I don’t want to rot in this box. So I’m upping a blog.
See, the story is this. My life, once fascinating and intense (at least as I saw it) has taken a nose-dive into the depths of dullness over the past few months and it seems to be spoiling such a lovely and inspiring year (a year where I have fallen beautifully in love, spread my mum’s ashes in India, bought a boat, survived Asia all on my own and then kept my relationship afloat in a midget tent as me girlfriend 
boyfriend him dragged through the cities together living off nothing but strawberry milkshakes and Amsterdam’s finest). Who would have thought it, when I was up on the Nepali border contemplating whether or not teaching English in a Kathmandu monastery was worth risking my life in the potential breakout of a civil war, that six months down the line I’d be a washed-up has been freezing my tits off on the Scottish middle ground – lonely, friendless, and desperate.
Not yet 21. I’m thinking of Sid Vicious – and suddenly the crash and burn technique doesn’t seem such a sorry story now.
I know that I don’t mean that. I know that I am just trying to act hard and pull up all my raw London roots because I am bitter about being so far from my world and so far from anybody else’s world too, for that matter. But it’s just my way of getting through… being fancy with words ‘n’ reminiscin’ n’ shit’. I’m just phasing, clinging on to the tiny little specks of life blowing my way whilst looking forwards and backwards into a more delightful, dangerous and meaningful existence. But yes, yes, you guessed? – I am a fraud. I’ve done ten weeks of nothingness not ten years and already I’ve spotted my way out: I’m spray-painting in the details of being the unexpected drop-out as we speak. And if I’m really up for playing the dull, uninspired card, I suppose I should not introduce you to the love of my life, or anything else that has happened and will happen to me. Not yet 21, remember. There's a hell of a lot still to come.
