The Fading Firefly

The fog had surpassed looking thick; it felt thick. I felt enveloped in it. I could barely make out the others in front of me, their signals twinkling faintly and sporadically. I dipped and looped, dancing gracefully – almost hauntingly – in the night sky. It was almost tragic that no one could see me. That wasn’t the point, though.

As it does, panic found it’s way to me, and grace quickly devolved into something more staccato. For just a moment, I was secretly glad that my light was hazy.

When the fog lifted, I waited with bated breath for the lights.

Only darkness waited patiently to greet me.

There were no more lights to follow; there was only space. I was once again enveloped.

Bright and solitary, my light shone out like beacon.

No one came to find me.

I started to fade.


The Four Week Bucket List

In four weeks from today I shall be turning the ripe old age of 23. There is nothing special about this – there are no balloons for it, Taylor Swift doesn’t sing a song about it, and no one really gives a shit. It’s that awkward, shitty kind of age where you feel like you should be more grown up than you are, have your shit together more than you do, and generally just not be the hot mess that you are. So, as I have a month left of feeling just about okay with being a hot mess, here are some things I would like to do..

  • find love

Lol, guys, it’s not that kinda blog.

Fo’ realz now –

  • ten dates
  • not pussy out of talking to cute boys at bars (post coming shortly)
  • bang two new people
  • learn how to do the splits
  • dance more
  • have one last incurable hangover

And on a more serious note –

  • sort my shit out

Because, let’s face it, Blink were right when they said,

nobody likes you when you’re 23

Four weeks from now I will have a much more grown up list.

‘Let’s blame you’

So, I was talking to my uncle – who is, as much as I hate to admit it, the ultimate lad – about recent happenings in my life and the troubles I felt had hitched a ride with them. Basically, I was reflecting complaining about boys. What else do I have to do? Conversation went as follows:

Uncle – You do pick them though. More than most. Why is that?

Me – I make bad choices

Uncle – Yes. Don’t blame the guys; you picked them all. Let’s blame you

Rude, or what?! As he himself is a bad choice that multiple women have made over the years – which I started hearing about from a much too early age! – it seemed pretty natural for him to put the blame on the girl. But I was having none of it. Why is it my fault?! I pick them when they seem nice and normal. I don’t purposely seek out all nearby pathological liars with enough emotional baggage to fill Heathrow Terminal 5. It’s not my fault that I seem to be the lonely lighthouse in the fog to their lost at sea selves.

As I said last week though, there does come a point when I realise I’ve made a bad choice, but then just carry on doing it anyway. This is the point where it may be fair to shift blame to me. The point where a normal, sensible girl would get out is the point where I seem to go for it just that bit harder – definitely fair to shift the blame to me.

To be perfectly honest with you, I’d never really considered taking any of the blame before. Situations had always resulted in an “Oh, he’s such a [insert expletive felt in the moment]!! Why does this always happen to me?!” Well, it turns out this always happens to me because I let it. I am (partly) to blame.

Now that I am actually aware of it, I will definitely try to work on it. But as my uncle said,

It doesn’t sound like more than a grade 6 slut-up. You’ll be fine

‘I just don’t like behaving’

Life is messy. Sometimes it’s messy because of external forces we have no control over, and sometimes it’s messy because we make it like that. My life is a mess because I make it like that. I constantly make bad decisions. Knowingly. 

After some more preachy, overbearing, hypocritical words of advice, this time in regards to anal sex, W clarified his hypocrisy by saying:

I know how people/I should live my life. I just don’t like behaving.

And it dawned on me that neither do I. Secretly, of course. I’ve always been the one that people would call a dark horse or not expect certain behaviour from. When I got a tattoo at 16 no one saw it coming. When I got my tongue pierced at 17 it was an even bigger shock – this lasted all of ten days, by the way, as my mother inevitably found out and made me get rid of it. Did I really think that she wouldn’t find out? Of course not. These were obviously poor decisions on my part as I definitely knew they’d get me in trouble. To this day my friends still talk about social events from our 6th form years and when I say that I don’t remember, they respond with, ‘Oh, you were probably grounded‘. Sums me up as a teenager, doesn’t it?

I can always be trusted to make a mistake. The amount of times I’ve got with someone and said it was an accident just isn’t acceptable. Of course, this is pretty normal. Everyone makes drunken sexual mistakes. However, continuing to get with said accidents over and over again when I full well know it’s a terrible idea is where I excel. One of my best friends said that it’s okay for me to do such things because I’m a cold person who is capable of separating my feelings and not getting attached. This was probably pretty poor best friend advise on his part. Obviously, because I make bad decisions, I took it as a green light to carry on misbehaving. 

Some people get far too stressed doing things that they shouldn’t. I find it far too easy. When I was a child my uncle literally thought I was a sociopath. I’m not, obviously. I’m nowhere near charming or confident enough to be. I think it was traits like inherent indifference, violent tendencies and the ease with which I’d lie that concerned him. Anyway, the point is that not only do I find it easy, I quite enjoy it. And I’m really unsure what that says about me as a person. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t do things that are going to hurt other people or misbehave in a way that will affect someone else’s life. I make bad decisions for myself. If someone else is involved I just won’t make a decision at all because I would hate to make a choice that would disappoint them. Considerate, aren’t I?

So, why, when I know what the sensible, right thing to do would be, do I consistently do the opposite? Despite what my teenage email address may say I don’t really think I’m a masochist. Maybe I am. Maybe I subconsciously like the drama that making a mess brings. Maybe I’m an idiot who’s incapable of learning from her mistakes. Or maybe I just don’t like behaving. Either way, I always get a good story out of it.