Fucked up there, didn’t I?

As if I was going to write another blog within eight months of my last. It took me three years to bother between the previous two. I mean, let’s be fair, managing to set this time aside within a year of the last post almost makes me a serial blogger in my eyes.

Don’t worry, I’ve not lost the writer’s touch. (At least in my own head.)

Anyway, yeah, I’ve turned 30 since the last time I updated this blog so what better way to re-introduce myself to the readership?*

*My own Mum probably wouldn’t even be arsed reading my blog so you probably are literally the only person reading this.

Apart from the absolute ball ache that means this blog’s domain is now hopelessly outdated (obviously took the cheaper route of just adding a mention to 30 in brackets), it is strange to concede that turning 30 has started to make me think more about my age than I have ever done previously.

Should I really be out in the Razz until 4am in the morning? I’m 30.

Should I really be wearing ripped jeans? I’m 30.

Should I really be spending my time playing FIFA? I’m 30.

Should I really still be single? I’m 30.

Should I really be a virgin? I’m 30.

(Ok, at least one of those is a joke).

They say that age is a number but there is something about turning 30 that makes you stop and question a lot of your life choices. There’s no longer that acceptance that you can “get away” with something because you’re in your 20s. For some reason, being 30 has some sort of maturity associated to it that you feel compelled to recognise.

I’m not too sure where this comes from but it certainly feels like a pressure from society as a whole.

I have even extended out my Bumble age range search to 31. Proof, if ever any was needed, that this pressure from society has hit me bad.

I do keep telling myself that it’s only another year and it shouldn’t really be such a significant landmark but there’s no getting away from the fact there is sense of a loss of freedom that came with being an irresponsible twenty-something.

What this means exactly for me, I’m not sure. I’m still in the process of convincing myself that 30 can be perceived as “young” nowadays and I’ve still got plenty of time to become attuned with what society says I should be doing.

Forty is the one to worry about.

Yeah, that’s right, 40. Miles off that. Got ages to fuck about before deciding I’ve definitely played enough FIFA against 12-year-old kids.

And if I’m still going with this writing lark by the time I’m 40 I might even treat myself to a new domain. Something to look forward to there.

For now, though, here’s to continuing to act blindly like a twenty-something updating a blog about being twenty-something. Happy days.



p.s. To confirm, I am not a virgin.

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