Today was shit because:
I became an internet hate figure, as you can see here. However, it's the first time I've not actually read the comments. Nope, not one. I've decided that it's ok if these people hate me - they're commenting on something I wrote, not me. Also, there's a good chance I've let the internet take up too much of my life. Why do things happen, and I Twitter them? Why should anyone else be interested in what the fuck I'm doing? Blogging is cathartic, and hopefully, you find people you can empathise with and who empathise with you. But when things happen and you think 'I must blog about that' it might be time for a holiday. Also, I'm 25. I don't know stuff. Maybe The Internet is right, and I'm a twat, but I'm doing my best. I thought at this point I'd know everything, but I don't feel like I know much more than I did than when I was 21.
Work has been interesting. But again, it's made me think that I need not to be defined by my job. I'm not religious, but if I die and I end up standing in front of The Gatekeeper, I'm pretty sure he's not going to judge me based on what the deal was at work. I'm happy to be judged on my evenings, weekends, whether I remembered my family's birthdays and whether I wrote thank you letters.
I can't be responsible for other people, how they feel, and how they feel about me. I can only control my own behaviour. I might have faked it out once or twice, but I've got a really clear view on what's right and what's not. I spend a lot of time worrying about what other people are thinking, and what they're thinking about me. If I had one wish, it would be not to care.
I'm going to try not to turn this into a property blog, as I believe there might be enough of those. But it's difficult not to pay attention to this stuff, when you bare in mind number four on The List.
I spent the past weekend in Lowestoft, all by myself, having some of that much talked of 'me' time. There was no big crisis, I didn't feel like if I didn't I'd do something rash, but I had a free weekend and a desire to get out of London, so took it.
It was really lovely. Anticlimactic, but lovely.
In no particular order, I walked in the snow, took a nap in the middle of the day, watched Stardust, ate the best fish and chips ever, ate matchmakers, ate a Sunday roast, took some photographs, and ate a Cadburys Creme Egg. I didn't have email, I didn't have the internet in any form, I didn't Twitter, I didn't text - I was all by myself.
I actually thought it was going to be a lot harder than it turned out to be. It turns out, if you want to know about the weather, you can look outside. And reading a Sunday paper back to back is a pretty effective way of finding out what's going on in the world.
And there in lies the rub. I thought it would be a lot harder. I was pretty sure that the stress levels I felt in London would take a while to come down. I'd miss my emails. I'd be stuck for something to do. And I totally wasn't - by the time the train got to Stratford, I was in my anti-social element.
Makes me wonder how much I need all this city shit.
(And ironically, the entire weekend lacked any moments of clarity, or life changing decisions. It was just... relaxing. What you just witnessed there is probably the closest I've come. Huh.).
There were the highs of property slumps, the chance I was standing in exactly the same spot that Russell brand had at the bbc, and a chance to quiz ken Livingstone whilst watching him nail the red wine. There was also dim sum at which point I thought I should get a better camera phone.
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