I know I’m a shitty blogger. Since launching my second attempt at an internet presence that is not Twitter or Facebook more than a year ago, I have managed to post exactly nine times. Nine. 9. Nein, nein, nein. Not good enough.
As the weather is getting drearier and drearier (it’s officially still summer, and yet I have already bought a new lambswool scarf and thought about asking my parents for a tweed jacket for Christmas), I am once more resolving to write more, and write more regularly. And because inspiration is hard to come by, and everything is copy, I’m shamelessly pilfering once again. There’s the “Blog every day in May” challenge that I’m not going to do (because it’s not May, and after writing 0.7 blog posts per month in the last year, the idea of writing 500+ words every day in a month I’ll mostly spend flat hunting is frankly ridiculous), but which came up with 31 great topic ideas ranging from “The story of your life in 350 words or less” to “A vivid memory”. (Full list can be found here.) So, without further ado, I’m launching into how frighteningly easy it is to recount my life in less than 300 words.
First, a few cornerstones of my existence. I was born almost 28 years ago, in a rural backwater in Catholic Northern Germany, as the first of four children to a pair of left-leaning hippies with surprisingly strict views on all things my peers and I considered elementary to a hassle-free childhood, like access to refined sugar, television, “fashionable” clothes and later curfews, booze and boys. Despite my inarguably strange tastes in music, clothes, hobbies and friends (always managing to veer off the acceptable path sooner or later) and my terrible swottiness, I managed to make it through school mostly unscathed and, surprising no one more than myself, never became the target of the sophisticated bullying campaigns cocked up for some of my less fortunate friends. I did, however, manage to cultivate a reputation of being rather arrogant, which to this day I attribute to the fact that I was too poor to buy contact lenses and too vain to wear glasses, and as a consequence never recognising anyone who might greet me on the courtyard.
As tends to happen with overprotected children, as soon as I moved to the other side of the country for university and no longer had my parents breathing down my neck, I went completely off the rails in my first year. Sick of my reputation as a good girl, I immediately set about launching a new version of myself, but quickly realised that over-the-top debauchery bored me to death and embarked on a relationship with the most stable, reliable person I could find (although I have to give bonus points for still pissing off my parents). It lasted three and a half years in total and ended the way most 20-something relationships end: Messy tears, messy rebounding, messy second attempt, fading of interest, final breakup. Never quite able to keep that promise of being “friends”, but able to look back without hating yourself, or them.
After graduating with no boyfriend and an English lit degree in the middle of a global financial crisis, the next logical step seemed to get the fuck out, STAT. Figuring if I stayed in Germany, I’d spend my next two years hopping from one unpaid internship to the next, I packed two bags and boarded the next Ryanair cattle truck to London Stansted. Found a flat, found a shitty job, found a second job to supplement the shitty salary from the first job. Found a better flat, a better job, quit the shitty job, stopped talking to the shitty flatmates. Found awesome boyfriend. but that’s a story for another day.