New Year, New Me. Goodbye

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They say we never really change. In a school report dated June 23rd 1989, my reception class teacher notes that, while I am well advanced for my age, with a penchant for creative activities ‘such as story writing and junk modelling’, able to read independently and tackle rudimentary maths problems, I also have a tendency to ‘rush [my] work or become frustrated.’ It’s early evidence of impatience — which is one of my less-nice character traits, alongside spite, greed and reckless honesty. I’ve always wanted to be slightly better than I am at things; I’ve always wanted to rush ahead – to get results, quickly, or else I might as well give up.

Unsurprisingly (as you may have noticed if you’ve been a regular reader over the past five years or so), this attitude has not often been useful in the sex and relationships arena. Taking it slow is not a thing I know how to do by instinct. Which leads to most of my romances burning out within the first couple of dates, or else just sort of becoming an emotional void into which I pour my hopes, dreams and self-esteem, until I am left — quivering, husk-like, pessimistic and often drunk — at the open mouth of the future. Or maybe I’m just a drama queen — which is another long-lasting character trait that my reception class teacher kindly left off the school report, although I have life-long friends and family members who will attest to its enduring role in my personality.

This blog has been a great way of dealing with my impatience. Of getting to know myself; of having to return to the same work over and over again, even when I really didn’t want to. It’s been a job of channelling all my insecurities and upsets into something separate from myself. Of rediscovering my love of story writing and junk modelling. It’s been a relief and a therapy and I have been glad for it’s existence. Especially that time I won an award and had my picture taken for a glossy magazine.

But I can’t keep writing it forever and ever.

And although it’s true that we don’t really change, we don’t stay the same either. I don’t feel acerbic and scornful about love any more. I don’t want to keep hanging my autobiography off the fact of my not having a permanent lover, because, at last, it doesn’t feel like something that defines me. I feel (despite my penultimate post, which I wish had been funnier darlings, sorry about that but they say it gets worse before it gets better and things are ok now. I swear) sort of optimistic and sanguine at the same time, if they are even different emotions. My life is good. I am so lucky. I don’t want to blog about being single any more — I have got other things to say.

So, I will still be writing, just not here. You can follow my progress on if you’re going to miss me. I have this fledgling plan to start blogging about all the books I’m reading, which will probably be as boring as it sounds — but fuck you, I’m doing it anyway.

Ciao for now and lots of