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The Love Series

This millennial life is killing us. No amount of houseplants, meditation apps or CBD oil supplements will ever be enough to fix the mess that these boomers got us into. I remember a time when I firmly believed that life imitates art. It turns out that modern life imitates Instagram, instead. It’s Kylie Jenner’s world... and we’re living in it.

Of all the ways in which Instagram has taken control of our lives, I am always amazed by how it has become the ultimate flirting tool, without which I would never be able to gauge people’s romantic interest in me before I start with subtly targeted posts (backed by incontrovertible evidence such as their position in my IG stories views etc.). 

I quickly became convinced that the time has come for me to start a Love series on this blog, philosophise about life, talk to cool people with interesting stories, express my shock and disbelief at new dating trends… the work. I already know where I am going to write it from:  my new, highly instagrammable East London flat, huddled in my very pinterestable writing corner (which doesn’t exist yet) with a little wooden desk under a window and a table lamp and a tartan rug and maybe a framed picture of Jeff Goldblum. 

I’m going to write about love, yes. And I’m going to force my flatmate to take cute pictures of me writing about love in the age of Instagram and then proceed to post said pictures on - guess guess - Instagram, to impress my new romantic interest and give life to the meta-comedy of the century. Move over, Black Mirror, for He is coming.  Am I a genius? I wouldn’t rule it out. Of course you have a right to disagree – but I have a right to be offended about it and voice my disapproval on Instagram for my three followers to drag you. Because they STAN, and you should too.

Anyway, back to writing about love. It was never easy (or particularly original) but Carrie Bradshaw did it so well - and it wasn’t even that long ago! But love in the age of Tinder is something that none of us has learnt to navigate, let alone explain. But that’s what makes it fun, right? I’m thinking something along the lines of a millennial Sex and the City but with very little sex and a medley of mental health issues and student debt. You’ll love it. 

We’re going through a very peculiar moment of time. The rules of love are being rewritten and really, no one knows what’s right and therefore no one can tell me I’m wrong. I might turn out to be mistaken in a distant future, when the dust has settled on the desolate landscape of dating in the late 2010s and everything will have become clearer, but for now I’m good.

I am no authority but in the age of whatthefuckisgoingon I am as much of an expert as the next person so you might as well listen to what I have to say, because I may be wrong - but at least you’ll get a laugh out of it.

I just know that the stories I have heard and the experiences I have gathered are too good not to share with an audience of sexually and emotionally frustrated strangers. My friends have crazy lives and sex talk with them has become a grotesque and terrifying pantomime that unfolds over pitchers of tequila sunrise and bags of stale tortilla chips. I know at least two Scandinavian authors that would feel inspired to write a best-selling thriller about our love lives (Jo Nesbo, if you’re reading this, let’s talk). 

Life’s messy, love’s messier. I am a writer so I’ll write about it. It works well for my portfolio - and It’s cheaper than therapy. You, on the other hand, may be wondering why you’re so unlucky in love. I’ll tell you what works for me. When you think you’ve had it bad - listen (or read) to the stories of those who had it worse. You may still be sad - but boy, you will be glad it didn’t happen to you.


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A friend of mine messaged me the other day about an opportunity to pitch a piece for a new magazine looking for articles about happiness and well-being. She swiftly withdrew her suggestion upon realising I had literally nothing to contribute to the subject. I can’t seem to shake off the ever so slight suspicion that my particularly abrasive brand of defeatist sarcasm is unlikely to go down well with an audience that’s after feel-good stories for a much-needed start-of-week pick-me-up (that’s enough hyphens for today). Life in the time of Miss Rona is predictably slow. Aside from the customary episodes of wretchedness which stud my life that I have already discussed at length on this platform, I have very little to write about. I am of course binge-watching the Crown (hence me casually using words like “wretchedness”). I have also decided to finally do something about my life-long shampoo addiction and reduce the frequency of my hair washing from once every 24 hours to once every 30 hou