Still here (still coughing, actually – but that’s for another time). Am staring down the barrel of a Big Birthday and though when I think about it – like, really put my mind to it – I know I’ve had a hell of decade, in many different, awesome ways, but I’m still stabbed by the same doubts and fears and insecurities. I can’t shake irrational envy and resentment. I’m still a stroppy cow who can’t even see the fucking glass half the time, let alone judge if it’s half full or not.
I’m still twelve years old inside, I think. I wonder if I’m alone. Are we all just kids wearing adult clothing?