So today is
the day I’ve spent the past month dreading – my birthday. I’m officially 22. Twenty-two. Twenty-fucking-two. Now
you’re probably thinking that it’s really not that big of a deal, but to me, it
is. It’s adult age. Pay-your-own-bills-don’t-forget-to- buy-fresh-milk age.
Madness.
I’ve never
really had a plan for my twenties, well nothing specific anyway. I knew I wanted
to write, be living in London, and maybe get a degree? Luckily, I’m doing all
three, but what’s next? Now that I’m an adult, what the fuck is next?
Looking back
over the past year though, it’s been fucking amazing. I managed to drag myself
through my first year at University, intern at some pretty cool places and land
myself a part time job writing for a magazine. 21 was a good year, but I’m
genuinely a little bit scared as to whether or not 22 is going to live up to
its predecessor. It best bloody had, otherwise myself and 22 will be having
words.
Now I’m
going to go play me some Taylor Swift on repeat…
