What tf happened to my youth?

This is my damned blog and I am the boss of me, and I will gd post whatever trash I feel moved to, so sorry old friends and relatives who came here from an outdated email subscription. You should probably leave now. Quick, before anyone notices.

It’s Saturday night.

Earlier I was watching X-Files (Season 7), sipping on a red wine from the supermarket, attempting to fill the void in my life by, wait for it, cross-stitching. Alas, I was breaking one of my golden rules – don’t drink and stitch. It does not take very much wine to get you to the point where thread number 3346 (a darkish green) looks exactly like like thread 3355 (a darkish olive green) and suddenly, counting those little blocks becomes very difficult. I’m stitching in the wrong fucking green, and I’m two blocks left of the pattern and I’m trying to compensate without making these olive branches look whack, while simultaneously sipping on Cabernet Sauvignon, and wondering when the actual fuck will Mulder bang Scully (with handcuffs, please god, with the handcuffs) but damn it, it was like 20 years since I watched this the first time and I can’t remember just when. this. sex. happens.

Just like I can’t remember just. when. my. youth. died.

It’s Saturday  night.

And I’m snacking on chicken sausages, pretending that they’re cigars, and I’m having an imaginary flirt with a younger Winston Churchill. Vaping is SO old, compared to my vienna sausages. Ace of Base is pumping on my bootleg Spotify, and I simultaneously wondering  “How did it become 2017 already?” and also, “Why is it still 1998 in my mind”

 

It’s Saturday night.

I’m blasting the Dawson’s Creek soundtrack. (When I say blasting, what I mean is minus one notch on my headphones, because I may be tipsy but I’m not an asshole) I’m sipping Cabernet Sauvignon which has hints of liquorice. I realise Fox Mulder looks exactly like my ex. Dead Ringer. Like, he could be an alien double of David Duchovny. If only he had been an idealistic, alien chaser oh how things could’ve been different. Who am I kidding things could never have been different. Sometimes no matter how much you love someone, you can’t make them love you.

I can’t drink Chardonnay without thinking of you.

 

 

It’s Saturday night.

I just finished my second chicken cigar. This feels weird. I haven’t typed anything in so long, I can barely negotiate my way around the QWERTY. I have a band aid on my middle finger from where I cut myself trying to install my own gas cooker.

 

Am I millenial? I think so. My boyfriend has a beard and I grow my own kale. I listen to tech podcasts.  I have bangs and a tattoo and an iphone and a striated history of fossilised love affairs so surely, I must be?

God I hope I am.

But then, I think. All my favourite tunes are on Throwback Thursday. I don’t even use Twitter (anymore, I had to quit for my mental health). I don’t own a bicycle. Right now, I’m jamming to Sheryl Crow. Ah fuck, it’s Joan Osborne. Yeah yeah what if god was one of us. My bangs are not that cute. I still have the same job I had at 19 but with a few extra perks (I now wear a blazer and drink wine after shift). I’ve suddenly, and unexpectedly, fallen in love with my sisters cat. I have 14 plants in my bedroom.

 

Sometimes I feel such a tremendous upwelling of *story*. I have so much story to share with the world, but sometimes accessing it feels like trying to swim across a bay on a foggy night. Where’s my mf fog horn at?

 

It’s Saturday night.

I’ve had too much Cabernet. I think that a good article to write would be “Best 5 hairstyles for yoga”. When you’re doing yoga, it’s really hard when your hair flops forward, but also you can’t wear a ponytail because you can’t lie down flat on it, and sweet Jesus can someone shoot me between the fucking eyes?

I’m sit dancing in bed to Usher, and thinking maybe just maybe I’ve had enough Cabernet.

*pours more red wine*

 

I realise that I don’t want no scrub. A scrub is a guy that can get no love from me.

Also, this is my damned blog and I am the boss of me, and I will gd post whatever trash I feel moved to, so sorry old friends and relatives who came here from an outdated email subscription. You should probably leave now. Quick, before anyone notices.

I do a quick edit of this post. It feels a little like me.


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