Olives, earwax, grapefruit.

These are all things that are as bitter as me right now. Like on a scale of one to Miss Havisham, I’m probably hitting about a 7. I’ve dragged the dress out of the back of the wardrobe, but I haven’t quite fetched the lighter fluid.

I’ve had many lovely messages from friends this morning, wishing me well. I can’t use real names because these are real people – so lets call her…Warlock. Well my friend Warlock has been famously single for years, so much so, we joked it had ‘grown over’. She’d be tooting the horn for female independence and the joys of celibacy and moon cups and shit.

ME: ‘Have you got a boyfriend now Warlock or has it like ground zero down there?’

WARLOCK: ‘Oh I’ve had a boyfriend for about two years now. He’s perfect! Don’t worry, they are out there!’

Fucking Warlock, selling me down the river with her now perfectly functioning vagina.

When I was 12, I was convinced by 28, I’d have a ring on my finger and two kids hanging off my apron. Alas, I’m off round the world alone, which is very exciting don’t get me wrong – but it means I have to live with my parents in order to save. And so I come out of my room, (the room I have slept in since I was in year 8 on and off) to the sight of my case, open and neatly packed by mum with the following note on the top:

It saddens and amuses me in equal measure that to write this note she must imagine me unsupervised, crawling up the M25 to Heathrow naked, through broken glass with my passport lodged in my arse crack before promptly falling off the jetway.

I leave today at 4.15pm.

 

 

 

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