I’m terribly afraid that this will be a Bridget Jones year. I shall be forced to stick a carving knife in my arm if I start obsessing about losing weight and/or finding a bloke. Not, I find, that I need to obsess about these things as others seem willing to do so for me. (And, quite frankly, it is one of the mottos of my life not to worry about something if someone else if willing to do so. It saves me quite a lot of time and energy.) First it was the work friends, all older than me and mostly by more than a decade, joking about when I would have a baby. Only, it was in that jokey-Not Joking way. One of them joked about how I’d have to find a bloke first and then like some nasty spit of a daemon escaped from pandemonium the idea seems to have decided to hang around and cause me mischief. In short, to my absolute horror, my father – unusually sober – asked me if I’d found a bloke yet. Yet. Like I’ve been on the prowl and, you know, it’s only a matter of time until I snag a fine specimen. I hadn’t been aware that I was looking. Of late, quite frankly, I’ve been so mentally and emotionally shattered that I wouldn’t wish myself on anyone and am having a hard enough time coping as is. This isn’t, for the record, some kind of plea for help or begging for reassurance. I’ve just picked up a bad case of the Oh-My-[lack of]God-My-Life heebie-jeebies and have yet to sort myself out. Assuming I can sort myself out, of course. I’d like these to fuck off back to wherever they’ve come from post-haste but I suspect that, like my health, my sanity is temporarily shot to complete shit. I can feel myself becoming more superstitious by the moment.
Jesus-fuck, why do people have to say these things to one?