My dearly beloved blog,

Although I’ve posted on you, scribbled, ranted, raved and generally let myself loose on your shiny grey self, this is the first time that I am actually writing to you. I am doing this partly because I want to prove something and partly because I need to let out [oops, caught in the act] to someone who can’t holler back, since no one will understand.

I don’t remember conception, gestation, birth and my first few days. Heck, I can barely recall yesterday! And I am desperately afraid that I’ve forgotten the girl I was in my rush to be the woman I am.

I do not claim genius. It is not my lot or cross. But if I look back and reopen the few words I locked up somewhere within my consciousness, I remember being a shiny person. People gravitated towards me. I was young, I was YOUTH. I was intelligent and popular. I had angst, existential and otherwise. I had a perfect cacophony of words inside, all screaming to be let out, all writhing within my head until I relented and poured them out on paper.

But growing up isn't easy they say. And ive only grown up in habit. In years. My mind is still as chaotic, only I’ve learnt to hug responsibilities closer then anything else.

I don’t chain smoke anymore. Well, I never did, I just said that for glamour. Scratch that, I hate to cough. I rarely drink, I don’t touch the hash or the ash or whatever it is people trip on these days. I haven’t been to a club in years and would feel like an old fogy if I did. I wonder at the clothes girls wear nowadays- at the sage old age of24!

Ive got a job now, responsibilities. I need to do this for myself is what I reasoned when I was totting up the pros and cons of moving cities and living alone. I had something to prove.

I don’t know what it was anymore. I live clean; I pay my rent and other bills on time. I did go wild with my credit card but apart from my wedding clothes [for a wedding that may never happen] I swiped only for trips home and sundry domestic stuff. A bed, a washing machine et al. how boring!

I wake up before the alarm buzzes and go to work everyday, even when I feel like shite or completely brain dead or ill. I stick out my 40 plus hours of work each week, and the weekend goes with cooking, cleaning, playing laundress etc. where’s my youth now?

Here’s self realization for you. Ever since I started writing all I ever wanted was to be normal. To be mediocre and forget the pain inside.

I succeeded beyond my wildest expectations. I am normal. I am mediocre.

I am boring.

P.S- I would have preferred writing to Boo to be honest. Bt there’s, this slight problem see. Boo can’t read. How could he- he’s only a toy pup!