I’m so hungover. And depressed. And existential. And maybe a little suicidal, if I didn’t feel nauseous when I move.
I’m South, my best mate’s just got married and my other best mate is eyeing chocolate fountains and caterers, and another (former) best mate is pregnant with her third kid. And I’ve had a live in boyfriend for two years now and a joint mortgage for one. It’s so adult and responsible and a bit preposterous it makes me want to punch people. But I hurt too much from fluffy cocktails circulating through my veins.
I came on to the blog to write an angry post about how much I hate being an agent sometimes. When people ask me what I do for a living I am going to start lying and say I’m an Actuaries Specialist. I have no idea what an Actuaries Specialist does because no one talks to them long enough to find out.
However, when you say you’re an agent, suddenly everyone has a novel they want you to read, or they have a son/daughter/nephew/dog walker who is ‘very talented’ and takes a writing class at the local annex. Or they have a great idea for a novel, which they haven’t written yet, but they’ve thought about it very hard, and it’s about a self-harming misunderstood teen in an apocalyptic dystopia, or ‘My life is so wacky, everyone says I should write it down’.
I sincerely want to cray and lambast the creation of the word processor as it makes everyone think they are on a level playing field, which they aren’t.
So I came onto the blog to bitch about this (which I have), but instead I started to read my old posts — which, by the way, were typed with a dreaded word processor — and now I feel old, and a bit of an eejit, and I can’t believe I was that big of a fucking arsehole when I graduated from Uni. I am dreadfully embarrassed, and pitifully full of the ennui because I feel so old.
What happened to us all, when did we become adults?
Right. I need to crawl out of bed. I was supposed to get a very expensive taxi into Kingston last night and stay with mum after the wedding (she didn’t stay for the disco. Light weight.), but I was paralytic by the time someone put on the Pogues so HP and I have crashed at Rich’s cousin’s house in Liss (a village around the corner from Rich’s parent’s house and location for the drink fuelled festivities that were labelled a ‘wedding’.) and I can’t move from the guest bedroom because I hurt, but I need to get up because it’s dinner time and I am becoming an imposition. Shoot me now.