Being 24 (And Why It’s Awesome)

Being 24 (And Why It’s Awesome)

MIND FUCK: 24 was the age all the characters in Friends were when the show started and that’s the age I am now (and have been for a wee while). WHAAAAAAT?

They were so grown up. They had sex, jobs, some money, apartments, relationships, annoying parents, and all sorts of grown up things. They were my idols. Their lives looked incredible. They were 24. And now I’m 24. Yikes.

But it’s a good age, isn’t it? I think it is. Here’s why:

Jobs

People who are 24 tend to have a job. Studying (URGH) is no longer required. You can go home at 6 and you can switch off — if you want. Because you can stay switched on if you like your job. Either way, you win. Love your job? You’re getting paid to have fun. Hate your job? You still have actual proper guilt-free free time. Also, at 24, you don’t have to feel guilty if you’re not doing your “dream job”. There’s still time.

Friends

Gone are the days when you have to be friends with absolute dicks because not having friends looks super uncool. You’re only friends with people you genuinely really like and care about. To be fair, they’re probably a bit dickish too. But dickish in a good way. They call you up on bullshit and keep you on your toes. And you can also be dickish. They forgive you when you make a drunken moron of yourself or don’t text them back for ages or bail on events because you can’t be assed or WHATEVER. You love them and they love you – annoying warts and all. See Peter’s Friends for reference.

Self-esteem

So you’re definitely not as self-conscious as you were when you were in your teens. And you’ve sort of come to the realisation that being yourself is alright. You do the things that you think are fun and that’s that. And instead of telling people lies so they like you, you tell them the truth. Although, don’t get me wrong, you probably still hate yourself pretty much 78% of the time, but it’s definitely not as bad as those teen years. Ugh, weren’t they the worst?

FREEEEEEEDOM

I actually don’t want to limit freedom to just being 24/in your twenties. Being free is certainly a lot easier in your twenties, but you have to be free whatever your age. You should always be able to change your mind. Don’t like a job you’ve been doing for 20 years? GET OUT. Don’t want to be married anymore? GET OUT. Had enough of being a parent? Sorry, that one you’re stuck with.

You’re the perfect mix of kid/adult

YOU HAVE THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS. You don’t have to do what your parents say anymore, but you can still ask them for help.  It’s acceptable to stay in and watch Masterchef every night, but it’s acceptable to go out and get drunk. If you can’t remember the last time you had a home-cooked meal or changed your bed sheets or got 8 hours sleep, people still treat you like an adult! It’s jammy, jammy, jammy.

Money

My dad calls my boyfriend and I “TINKs”. Two incomes, no kids. It’s good, isn’t it? While we both have jobs, neither of us have any responsibilities. I mean, we probably should start saving for the “future”, but it’s a lot more fun eating out, drinking, and going on holidays and things. And it’s not like we don’t have a savings account. We have one, we’re just always taking money out of it. Because we can.

I think there are more good things about being in your twenties, but since I’m in my twenties, I drank a lot over the weekend and I’m sort of dying a little and I really want a crisp sandwich and a Pixar film. Yeah, I’m just going to just end this blog here.

 

Psychopaths, Bikes, and Soup

Psychopaths, Bikes, and Soup

Yep, that’s pretty much been my life for the last couple of weeks. I’ve been having a LOT of soup in a desperate attempt to rid my body of the excess fat it’s gained. What the hell happens to bodies in their 20s?!?!?! I used to be able to eat WHATEVER I wanted, but now the weight is just piling on! I mean, it’s probably all the sausage suppers. And the crisps. But no, my point is that I used to eat all the sausage suppers and crisps in the world and it made no difference to my weight.

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Storm Doris. And my legs. 

Getting older sucks, doesn’t it? Is it really just downhill from here?

The thing is, I know it isn’t. I think your body goes, you get wrinkles, there’s fat on your thighs THAT JUST WON’T BUDGE, but emotionally you probably get better as you get older, don’t you? Like, you’d become more confident in yourself and stuff? You don’t care so much about what people think about you.

I’m sorry. I have a feeling this is going to be a crap, rambling post. I blame P.M.T.

Speaking of the menstrual cycle, I just downloaded a period tracker app for my phone. It feels a bit suffocating to be honest. My next period’s just blaring out of the calendar in dark red numbers. It’s like it’s mocking me. If it could talk it would say, “I’m coming for you, you can’t hide from me, I will find you and I WILL destroy you”. It’s basically Slapsgiving. Yeah, that’s exactly what it is: Slapsgiving.

I just read The Psychopath Test by Jon Ronson. I enjoyed it, although I got a bit worried that I was a psychopath. Well, it’s sort of strange because I wasn’t worrying that I was a psychopath, but then there was a passage that went, ‘Oh by the way, if you’re worrying that you might be a psychopath then that means that you are definitely NOT a psychopath’ so then I thought Shit, I haven’t been worrying that I’m a psychopath so does that mean  that I actually am one?!?!?!?!?!?! But then I calmed down. It’s weird. I’m the kind of person who’ll read symptoms and then be like, “YES THAT’S SO ME”. Like I’m listening to ‘The Guilty Feminist’ at the minute and I finally feel like I know what I am (although deep down I know I’m actually just guilty). But with psychopaths, I haven’t been able to relate at all. I know – it’s crazy, isn’t it?! And you know why I can’t relate? Amygdala. Psychopaths don’t have enough of this chemical and anxious people have TOO much of it. So that’s nice, isn’t it?

Every cloud.

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Psychopaths and Weetos.

Oh and speaking of ‘The Guilty Feminist’, I would just like to point out that I don’t MIND my extra weight…I’m totally comfortable with my body shape.

OKAY YOU GOT ME I HATE IT. I JUST WISH I COULD EAT ALL THE FOOD AND BE A SIZE 8 AT THE SAME TIME. AND BE TALLER. AND HAVE EYES THE SAME COLOUR. AND SMALLER CANKLES.

God, I am a TERRIBLE feminist. I told you I was just guilty! I guess the point is that I KNOW I should be okay with my shape and I’m working on it. I mean, there are some benefits to being a bit bigger. No one can give me birthday bumps anymore.

That’s nice.

Bikes. Bikes. Bikes. Bikes. The greatest thing to have happened to me since sliced bread and full fat butter. Bikes! Having a bike has been SO good. I love it. I feel like I’m ten years old again (well, apart from when I have to go up steep hills). Cycling to work puts me in such a good mood in the morning!  And now I have a BASKET. I don’t really have anything to put in my basket though. I normally just throw an extra scarf in there or something. And lip balm.

I’m going to go and check on my bike now.

 

SANTA’S COMING!!!!!!!!

SANTA’S COMING!!!!!!!!

Merry Christmas Eve, folks!

Man, I think this is the most excited I’ve been for Christmas EVER! It’s for a number of reasons, really. I’m off work for 10 WHOLE DAYS, family are coming over from Holland (Barbara sure gave them a rough time on the ferry last night), and old family friends are joining us tomorrow for Christmas celebrations. OH and I’ve also brought home the best board-game in the world: Cranium. I’m going to wrap it up and put it under the tree so it looks like I’ve got my family quite a lot of presents, but it’s really just a present for myself. Everyone in my family hates board-games, but when it’s Christmas they HAVE to play with me. MWHAHAHAHA.

Mum’s stewing the ham right now. When I got up this morning it looked like little cooking elves had been working in the kitchen all night. There was food everywhere, recipes sprawled across the kitchen table, sausages defrosting in the sink…it was a lovely sight to wake up to. Then Mum came hobbling into the kitchen, all frizzy hair and crazy eyes, and said that she’d been up since four in the morning planning.

I feel kind of bad. For about two months now I’ve been telling Mum that I can totally help with all the cooking, but so far since I’ve been home, I’ve just been looking at all my old childhood books and getting emotional. It’s only ten, though. There’s still time to help. Although deep down I know I will just end up watching Christmas cooking programmes and getting hungry.

I’m the worst.

SO. Last night on the way home, we stopped off at Kinross services for a toilet and coffee break and GUESS WHO WE SAW?!?!?!?! BLOODY TILDA SWINTON!!!!!!! It. Was. Insane. I always thought that if I was ever to see a proper famous person that I would totally play it cool, but that did not happen. I couldn’t stop staring at her. And I wanted nothing more than to go and congratulate her for her role in About a Boy. Then the BF then told me that that the woman in About a Boy was in actual fact NOT Tilda Swinton. I’m so lucky I’ve got him — he’s stopped me from entering many an embarrassing situation.

We’re at Mum’s for Christmas this year. We were at Dad’s last year and it was…an experience. I arrived at his on Christmas morning to find him, my brother, and my sort of brother DRUNK OUT OF THEIR MINDS, and the Christmas turkey upside down in the oven. I have since heard, however, that putting a turkey upside down in the oven helps it stay nice and moist. And you know what? It was a particularly delicious turkey that year. I felt sorry for my brother. He’s a vegetarian and my Dad doesn’t really have time for that sort of thing so he just got stuck eating a bunch broccoli and Brussels sprouts. He couldn’t even have any potatoes or gravy because they were cooked with or in animal fat. My brother’s a nice laid-back chap though. He didn’t mind too much.

Uh oh, me Mam’s needing help with the spuds. Better run.

I can already feel the finger cramp.

 

 

Hands Up Who Loves The Weekend!

Hands Up Who Loves The Weekend!

Hello Party People!

I’m in a pub just now. With the boyfriend (who’s watching the football). This is the third day in a row we’ve been to this pub. It’s really lovely. Dark and dingy and down some steps so it’s kind of hidden away. And the people who come here seem nice, although I haven’t had much to do with them. There was one old man who hoped I wasn’t going to put sugar in my tea.

I liked him.

So. It’s November (17th? 18th? 19th?), and its starting to feel a little bit Christmassy. We put on some Christmas tunes at work the other day and although it felt too early, it was quite nice. But then everyone got really busy and stressed and sort of forgot about the music. It was a truly manic day yesterday, which was why when I passed the pub last night I thought, Gosh darn it I really need a wee glass of wine. 

And so I did.

The boyfriend joined me. And then our flat-mate came along too. We all got suitably tipsy. My flat-mate’s a bit stressed about life just now. I tried to reassure her by singing Taylor Swift’s song ’22’, but I’m not sure how much it helped. Then I got sad because I realised I’m going to be 24 in a few months and SHE had to reassure ME that that wasn’t old. Which I know, but we all like to complain about stuff that doesn’t really warrant any complaints, don’t we?

Please say you do.

I woke up really early today. Sods Law. You spend the whole working week DREAMING of a lie in and then when the weekend actually comes you’re wide awake at 7.00am. I don’t really mind though. I actually love getting up and watching tv in the living room on a Saturday morning. I especially love watching Rick Stein. He uses so much salt and olive oil in his food!

Ok, Arsenal are losing so we’re thinking about going into town and starting our Christmas shopping.

Sigh.

Catch Up

Catch Up

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NACHOS AND CURLY FRIES!!!

Sup guys.

Oh, I do love a Sunday. Uh oh, my BF, who was sleeping soundlessly beside me, has now put his head under the covers. Ha, I’m always waking him up to the sound of typing…well, typing or the hair dryer.

I think couples should have their own bedrooms. I mean, they can sleep in the same bed, but they should totally have their own room to do WHATEVER they want. OOPS, he’s now very much awake so I smiled at him and started dancing a little to the Rihanna (just realised this is how she spells her name…ugh, popstars, what they like eh?) song I’m listening to. He then moved his hand to the earphones plugged into my computer, which I misconstrued as him wanting to listen to the song  so I unplugged them.

Bad move.

Rihanna BLARED out my speakers, which caused him to jump and put his head back under the covers just like a wee turtle, squealing, “Josie, it’s EARLY!”.

LOL. I don’t know why he’s still with me.

ANWAY. Sundays. They’re great aren’t they? Apart from the feeling of doom that you’ve got work the next day, although as I’m still working in the retail business, I’ve been working all weekend and I’m working tomorrow so the feeling of doom hasn’t left, which is sort of nice in a way.

I love a rainy Sunday. The kind of Sunday when you go to the shops and everyone smells of wet dog, last night’s booze, and toast. I love staying in bed and watching cooking programmes or reading an AWESOME book. I love having a late breakfast of egg rolls. Man, I’m a bit addicted to egg rolls at the minute. And (not to brag too much) I’m pretty great at making them. Let me share my wisdom:

Josie’s Egg Rolls 

(I don’t know why, but “Josie’s egg rolls” sounds weird and dirty).

First of all, don’t be stingy with the olive oil. Fill that pan up. You don’t want crispy eggs that stick to the pan and you can always use kitchen roll after they’re cooked to dap the oil off.

Secondly, leave the oil to heat up. You don’t want to be cracking eggs into cold oil – that is a rookie error, my friends. BUT you don’t want the oil to be too hot because then the eggs will cook too quickly and can burn a little. So you just want a nice medium temperature. 

Once you have that nice medium temperature, you can go ahead and crack those eggs into the pan. Don’t be demotivated if some shell gets in there too; just get it out asap, and when you’re alone in the kitchen, whose to know it ever happened?

Leave the eggs to cook on that nice medium temperature, and in the meantime, butter your rolls. You can use whatever rolls you want, but I always go for good Scottish morning rolls. OH YUM. Scottish rolls are a little crusty which is a nice contrast to that soft egg and melted butter.

Like the oil, I would suggest not being stingy with the butter. Just lather it on. The more there is, the more that melts into that crusty Scottish morning roll, transforming it into some sort of Scottish Brioche…maybe we could call it a Brioch? And, you know, pronounce the “ch” like we would with “loch”? Yeah, I think that works. Ah, I always love a good butcher of the French Language. 

Then when the eggs are looking almost done, flip those babies over. Now, this is the tricky bit. You want to cook them enough on the other side so that the yolk hardens a little, but doesn’t go completely hard. What you want to end up with is 70% hard yolk and 30% soft yolk. Although, I guess this part is up to preference. Like, I don’t like mess so I hate when the yolk bursts out of my roll and runs done my arms and goes on to the table. But I also don’t like a completely hard yolk; I like a soft yolk that is easy to control. 

So there you go. This recipe is so good that I should probably get it copyrighted, but I’m going to trust that you won’t take advantage of it.

Don’t let me down.

The Voice of Guilt

The Voice of Guilt

I think I’m slowly coming to realisation that I prefer the working day to a day off. I know this is mental, but I really think it’s true. Like, when I’m working, I can let myself get so excited about my day off that’s coming up. I can think about all the things I want to do, dream about my lie in, and get trashed (if I want to). But then when the day off actually comes, I’m overcome with the voice of GUILT. And out of all the voices in my head, this one is by far the worst.

Ha, I sound pretty nuts.

If I’m hungover my guilt’s way worse, but it’s bad even when I’m not. I mean, I didn’t get too drunk last night (the trick is to fill a large wine glass to the brim and then not look at the bottle), but I’m still feeling panicky today. Panicky that I’m not using my day off to the best of its advantage.

But what is using a day off to the best of its advantages? Surely it’s doing WHATEVER it is that you want to do because your day off is your OWN day. You don’t have to answer to anyone, you don’t have to be anywhere, you don’t need to get out of bed at the crack of dawn, and you don’t need to make sure you get a good nights sleep the night before.

But the thing is, I KNOW all of this. I know I can do whatever I want, but I still can’t help feeling like I should do something useful with my day. Like go to a museum or spend the morning wandering around a local farmer’s market or going for a swim or painting a picture or baking a banana loaf or learning another a language.

HA, check the alliteration above! Baking a Banana loaf, Painting a Picture, and Learning a Language…that’s pretty cool, isn’t it?

It’s the little things.

But back to the day off thing, knowing these things doesn’t help. Logic is just something that will NEVER quash those annoying voices, is it? And I’ve even tried to do things on a day off. Like one day, I walked to the top of Arthur’s Seat, but it SUCKED ASS. It started raining, I was freezing, everyone else had someone there with them, I got lost, there was a dog that scared me, and when I went back to work the next day, I was sore and cranky. I should have just stayed in bed and watched t.v., which I vowed I would do on my next day off, but here I am, feeling all guilty again.

Meh.

Death

Death

Apologies for my last, somewhat melodramatic blog post. Also, apologies for this, somewhat melodramatic blog post title. I probably shouldn’t write when I’ve got P.M.T.

God, isn’t P.M.T great? You can actually blame ALL of your flaws on it. Like, I just blamed my really bad blog post on P.M.T. I blame grumpiness, impatience, tiredness, and stupidity on it too. I actually feel sorry for boys – if THEY are ever horrible then it’s because they’re a horrible person, but for us girls, it’s just P.M.T!

There was one time when I had it really bad; when I was up and down like a yoyo on speed. My boyfriend would lovingly stroke my hair or try and hold my hand and I would go all stoney and tell him to leave me alone. THEN I’d get all tearful and emotional and I’d hug him tightly and tell him that I loved him so much. Then next thing, I’d be snapping at him for not having Humans ready to watch as SOON as our dinner was ready to eat. After hours of this mental behaviour, I apologised, saying “I’m sorry – I hope it’s just P.M.T”. to which he replied, “I hope so too…otherwise, you’re just a bitch.”

Cue extremely tense silence during which my boyfriend looked at me like a little bunny caught in the glare of a laser beamed tank, immediately regretting what he said and waiting for my reaction.

Don’t worry: no blood was shed. Instead, I laughed. I realised that without P.M.T., I would be a cow –  a horrible, horrendous beast of a human being – and my boyfriend would probably dump my ass, but with it, I was just the helpless victim of hormonal surges.

MWHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

The world was my oyster.

P.s. I was going to try and write an insightful post about death, but I’m tired and grouchy and just want some chocolate, my colouring in book (it’s for adults) (even if it is a Harry Potter colouring in book), and the Gilmore Girls on television.