Blue January

Here comes the horrific, totally unnecessary-but-necessary cliché “introduction” to the blog I’ll probably forget that I've started. The blogging equivalent to everyone’s first tweet of “How does this Twitter thing work lol add me!!!?”  I've paraphrased the following a thousand times, and each attempt is still as futile as the last. Maybe this blogging stuff isn't all it’s cracked up to be. It feels like homework, and though I have set it for myself; I'm still checking my nail beds and staring at the ceiling, whilst secretly texting under the desk. The only difference is that this time I am taking regular cigarette breaks, a habit I managed to avoid picking up during my attempts at school and further education.

I would like to paint this romantic idea that I am like Carrie Bradshaw tapping away at her laptop in a New York coffee shop; but in reality I am a 19 year old girl sitting in a onesie typing anecdotes in between bites of lukewarm toast at 3am in a flat I cannot afford.  I am the epitome of wasted potential, sleeping until mid afternoon and chasing after a failed relationship much to the disapproval of friends and potential lovers alike. 

By some lightning-fork of luck, an opportunity arose in which I could live in one of the wealthiest areas in the country; rent free. What this has taught me about life outside of the nest? Absolutely nothing. I’ve found myself in a predicament where I am walking the streets in an artfully crafted outfit to make myself look as rich as possible, and somehow realising too late that I don’t actually have the money to throw about as they do, but having had my very first pay check from my very first full time job, I thought this was the way to behave. Fast forward to January 5^th and I'm blinking in shock at the pitiful morsels left in my bank account, wondering how I could squander my hard-earned cash so quickly. Return back to the present day (8am on a sleepless Sunday morning) and I've fallen into a cycle of borrowing money from my mother, spending it all on cigarettes, booze, and one big slap-up meal and then becoming skeletal after days of malnutrition. After all of the money is gone, I ring her up, and promise her that I’ll be sensible this time. Once my bank account is reasonably filled, I’ll take myself off to my local Sainsbury’s, and buy a 20 deck of Mayfair, cans of Carlsberg, and then perhaps a packet of bacon, and return to my flat to continue with the permanent inactivity that devoured my life after finishing my Christmas job. Eventually my mother cottoned on to the fact I was blowing all of my money very fast, on nothing of importance. I was ordered home for the weekend, smoking the last of my cigarettes on the doorstep. Purchased, ironically, with the money my mother had sent me to survive. I’m glad she’s looking out for my nicotine addiction too. Then after a few days of being fed up and making the most of Sky+, I  return to London around 4/5lbs heavier and repeat the cycle again.

Although it’s been fun, it really does appear that I’ve ended January with nothing more than a fleeting obsession for Kanye West branded permanently on my lower calf, and half a loaf of bread (that I should probably put in the freezer). Blue indeed.

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