This post is a pity-party of misery. You probably don’t want to read it, particularly if you’re feeling low yourself.
As of 8.15pm yesterday evening, I have existed on this planet for 10,593 days.
It means I’m now 29.
I remember once as a child, a friend and I talking about blokes we fancied. I genuinely don’t remember who I referenced in the conversation, but it was someone over 30 (I’ve always been attracted to older men. Indeed, The Man is 10 years older than me.) My friend posited that “30 [was] really old,” was I mad?! (Quite probably, but for entirely different reasons.)
I didn’t see being 30 as “old.” Much as still do as an adult, I’d sit there and imagine myself at the age I now find myself as someone successful, happy, witty, everything going for her.
Not as an overweight Venlafaxine addict with no career struggling with bills and state benefits and bi-fucking-polar disorder.
At the Mountains of Madness 