Confessions of a Lonely Twenty-Something

elan cafe

Your twenties are meant to be some of the best years of your life. At least, that’s how they’ve been sold to us. You’re not restricted to a classroom or library or the clutches of a looming exam or coursework deadline.

You’re free of any ‘real’ responsibility, not tied down by marriages or mortgages or children clamouring for your attention.

The world is your oyster! You’ll hear.

Oh, what I’d give to be in my twenties again! To have that body, that social life, all that free time!

What they won’t tell you, is how fucking lonely it is.

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2019 – The Year of the Kid in the Candy Store

Processed with RNI Films. Preset 'Agfacolor 50's'

2018 was a bit crap.

There’s no poetic or poignant way to put that, really. Only sharp, abrupt honesty that a year I went into with wide-eyed optimism did not turn out to be the 365 days of glory and joy and sheer perfection that I’d been dreaming of.

It wasn’t all bad, of course. As with every year, good or bad, I learned some valuable lessons that will inevitably continue to shape my twenties as the past few have.

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In Defence Of Being Visible


I am happy with myself. I have flaws and insecurities, as every person does, but I wouldn’t change who I am, even if I could.

This is not glowing self-praise, nor blatant narcissism, but it still feels rather strange and alien to declare that I am happy with myself as a human being. It’s been so ingrained into my mind now that I must preface every compliment I give myself with a quick self-deprecating jab to remind myself (and to assure others) not to seem uppity or conceited.

Isn’t that bizarre? Is it not a strikingly forlorn habit that distancing yourself from your own kindness has become so normalised?

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The Valentine’s Chronicles


My first Valentine’s Day of any significance happened when I was at primary school. I must have been ten or eleven years old, and was shyly handed an envelope at school, by a boy named Martin, before he dashed off in an embarrassed, awkward hurry.

Back then, I was a very different me to the girl, woman, I am today – this was in the days of bootcut jeans, tracksuit tops and mousy brown hair. Before dark dye, before my daily ritual of false eyelashes and overdrawn lips, and before I’d had my heart bruised and broken by a string of different boys.

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