • P.O Box address = £200 (-£6620)
  • Trip to Disneyland = wait… What? Ok, fine, no Disneyland.

Compare this with Undergraduate degrees where students get their £9,000 per year fees paid and various grants and loans to cover living costs up to £9,000 per year. It’s not mega-bucks, but it’s far better than £1780. Another comparison: For my teacher training course that I did last year, I got £8000 fees paid, a £9,000 maintenance loan, and a £4,000 bursary.

Why is it so impossible to offer the same for Masters students? Why? WHY!? They know damn well they can afford it, so why?! Why are we being screwed over and forced to live below the poverty line when other students are given maintenance loans?

And this £6620 debt is while living like a homeless person, and putting my physical and mental well-being in danger. This isn’t living some luxury life. And this is all just to attend a university course. To try to get somewhere with my life. To try to get a decent job so I can earn a decent wage so I can eventually own my own home sometime before I die and eventually live close to my friends and be able to put a little door mat out on the porch like a normal person and invite people over for lemonade like a normal person, instead of living like a fucking nomad.

On top of making me homeless, my university has the audacity to tell me to get a Career and Professional Development loan which would cost me £280 per month to repay. (You have to repay the CPDL as soon as your course finishes.) Yet there is no guarantee I’ll have a job by then that can pay £280 on top of rent, bills, food, and my existing £240 per month debts. So, I’d just be worse off.

My university also has the audacity to tell me I shouldn’t work while doing my Masters because I should focus on my studies. If they didn’t bankrupt me I wouldn’t need to work while I study. I wouldn’t need to be homeless. That was their choice. I have to live in squalor while they have their champaign luncheon in their 5 * luxury, air-conditioned, leather-chaired, marble-floored meeting room.

I don’t know who to be more mad at: the universities or the government. I think they’re both as bad as each other.

Universities are earning so much excess money these days that they’ve become like encapsulated worlds, buying up every other building, engulfing neighbouring schools, colleges and office blocks, buying brand new technology for every department then throwing it all away 6 months later, spending thousands of self-congratulatory dinner parties, while their students starve and live in rat-infested closets with 5 other people like its Dharavi or Karachi, or some other god-awful dimension of hell.

Fast forward to today, I’m going through the process of throwing away 99% of my belongings. I won’t have anywhere to store anything at the hostel so I’ll just take a few essentials. I recall the words of an acquaintance I bumped into a few days earlier… “You’ll have to let me know where you’re living in London. I’ll come visit!” She was hugging me and excited about my big adventure. I just smiled and nodded. People don’t need to know I’m going to be homeless. They all think I’m heading to the big city to live an amazing life. I take down memories from shelves and throw them in the trash. A funny thought crosses my mind: “It’s almost like dying…”

I can only hope I’ll be reborn as a butterfly.

Trying To Get Ahead

Have you noticed how hard it is to get ahead in life? Not for all of us, of course, just some of us… :side-eyes:

Most of the people I know seem to be doing fine. Perhaps it’s a case of grass-is-greener syndrome but…

I know one woman who lives in a beautiful big house with lots of land and she doesn’t have to work and can spend all day brushing her hair because her husband has a good job. She even had the opportunity to move to Australia with him but turned it down. Because her life is so great that, well, it’s just too great and maybe she doesn’t want to overdose on the greatness by taking up such a great opportunity! We should all be so lucky!

Several people in my circle popped out kids to get boyfriend-and-welfare-money, they don’t work and live practically for free.

Some acquaintances of mine – younger than me (how dare they be younger than me!) – have mortgages, cars, families, constant emotional support, and seemingly endless amounts of cash (I need to find where they’re hiding those money trees…).

Other people I see are always getting promoted and are so popular and everyone loves them because they suck ass all day and tell people what they want to hear. They are always being given fantastic opportunities, some of which they turn down, because they can afford to.

I, however… and no, I’m not being self-pitying, just stating some facts… have had to work shitty jobs my entire life, never had a promotion, can’t afford to get a mortgage, can’t afford to buy a car, or any of the other perks that other people seem to have. I don’t understand where I’m going wrong?

I know, I know, I could’ve been born with no arms or legs, I should be grateful. But, y’know, when you look around and you see people living a certain way and you think… HOW!? How did you get that life? And why can’t I get that life? What is your secret?

We compare ourselves with the people we see around us, if they all have X, Y, Z, we feel we should also have X, Y, Z and… why don’t we? Then you start to panic and worry you’re getting left behind. And you wonder… why?! What am I doing wrong?!

Over the last two years, I’ve been trying to test fate and actually make something of my life. But, you know what? Everything I try just falls apart. My friends don’t have to fight for what they want, they just get it. I fight for it and still don’t get it.

I did teacher training but now that’s finished I’m jobless (school’s out for summer, Alice Cooper says so) and sleeping on someone’s sofa at the age of 30-something. I have no home, no car, no kids, no loving supportive boyfriend, my friends ignore me unless they want something, I’m stuck indoors all the time and rapidly incurring debt. I don’t understand where I’m going wrong!!! :frantically squeezes stress ball:

I know what you’re thinking: “You know what, Alice? Maybe you have a bad attitude…” You’re right, I do have a bad attitude! But, er, well, so does Donald Trump (god, I hate Donald Trump!) and people put him in charge of a country…, so…, y’know, I don’t think being Mary Poppins is necessarily going to change my situation.

I’m struggling to stay motivated when I keep getting hit with road blocks. Doubt is starting to creep in… Maybe everyone’s right about me… maybe I’m useless…

My whole life, people have said:

“No, you can’t do this”, “No, you can’t do that”, “That’s too hard for you,” “You’re stupid”, “We received stronger candidates”, “It was very competitive”, “You’re useless”, “You suck!”, “You’re not quite good enough”.

People say you gotta believe in yourself. But it’s kinda hard to believe in yourself when everyone’s telling you you’re not good enough. Sometimes we just need someone to believe in us, someone to have our back and tell us, “You can do it, you got this!”

Forgiveness is a Noun not a Verb

Look, I’m like the least forgiving person on Earth. I don’t do “forgiveness”. But it seems to be really popular these days, I keep coming across this bizarre concept all over the internet when I’m looking for advice on revenge. But there’s something a lot of these “forgiving” people are getting wrong…

My advice to the forgive and forgetters is: if you truly wanna be all forgiving… that’s fine – but you gotta take note: forgiveness is a noun not a verb. What I mean is that forgiveness is a concrete, solid thing – like a big boulder or something. It’s a commitment you make to yourself – yourself, yourself – not other people – to improve the condition of your soul. You can’t just say you forgive someone and magically you acquire inner peace or something, it don’t work that way.

There was this chick the other day, prattling on about her ex for an hour and a half, and then she ended by saying, “But, of course, I forgive him”. Well… if she’d forgiven him she wouldn’t have just wasted 1.5 hours of her precious existence talking about how much she hates him. Think of all the things she could’ve done with that hour and a half…!

In 1.5 hours you can:

  • Learn to say “I love you” in 10 languages
  • Paint a beautiful picture
  • Learn how to play “Let It Be” by The Beatles on guitar
  • Learn how to make a Spanish omelette and actually make one and eat the damn thing – twice!

What a wasted opportunity!

I know that applies to me too, I’ve wasted at least – at least! – um… 7 years, on revenge, and that other fun “R” word: Regret. I could’ve become a Guitar Hero in that length of time! But, hey, I accept my fate, because verb-ing it doesn’t make it so and I can’t turn it into a noun unless I have some Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind treatment done on my brain.

If you can forgive and forget the people who’ve wrong you then good on you, think of all the Spanish omelettes you can make with your ample free time! Just make sure your behavior is matching the words coming out of your mouth otherwise you’ll have to come join me on the Raft of Revenge, and no “Let It Be” for you!


Sometimes A Change Of Perspective Is All You Need

So, I mentioned previously how I’ve been trying to get my 4-year-old book finished. Not my 4-year-old’s book. I don’t have kids. Children are the spawn of Satan.

Anyway… glad we cleared that up… so anyway…

Recap: 4 years ago I started a book; 4 years later it still isn’t done. And finishing it has been my goal for every summer for the past 4 years.  This summer is really like: “Get it done or I’m burning it!” I mean, I’m sick of looking at this now!

So, let me skip back to January briefly: I had 20 chapters of hot mess and no motivation.

Beginning of February: I knew it was too bloated so I hacked off 8 chapters. I felt motivated!

But then… it was still 12 chapters of hot mess so I lost motivation again.

Last week I was feeling ready to throw it out the window.

But, along comes this guy I know – Successful Guy (TM). I mean, he wins at life and makes me feel like a massive loser. But I like to hang out with him to try to sponge off whatever good vibes he’s got going on.

So, I went on this long rant to him about my book and in one word (or two…) he gave what was ultimately the simplest and best advice ever but for some reason I hadn’t thought of it: “Sub-headings” he said matter-of-factly over the rim of his cappuccino.

Sub-headings! Why the F didn’t I think of that?! Man, I was so motivated after talking to him (and I’m usually about as motivated as Grumpy Cat), I immediately went to the library and printed off one-third of my book…

The idea is I’m just gonna tackle it as 3 sections, I’m gonna spread it all over my floor and get out highlighters and colored pens and get my sub-headings in, and bullet points, and wrestle this tiger!

I’ve already started on the first third and – wow! – suddenly things are coming together! And all it took was a change of perspective. Where previously each chapter was some big, untameable beast, they’re now contained into neat, happy little sub-sections. And it’s had the added benefit of improving the readability and design of my book (I’m also adding some pictures, which helps too!).  I had previously started to hate it ‘cause it was just a big black and white lump but the hate is fading now it’s starting to look like something concise.

I’m not usually good at advice but there’s some: if you have some project you’ve been fiddling with for x years: change your perspective, think of how you can look at it in a new way than before – ask people for advice. It’s funny how just talking to people sometimes can clue you into something when you can’t see the woods for the trees.

Now all I wish is that I could just write and create all day and didn’t have to go do boring grown-up stuff!


What I Miss About My 20s & What I Hate About My 30s

What I Hate About My 30s:

  1. Nobody cares about me anymore because I’m no longer a collagen-filled, naïve, innocent, pure-skinned, 20-something and am therefore worthless according to society.
  2. Older women have started talking to me about the menopause like I’m 47.
  3. Older women have started talking to me about “the sag”. Don’t know what that is? You’ll see…!
  4. Older women started talking to me about how I was gonna get fat now (and it happened, true story!).
  5. I get the impression older women eagerly await us all turning 30 so they can talk shit…
  6. Going on dates is like going to a buy a used car.
  7. Major eye baggage!
  8. Waking up in the morning and wondering why there’s an elephant on my chest. Oh wait, that’s just what waking up at 30 feels like.
  9. Health problems!
  10. While I’m still kinda in the target audience for retailers, I’m not their prime 20yo audience, so f*ck me And if I go in a young women’s store, 20yos point and laugh at me for wanting to wear the same clothes as them.
  11. Talking of clothes, there’s some ish I just can’t get away with anymore like cutesy tops with slogans on, or cute animal tees.
  12. I like to think I still look 25, but 25 year olds do not agree with me.
  13. In my 20s, my older friends championed my every achievement like I was their own kid. Now, no fucks are given, because I’m just another boring adult.
  14. I have a head full of regrets and bad memories.
  15. I still feel 20.
  16.  Looking in the mirror and seeing my mom and wondering what the f*** she’s doing in my mirror.
  17. Lines on my face!!! Period.
  18. I don’t get excitement out of things as much as I used to. Everything is “meh”.
  19. I’m never the youngest person in the room.
  20. “Older” is my new adjective instead of “young.”
  21. “Woman” is my new noun instead of “girl.”
  22. Most people my age now have double-digit kids, which is just weird!
  23. 21yo girls expect me to be their agony aunt.
  24. 23yo girls except me to have sympathy for them. Pff!
  25. 25yos think I know everything because I’m 30.
  26. 28yos think I’m 5 million years older than they are.
  27. 29 year old guys think I’m a “cougar” if I go on a date with them. Pff!
  28. Everyone keeps reminding me that “you’re not getting any younger!”
  29. I can no longer have a mental breakdown over some stupid sh**, I have to be strong all the damn time.
  30. Not being able to eat an entire chocolate cake or a massive bag of candy anymore.
  31. Taking a week to recover from one alcoholic drink (like, a shandy).
  32. People don’t treat me delicately anymore and I actually feel like I need that more now than in my 20s.
  33. I can never go back to being a care-free 20yo.
  34. I wish I’d worked more on my anxiety and depression because other 30yos have cool stories of all the fun they had in their 20s and I got jack cuz I mainly stayed in my room for a decade.
  35. Worrying about 40.

What I Miss About My 20s

  1. When I didn’t have a clear understanding of death and how it will hunt me and everyone I care about.
  2. Believing that the older guy actually really loved me for me and not because I was 20yo.
  3. Having stupid crushes on random guys.
  4. Feeling like life was a magical journey.
  5. Having days, weeks, months and years I could burn away on just trying new things out, playing video games, watching Star Trek marathons, or just doing bupkis.
  6. Having youthful dreams about being Somebody.
  7. How I used to find happiness in silly little things like collecting postcards or some dumb stuff like that.
  8. Believing I mattered.
  9. Feeling like I could change the world.
  10. Believing the world could change.
  11. Thinking I could do anything I wanted just by wishing really, really hard.
  12. Believing that somehow I would always be 20yo and nothing would change unless I wanted it to.
  13. Looking forward to things.
  14. Believing the people I loved would live forever.
  15. Thinking my 30s would be “When Harry Met Sally.”


Hit me up if any of you post a similar blog. I’m interested to know what y’all miss about being younger and hate about being older.

Open Letter to a Married Female Friend

Dear Stacey,

I hate you. Oh, by the way, I also hate your husband, Todd. I hate you both. Do you know why I hate you both, Stacey? Because you’re so f***ing perfect. Even your damn names are perfect! Todd & Stacey. Stacey & Todd. Wtf?! You and your perfect husband with your perfect jobs and your perfect lives and your perfect car in your perfect garage in your perfect house with it’s perfect “matching colors” kitchen with your perfect “His & Hers” coffee mugs to fill with freshly ground organic coffee from your perfect coffee machine and then sit on your perfect deck in your perfect garden and say “Hi” to your perfect neighbors in your perfect neighborhood. How is this even real?!

Stacey, people like you are supposed to only exist in fictional stories. In fact, it’s like you just stepped right out of a Fairytale and came to life. How do things like this happen, Stacey? What cosmic occurrence lead to the string of events that lead to people like you and Todd existing? Why did every single thing in your life go so wonderfully, perfectly right, Stacey?


Do you know what “worry” is, Stacey? No, you don’t. Do you know what “bills” are? Of course you don’t! Your perfect, rich, successful husband deals with all the bills so you never have to worry your pretty little head about it. You’re only stressed because you have so many champagne luncheons to go to and parties to throw and invites to send and how will you ever have the time to fit in your horse-riding and Pilates classes?  That’s like your idea of Defcon 5, isn’t it, Stacey? You can’t even fathom real problems!

I can only dream of your life, Stacey. Well, actually, no, that’s not quite true because I’m your friend so I have to watch you live your wonderfully, smooth and glossy, picture-perfect life while I sit on the other side of the fence with my broken life and broken teeth and broken heart, hoping I’ll be able to find some broken man and afford a broken shack in Crimesville sometime before I die of malnourishment or murder.

I hate you, Stacey. Because you have choices. You’ve always had choices, from the moment you were born. Who do I want to be friends with? What toys do I want for Christmas? What clothes shall I wear? Do I want a brown pony or a white pony? Where do I want to study? Which car do I want daddy to buy me for my 17th birthday? Who do I want to date? Where do I want to live? Who do I want to marry? You got to CHOOSE all these things, Stacey! You didn’t have to work for anything, you didn’t have to fight for anything, you didn’t have to settle for second best – or third, or fourth – you didn’t have to accept acceptable or deal with endless disappointment and rejection.


You don’t even know what disappointment and rejection are. You’d have to look them up in the dictionary. You don’t know what it’s like to go without something, to long for something you can never, ever have. Every single thing just worked out so hot damn wonderfully for you, didn’t it, Stacey? Why?! What makes you so deserving of a wonderful life? And worst of all, because you were born into it, you don’t even comprehend how fantastic it is! You sit there and complain that your cinnamon spiced chai latte isn’t “chai” enough. Wtf, Stacey?!

F*** you, Stacey!

P.S. See you next weekend.


Your friend, Aliquo.