A Quarter-Life Crisis in Shades of Blue.
I sodding hate January.
I hate that I'm fat in January. I hate the grey in January. I hate that for about ten minutes on the first day of January there seems to be an overarching sense of can-do and positivity that one can only mourn for the rest of of the month, like Liz Jones over her career or the fact that anybody ever let ER get cancelled.
I hate that January makes me so dreary. I'm just not fun in January.
January is like that boyfriend who never did really appreciate your dry wit and ageless charm, but whom you always just have that one last tryst with. It happens when you get a bit squiffy every New Year's Eve, and you can spend the three weeks afterward wondering why he hasn't called and checking the size of the pores in your nose because maybe that was what turned him off. You can pass hours standing in front of the mirror contorting yourself into any number of positions he might have seen you in (WE'VE ALL DONE IT) and possibly refusing to shave any body hair from your self as a punishment for the stupidity of falling for his charms AGAIN.
It's a pit of self-loathing, and that pit of self-loathing is called JANUARY.
And it needs a wax.
January is wet. January complains too much. January makes you reassess everything you previously knew to be true and real and definite in this life in such depth of self-loathing that your belly button becomes your elbow. It makes you go a little bit mad.
I went to Mama to seek a little solace and familial advice. "Oh bloody hell, don't come to me for cheering up. I've my own shit to deal with," she said. And then laughed. "I don't know. Just. Don't ever get your hopes up about anything, and that way you can't get disappointed can you?"
And the Inspirational Motivator of the Year Award goes to...
I'm not depressed in January. I'm just a little blue. It's Blue Monday after all, the most depressing day of the year. Things can only get better, right? I really bloody hope so. Because January also makes me a bit crazy.
And I don't even want to tell you that I did this next thing.
It took me three hours, two cups of tea and six cigarettes to admit to Calum and Lee that I had done something really embarrassing in my desperate attempt to get over January. Like, not only had I slept with that boyfriend who never appreciated me anyway, but that I was now stalking him at work and had added his new girlfriend on Facebook. But worse.
Look. I'm not proud of this, but... I bought a book. This book.
I'm all for self-improvement but somehow, I have become the girl that identifies with the promise, "Rather than feeling overwhelmed and frustrated, readers can turn questions into maps that lead toward creating a career, a relationship and a life that fits just like a favorite pair of jeans."
Firstly, JEANS NEVER FIT ANYBODY PROPERLY.
Secondly, I DON'T NEED A SECOND POINT.
And now every time I speak to either of them they calmer mutter, "But you're a twenty-everything." And I less calmly tell them to fuck off. I'm sure there must be an anger management guide included in the "twenties traiangle" of who am I? What do I want? How do I get it?
Well. I am Laura Jane Williams. I want January to be over, and if I wait another 14 days under my duvet voila! I'll have everything I ever wanted. A refund on the £7 I spent on this book during a January trawl on Amazon would be great, too. In the meantime, I'll make podcasts instead. I hate January in this, too.
I hate that I'm fat in January. I hate the grey in January. I hate that for about ten minutes on the first day of January there seems to be an overarching sense of can-do and positivity that one can only mourn for the rest of of the month, like Liz Jones over her career or the fact that anybody ever let ER get cancelled.
I hate that January makes me so dreary. I'm just not fun in January.
January is like that boyfriend who never did really appreciate your dry wit and ageless charm, but whom you always just have that one last tryst with. It happens when you get a bit squiffy every New Year's Eve, and you can spend the three weeks afterward wondering why he hasn't called and checking the size of the pores in your nose because maybe that was what turned him off. You can pass hours standing in front of the mirror contorting yourself into any number of positions he might have seen you in (WE'VE ALL DONE IT) and possibly refusing to shave any body hair from your self as a punishment for the stupidity of falling for his charms AGAIN.
It's a pit of self-loathing, and that pit of self-loathing is called JANUARY.
And it needs a wax.
January is wet. January complains too much. January makes you reassess everything you previously knew to be true and real and definite in this life in such depth of self-loathing that your belly button becomes your elbow. It makes you go a little bit mad.
I went to Mama to seek a little solace and familial advice. "Oh bloody hell, don't come to me for cheering up. I've my own shit to deal with," she said. And then laughed. "I don't know. Just. Don't ever get your hopes up about anything, and that way you can't get disappointed can you?"
And the Inspirational Motivator of the Year Award goes to...
I'm not depressed in January. I'm just a little blue. It's Blue Monday after all, the most depressing day of the year. Things can only get better, right? I really bloody hope so. Because January also makes me a bit crazy.
And I don't even want to tell you that I did this next thing.
It took me three hours, two cups of tea and six cigarettes to admit to Calum and Lee that I had done something really embarrassing in my desperate attempt to get over January. Like, not only had I slept with that boyfriend who never appreciated me anyway, but that I was now stalking him at work and had added his new girlfriend on Facebook. But worse.
Look. I'm not proud of this, but... I bought a book. This book.
I'm all for self-improvement but somehow, I have become the girl that identifies with the promise, "Rather than feeling overwhelmed and frustrated, readers can turn questions into maps that lead toward creating a career, a relationship and a life that fits just like a favorite pair of jeans."
Firstly, JEANS NEVER FIT ANYBODY PROPERLY.
Secondly, I DON'T NEED A SECOND POINT.
And now every time I speak to either of them they calmer mutter, "But you're a twenty-everything." And I less calmly tell them to fuck off. I'm sure there must be an anger management guide included in the "twenties traiangle" of who am I? What do I want? How do I get it?
Well. I am Laura Jane Williams. I want January to be over, and if I wait another 14 days under my duvet voila! I'll have everything I ever wanted. A refund on the £7 I spent on this book during a January trawl on Amazon would be great, too. In the meantime, I'll make podcasts instead. I hate January in this, too.
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