Happy twenty seventeen, then.
I’ve been over-analysing again as usual and have come to the conclusion that I’m the midst of some kind of reset mode.
Sorry if I seem to be moaning a lot recently, but I need to purge what’s in my brain. And for now, you’re the best option.
I managed to get rid of a few things last year, but there are still a few left that I could do without, but am unable to cast away, well, because I’m either addicted to it or my livelihood depends on it.
I’d like nothing better than to delete my Twitter account, but unfortunately I’m addicted to that and get all my news from it (seeing as I’ve also more or less stopped watching TV and don’t even have a TV licence any more). My only hope is to use it much less. I’m working on that, having deleted quite a few of the accounts I’m following this morning. I think I might have to revisit that again soon, a bit more ruthlessly next time.
If I could do that, the last thing left would be work. Now there’s something I’d love to delete. Or deactivate.
Oh, and this house I’m in. I really thought I’d be living in the place I’d dreamed of (nothing spectacular, honest) by the time I got to this age. A divorce and lack of millionaire status, as well as the ridiculous housing bubble we’re still in, of course, put paid to that. Instead, I’m stuck in this place that is out in the country without having any of the benefits of being out in the country, as well as having none of the benefits of being a city dweller.
And all the stuff I’ve got in here. I’m sick of looking at most of it and would gladly throw it all in a skip if I wasn’t so emotionally attached to it.
I sometimes feel like locking the door one day and walking away from it forever.
Emotionally attached to a series of inanimate objects. Honestly. I’m not a hoarder yet, but even that doesn’t seem outwith the realms of possiblity, I can tell you.
Why are you doing this, I hear you ask. I don’t fucking know, I reply. I’ve no intentions of becoming a monk or anything.
Just feel like I need some kind of reset.