Tag Archives: memories

DEAR DIARY: MY NEW ROOMMATE’S A BIT WEIRD.

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Jk, guys. I’ve moved in with Greig.

We only went and bloody did it, didn’t we? I mean it wasn’t exactly a laid out plan, but when a babe of a place with a converted attic, comes on the market, what’s a girl to do?

To be perfectly honest, we went into the viewing with an ‘we probably won’t go for it, but it’s always good to have a look’ kind of attitude… Then I immediately fell in love with the place. Meanwhile, Greig’s face had an expression which can only be described as ‘I could put my sound system in this attic’, painted all over his wee face.

It’s been a ridiculously stressful couple of months, but we’ve finally made it. We’re almost all unpacked, we’ve had all the ‘how many jars of screws do you possibly need’ and the ‘how many pairs of shoes can you own’ domestics there is to have and we moved in a fortnight ago.

Not to mention the most important of all days have just gone by… We had our internet put in. I am officially back living in the twenty-first century.

It’s true what they say, you’ve no idea just how much stuff you actually own until it comes time to pack it. The mammoth task of moving it all and unpacking has been tackled, so you shall soon be bombarded with one too many pretty pictures of said house.

Wish me luck poppets… I live with a boy!

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DEAR DIARY: A MONTH OF BIRTHDAY SHENANIGANS AND BIG LIFE CHANGES

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It’s time to face the cold, heartbreaking, truth. I can no longer sing the lyrical wonder “22” by the musical royalty that is Taylor Swift. I am now officially 23 years old.

A moment of respectful silence wouldn’t go a miss, right now.

But me, oh my, what a month it’s been. So I figured why pop back up with one of my sarcastic list posts about your quarter-life crisis, when I could give you guys a little insight as to where I’ve been and why I’ve been in a perpetual state of “Rachel Greene, I don’t want to be a shoe” crisis for the past thirty days. (Wee Friends reference to keep us going there, folks.)

To kick off, I turned 23. The beginning of the end until Swift writes a catchy little number to go along with it. The occasion was marked with an obligatory week of absolutely milking my birthday to within an inch of its life, of course. Time was spent with my family, with the phrase “you’ve got to, it’s my birthday” being thrown around like a verbal rugby ball. An embarrassingly large order to Dominos was placed only to, of course, blame it on ‘my birthday’. Let’s not forget trying to convince everyone I know and their aunt’s to go to the aquarium with me and most importantly the equally obligatory trip to a nightclub.

I don’t mind telling you if it weren’t for the being with my best friend portion of the evening, I fear I would have lost my temper. The ratio of female to disrespectful male was off the scale. At one point I even had one girl admit mid drunk-bathroom-chat, that she’d grown so desperate to fend off the sexual advances that she’d completely skipped the old classic, “I’m a lesbian”, and straight to “I never made it to the bathroom on time”… Not all heroes wear capes, girls.

Now, as if such birthday excitement wasn’t enough I also woke up on the celebration of my birth with an email saying that lil’ ol’ me had been accepted to study contemporary art.

Eep!

And just when things couldn’t get anymore eep-worthy, my old workplace – and by old, please instead read ‘favourite’ – opened back up and I got offered my little beaut of a job back… Did I mention it’s exactly three minutes from my door?

Double eep!

Not to mention, I’m getting at least eighteen more hours a week than I was at my other job. Too much eeping to be done, here.

So, my little nuggets, expect shopping hauls galore for a while… I seem to think I can make it rain, right now.

Believe it or not, this blog has a purpose.

Given that life itself is something I generally find most taxing and is certainly not my greatest of skills, one may ask why I’m writing about it – And one would be right to. However, the answer isn’t one of a straightforward nature. Keeping journals, diaries and up to date social media has been a frequent feature in my life since an incredibly young age, and I have a love of writing, so the next logical step was to turn my nostalgia-filled love of the English language and drag it into the 21st century with me. 

Whether this results in four followers who often roll their eyes and wonder why they are still reading, or four hundred, is of no grave importance to me. What is, is having a place to build up memories, favourite books, makeup products, music, general wonderings and somehow have the end result being a documentation of my twenties that I can forever look back upon.. Hopefully with the odd sentimental chuckle, as opposed to recoiling in cringeworthy horror.