Maybe by writing about writing the post I can write the post without feeling as if I'm writing it.

I keep nearly writing a depressing and self-pitying post about being fairly close to my thirtieth birthday (which is fine in itself) and having an accompanying sense of total failure and non-achievement (which is what renders everything foul). I looked up 30 on Wikipedia to see if it had any helpful advice, and it said the following:

'According to Erikson, the young adult stage involves the personal need for intimacy and sex. Failure to achieve this need results in isolation, which is avoided, and as a result the young adult strives for love and compassion. After the upheaval of the early 30s, the middle to late 30s (roughly ages 34-39) are often characterized by settling down.'

I don't know who Erikson is, but I think he's a beast. I don't mind the upheaval bit though. What I didn't want to hear was that thirty-year-olds are happy and content and settled and doing so much better than you, Sam.

I really need to stop griping about my comfortable existence. It only adds guilt to my list of woes.

I don't think Younger Me would think much of Me at 29 years and 10 months, unless my geriatric cat walked into frame. Younger Me would find that surprising and cheering, and rightly so. Younger Me probably also expected Me of Today to be independent, and not to be living in my parents' house, and to have an ex and maybe a current, and a social life, and things to do of an evening, and some kind of brilliantly exciting impressive enjoyable job, and to be well-travelled and maybe, I surprise you, to have spawned. And stuff. Younger Me, to be fair, was an arse. Also there's the writing. Much Younger Me had no interest in writing, but Post-18 Me would've expected some kind of Bafta by now. Then again, Post-18 me was an idiot.

Me of Today has almost no ambition left, which is actually kind of relaxing, but the one thing I really desperately want is someone else to blame for my crapness and if it goes on much longer I may have to pick someone at random. The Wikipedia Ransomiser is my friend here.

Tony Allcock apparently. Bowls player. Bastard.

Maybe by writing about writing the post I can write the post without feeling as if I'm writing it.

I keep nearly writing a depressing and self-pitying post about being fairly close to my thirtieth birthday (which is fine in itself) and having an accompanying sense of total failure and non-achievement (which is what renders everything foul). I looked up 30 on Wikipedia to see if it had any helpful advice, and it said the following:

'According to Erikson, the young adult stage involves the personal need for intimacy and sex. Failure to achieve this need results in isolation, which is avoided, and as a result the young adult strives for love and compassion. After the upheaval of the early 30s, the middle to late 30s (roughly ages 34-39) are often characterized by settling down.'

I don't know who Erikson is, but I think he's a beast. I don't mind the upheaval bit though. What I didn't want to hear was that thirty-year-olds are happy and content and settled and doing so much better than you, Sam.

I really need to stop griping about my comfortable existence. It only adds guilt to my list of woes.

I don't think Younger Me would think much of Me at 29 years and 10 months, unless my geriatric cat walked into frame. Younger Me would find that surprising and cheering, and rightly so. Younger Me probably also expected Me of Today to be independent, and not to be living in my parents' house, and to have an ex and maybe a current, and a social life, and things to do of an evening, and some kind of brilliantly exciting impressive enjoyable job, and to be well-travelled and maybe, I surprise you, to have spawned. And stuff. Younger Me, to be fair, was an arse. Also there's the writing. Much Younger Me had no interest in writing, but Post-18 Me would've expected some kind of Bafta by now. Then again, Post-18 me was an idiot.

Me of Today has almost no ambition left, which is actually kind of relaxing, but the one thing I really desperately want is someone else to blame for my crapness and if it goes on much longer I may have to pick someone at random. The Wikipedia Ransomiser is my friend here.

Tony Allcock apparently. Bowls player. Bastard.