Alright?
Well, I guess this is a bit weird, seeing as I've not contacted you for so long and all. Wait - don't shut the door in my face just yet - give me just another minute, another minute, I swear, then I'll leave you be.
The thing is, I didn't think you'd like me anymore. You're rolling your eyes (does that mean you didn't like me much to begin with? I digress) but what I mean is - I've changed - and I don't think you'd like it. See, I think that if you liked me, that you liked me because I was cynical. And I'm scared, because I don't know if I know how to be cynical anymore.
Tonight I traipsed through months and months of blogs. Well, the ones I recalled as being ones I was pleased with. They spanned from when the blog was born in November 2011 to when I abandoned it, more or less, fizzling out, in the summer of 2012. So soon? It was. There were a few, but they weren't the same. This ranting, hating, spitting, swearing version of me had been diluted by somebody reflective, democratic, balanced, and other such things which absolutely stunt the essence of passionate writing.
So I don't know why I'm here.
I'm here because I miss you. I miss the person I am when I am the ranting, hating, spitting, swearing version of me. I miss feeling the freedom to express opinions without the overhanging shadow of "yeah, but, what about if you think about it from this point of view?"
Thinking about other points of view is a pollutant to ranting, hating, spitting, swearing writing.
I am scared because I am meant to be maturing. And I am, a bit. I wash my own dishes. I can do laundry. I have a landlord. I think about writing angry letters to my council, but I never do. I smile at people and tell them to "have a lovely evening." I can cook meat. I own a pestle and mortar. I can write an invoice. I can write a business email. I haven't used the word "cunt" in so long that I forgot it existed until re-reading my old blogs. I buy shower spray and I spray my shower, these days, because last year I didn't ever clean it and thus constantly slipped in a pool of slime. I do a lot of very boring things that might contribute to the argument that I, Miss Pondering Life On Mars, am growing up, in practical baby steps.
And as this supposedly well balanced human, can I really still go off on groups of people I've never met but for some reason have chosen to despise, and politics I don't understand, and essentially act as a complete hypocrite?
Yes. I think that's fine. I think it's fine because this year I turned twenty, and in my opinion I have another twenty years before I am expected to have children or a husband or a settled head and all of these lovely things that seem to come of genuine maturity... or age. In the scale of a hundred years ago, I'm ten years old.
Baffled by my logic? Well at twenty, one hundred years ago, I'd probably have children and a husband and a settled head and all those lovely things, do you see? It's doubled. I'm ten. And that's fine, because I only look fourteen by modern standards.
Here are some things I don't like:
I don't like cyclists.
I don't like the flow of direction in Holloway. It's like people are blind.
I don't like anything sold to human beings to wear which is not functional and warm and cheap, and that means I don't like clothes, for the most part.
I don't like the fact that London lacks those cafes you seem to find anywhere else in England - where you choose what you want in a sandwich. Subway is the equivalent.
I don't like Arsenal, because I hear them chanting from my back garden and on the nights they play football my journey is slowed incredibly.
I don't like white wine. I drink it anyway.
I don't like paying money for food because it's a human need. I eat it anyway. And I pay for it.
I don't like Robin Thicke's 'Blurred Lines,' because I've heard it too much.
I don't like that song by that young girl from New Zealand, or Australia, is it? That song where she sings about things like diamonds and royalty and the whole time you're going, well you're what like fifteen years old? This is what you think about? Congratulations.
I don't like the idea of ever having children, because I think that by the time the generation before the generation before me are gone we will be a world of vacuous and strange people and I do not exclude myself from the description.
I don't like how I've never seen Old Rosie in a London pub.
I don't like how if you're not from a certain part of England you have no idea what Old Rosie is.
I think I can think of some more things I don't like, and then I can write you some really happy blogs, and maybe you can forgive me. Again, you're rolling your eyes like there's nothing to forgive (because you didn't care anyway) but I am going to try. Isn't this trying?
Goodnight.
