Anxiety – Or The Monster In My Lungs


My blog may be pretty personal – but there’s a lot of things I’ve never blogged about here. Some, I never intend to, others – like anxiety – I’m going to try write about but I’m not sure when – or if I will publish these posts.

[Note: It’s a whole three years later and why the fuck not post this]

I’m writing this post on a sunny but windy Tuesday. It’s 30 December 2014. I’m healthy, I have a paying job that I’m pretty good at, a comfortable studio apartment [2017: two jobs and one apartment later…]. I have no debts, no immediate threats to my health or safety. I’m smart, I’m young, I have an excellent support system of friends and family.

And yet I am overwhelmed by crippling anxiety at least once a day. I’m writing this post in one of those moments when my anxiety is reaching it’s suffocating level where I’m almost unable to think logically and make rational decisions – even something as simple as whether or not to Whatsapp one of The Besties. I feel like I may cry at any moment – and really, I have no reason to want to cry today [edit later: I totally cried and then wrote a long, long post on depression]. Today is not a bad day, today is generally a day where nothing much at all has happened.

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Hello, friends

Deadpool / Marvel Comics via giphy

It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

Last I wrote, although you didn’t know, I was in the middle of losing my job for the third time in four years. I’ll write you something witty about being retrenched soon enough, but for now, dear reader, know this: it fucking sucks.

I stopped reading books. Started stalking recruitment agents. Stopped going out. Started isolating. Stopped laughing. Started crying with the roaches. Stopped writing. Started…I don’t know what.

I’m slowly coming back to normal. I read a whole book recently and actually finished it (in one day). I’ve started trying to make friends again. I’ve started going out. I don’t live with roaches anymore (but do have a lot of ants and four dead plants).

And I’m coming back back to this blog to write bullshit that I find funny, so that I can laugh alone in my apartment while I listen to my upstairs neighbours have sex/bounce on their pogo pole (I really don’t know which).

Hello, friends.

I’m back.

How to care for A Guy


I’ve recently come into possession of a guy (The Guy). Dear dedicated readers (who-may-all-be-in-my-head-because-I-really-don’t-blog-good), you’ll know that it was a good number of years since I last had to keep one of these. And, they are very much not like keeping cactuses (who now live with my parents thanks to my worst nightmare flatmates) alive. They’re a lot more like puppies: needy, furry and I’ll admit it, kind of cute.

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Learning to cohabitate…


…with roaches. Dear god I hate roaches. Big ones. Small ones. Some as big as a reasonable sized rat that has probably doing steroids and too many bench presses at gym, bro.

If you follow me on Twitter, you’ll have seen my requests pleas about how to get rid of the pesky fuckers without burning down my apartment because deposits and references are needed when you can eventually afford to live somewhere where you can’t see your fridge from your bed.

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Them Retrenchment Blue


[Edit: I started this blog in mid-March, I’m gainfully employed again, but why the hell not post this]

Why hello, unemployment. We meet again! I know some people like to jazz you up and call you ‘Funemployment’ but honestly there’s nothing fun about a future of looming debit orders, lack of medical aid and zero inflow of cash. But times are tough and shit happens and I know it’s been less than 18 months since we last met, but, you gotta get down on Frid – oh, no wait. That’s not it. You gotta DOWN the Mainstay*

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The Problem With Tinder


I’ve said it before, I’m a fan of Tinder – because where else are bookish girls with a desire to go to bed early and make friends with cats going to find men? But, BUT there’s a problem (well, many) with internet/Tinder dating: It requires you to invest a large amount of time into people you don’t even know, let alone know if you like.


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Food Groups Of The 20-something

Trippy Cat Eating Pizza

Part of being an independent, 20-something year old adult is learning to feed yourself and not end up some kind of severe nutritional deficiency/disorder/disease/die. Admittedly, when I first moved out of home, I depended a lot of frozen vegetables and couscous. Cause like, EASY. But I’ve realised that perhaps to avoid getting scurvy (THIS IS A THING YOU CAN GET ON LAND), I had to improve my game.


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