For all those things everyone has except you: a garden, a pension, a smaller arse, an expensive holiday, a handsome, generous boyfriend, stability, mental control, very, very expensive shoes that you can’t walk in but make your legs look incredible.
To write a best-selling book. To set up an award-winning business and be interviewed by Jenni Murray. To always look ten years younger than you actually are. To be married to an eco-hunk saving the Amazon, living in a humble hut that still had a bath and hot running water and a washing machine. To not be this anxiety-ridden creature…
Should not have slept with that boring, arrogant moron at university who gave you Chlamydia. Should have bought a house back then instead of waiting for when houses became the same price as a Virgin Galactic ticket around the stratosphere. Should not have plucked eyebrows so much in the nineties just because Kate Moss did (they still haven’t grown back.)
You are only just in the black. Anything could tip you back under but at least you don’t feel sad or cross. Maybe this kale latte will help? Does sitting on the bed staring at the wall for ten minutes count as meditating? *smiles weakly*.
Up against a wall with Prince Harry. In the back of an official government limousine with Justin Trudeau. In Thor’s trailer, while he’s in full costume and shouting at you about the size of his hammer.
Ordering things online and sending them back
Order. Wait. Become hysterical. Check delivery status 12,000,000 times. Stay in all day for delivery. Go out for 12 seconds. Miss delivery. Go to post office. Queue for 17 days. Pay extortionate customs charge. Try on top. Dislike top. Try on top again with everything you own. Still dislike top. Send it back. Repeat.
They’re badly paid, they’re obsessed with themselves, they don’t understand simple pleasures like getting off your face because they’re worried they’ll take ugly selfies and have very little sex, poor poppets.