Well, I guess this is...

I don't want to be a grown-up. 

That's my overwhelming feeling right now. I'm looking up from my kitchen table, where I've been working 40 hours a week for the past couple of months, and blinking in the sunlight as it pours in through the windows; suddenly everything is illuminated and I realise, I'm growing up. I have a job - several jobs, within one company, actually. I'm going to be earning more than I ever have before, consistently, very soon. I'm squirreling money away in several savings accounts with varying rates of interest, in the hope that it will be put towards a flat of my own someday (or, slightly more likely, a trip to the other side of the world) - but in the meantime, I'm happily paying rent and bills, etc. A highlight of my week is doing The Big Shop - preferably at 7:30am, before I start work, because it's so peaceful in the supermarket, and then by the time I sit down at the computer I'm feeling like I've achieved something in the day already. My flat is full of plant babies. I go to the laundrette regularly. I'm obsessed with making porridge. I have a 5-step skincare routine, for morning and nighttime. I listen to Radio 2 on my smart speaker, while I work. I go through phases of writing meal plans. I've installed Grammarly on my laptop. I drink Kombucha every evening, before dinner. I take supplements with breakfast. I came off the pill last year. 

How did all this happen? 

Photo by Caitlin Lock.

I try to remind myself that, in a lot of ways, I'm not a grown-up. Just looking at what I wear these days is proof of that. Also, I spend way too much money on plants, vegan chocolate, crystals, LUSH products, books, and the silliest home accessories from IKEA. I ask my parents to wash the clothes I'm too scared to put in the laundrette's machines. I am still guilty of a little social media stalking, now and again. I'm scared to walk outside after dark - oh no wait, that's not because I'm un-adult, it's because I'm a woman. My mistake. Hmmph. Anyway... 

I think my grown-upness is blending a little with my inner child, though. My jobs are all fun, creative and make me feel like a superhero. I'm following people on social media who inspire me, and I try my very best to help others with their struggles too. My perfectly functional IKEA unit is packed with books arranged in colour order. A painted cast of my boobies hangs above my living room doorway. I got an IUD implanted so my sex life would be better, and I'd have less anxiety about those slippery buggers. 

Photo by Caitlin Lock.

I'm working on creative projects, and putting money into them, not just dreams and attempted manifestations. This blog is one of them - it's going to be a fully-fledged website someday soon; not just a creaky old Blogspot platform masked by a beautiful and very reasonably priced template, and a URL bought from whatever hosting monster can offer it semi-cheaply. 

A teenager started this blog, many years ago. Her biggest problems were that she fancied a boy in her Drama class, ate far too many After Eights, and was struggling to pass her theory test. She just wanted a space to vent, and release all her pent-up angst and romance. I do wonder what she'd think if she could see it now - where it's got her, how many people have found it and continue to check in and read regularly, and just how much she's shared about her life on it. I don't think anyone could have ever predicted it. My little corner of the internet. My safe space. It's always been there for me. And it will be for many years to come. I don't have to be a grown-up on here. 


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