The Last Year

I have forgotten how to write. I have been staring at this page all morning, typing entire paragraphs out and deleting them, word by word. I have become dull. And the only thing I can talk of with any excitement these days is my new Cartier watch. Or my new Kate Spade bag. Or maybe the new Tiffany bangle. I am now defined by beautiful, expensive, meaningless things. I no longer have any original insights on life, love or even panty hose. But I will tell you exactly where the 80% off Club 21 sale is. And I will tell you to invest in those Marni trousers because the long silhouette will make you look leaner. It's all about good tailoring, isn't it?

I disgust myself these days, when I realize that the majority of my time is spent poring over online look-books to see if I can pull harem pants off. Or when I read NYMag almost religiously, waiting anxiously for the Gossip Girl weekly breakdown and the Sex Diaries. I hate that in the last ten months, I've read maybe 10 books of which at least three were flippant diatribes on 'urban relationships' and 'perfect men'. At lunch, my colleague and I go to Miu Miu and Chanel and claim we're spying on competitors, when we're just lusting after over-priced, impractical shoes.

I spend my evenings watching repeats of Family Guy or Summer Heights High - the cultural highlights of my day - and I go to bed with a boyfriend of over a year (you remember the jew), who I nag and pester and demand affection from. I do absolutely nothing that I'm not comfortable doing, I do absolutely nothing that makes me feel good about myself. I am lazy, unproductive and shallow. I have very few hobbies - writing and reading have been on hold for reasons I don't understand anymore - and I have absolutely no desire to meet anyone. I don't even listen to music anymore, I keep playing the same three albums over and over again until I actually feel nauseous. I earn way more than I deserve seeing my age and (in)experience, and I spend all my money on lattes and madras-check dresses before the 25th of each month. I am, in a nutshell, bored.

I need a good shaking, I need a new crowd, I need a new city, I need dialogue... I now need a cigarette. Good to be back, though, good to be back.

Different Times

Welcome back, and welcome me back. I have missed this webpage. And you. But we'll get past this awkward re-introduction, we'll soon forget about this nine-month sabbatical from the one thing that makes me happy. Same blog, same url, same scout - but different times, of course.

Old habits die hard. I still smoke, if you were wondering. Still getting drunk as well.