This is me
My original post for this was about how I came to be me. It was alright, though probably pretty bland. Who wants to read about an unknown person’s sob story, right? Then last night I had a brainwave: I was on my way home with my boyfriend from a space-themed party at 11.30pm. Everyone else went out, and we politely made our excuses and came home to the sofa, pringles and ice cream. It made me realise that I’m quite a boring person. We went out properly just a few weeks ago, we don’t even fully remember stumbling back home. It was the definition of excitement until out of all the things a drunk couple who live together could do, we hung up the washing because “It’ll get damp in the machine otherwise!” The next day, hungover (he was, for once I wasn’t), I cleaned the kitchen and then settled on the sofa with Netflix and my knitting project. I’m basically 80 years old.
And so for me to be given a brief of “write 800 words under the title ‘This is me’”, is horrifying. Without divulging into it too much, I have had a pretty interesting childhood and I have a lot of stories about it. But it was as I was looking for a picture to go with my tragic article of a traumatic past, I realised that I don’t want my future professional career to be overshadowed by it. I’m pretty happy where I am now, and so instead I can write about that. In time I’ll probably be okay with telling the world my story (Seriously, I could fill two books there’s that much), but for now I’m going to stick with the present.
I feel like I should start with the basics: I was born on the 24th November 1996 during the Eastenders weekly Omnibus. The number one pop song at the time was “No Diggity” by BLACKstreet ft. Dr Dre. I’m female, I have brown hair and blue eyes, and I’m 5’9” tall. I hate tomatoes so badly I don’t even like pizza — BBQ base is a Godsend — and I have a bit of salad cream with almost everything. Somehow I balance working 20+ hours per week with studying Creative and Professional Writing at CCCU. I live in Canterbury with my boyfriend, and occasionally we sleep in separate rooms because I start work at 7am and he can sometimes finish at 3am and doesn’t want to wake me up. He studies at the University of Kent, and is frequently described as a “good noodle” by both myself and my friends. My post may be titled “This is me”, but the importance of this guy in my life is pretty significant and the feminist inside me screams about it, but I guess there’s no shame in admitting that being around someone makes you a better version of yourself.
My family live a measly 10 miles down the road, and I drive home for dinner a lot. Every time I go there I end up leaving with more stuff and no one really knows how it happens. I just get loaded up by my stepmum while my dad looks on complaining “Darling not that as well?! I like that frying pan!” On the topic, for the year before uni I lived with my dad, my stepmum, and my two stepsisters. My stepmum is a 5’3” Malaysian who came to the UK when she was 19 to study dentistry; she’s pretty formidable and has the stereotypical no-nonsense attitude of someone who grew up in Asia. We recently spent 3 weeks in Malaysia and Singapore and after meeting her family I can see where she gets it from. My mum, stepdad, my older sister and my younger brother all live together in the next town over, and I go and see them a bit too, but not as much thanks to that tragic backstory that I’m not delving into.
When coming to uni, my dad couldn’t understand why I was moving and paying for accommodation when I could just stay at home for free and commute. My answer was simple: I wanted the freedom to stumble home drunk and vomit in my own toilet if I needed to, and I couldn’t do that at home. The fact that I have not once come home and vomited in the loo, or anywhere as a matter of fact, is beside the point. I’d craved independence since I was 16 and got a job — the same one I’m in now. I didn’t want to study far away because after almost ending up at Portsmouth University studying Law, the thought of not being close to home made my heart thump and my lungs hurt (I’m also asthmatic but allow the dramatic license here please). Being just down the road gives me the best of both worlds.
Of course, with that independence you also get the hassle of things like rent and bills, not to mention the amount of cleaning and washing. I don’t know how real adults do it. Drunk at 3am is probably not it.
And suddenly my 800 words are up (and actually over, sorry Heidi!) and I’ve managed to not throw the computer out of the window. I’m not entirely sure I’ve written anything of substance but honestly I’m hungry and the pringles that my boyfriend just brought me up aren’t enough to sate me right now. So, even if everything I’ve written is boring and shit, it’s tough luck I’m afraid because those two adjectives just about sum me up. Did I mention I’m pretty pessimistic?
