today I hate the fact I have consumed 1 1/2 400g bars of Dairy Milk in a WEEK, BY MYSELF, I can feel that I’ve put on weight and because I have no self-control I cannot let the chocolate just lie there. It is on my desk, next to the Pink Cards.

The Pink Cards are the birthday cards I got from my family. All of them are pink. Not hot pink. Not nearly-purple-pink. Actual Barbie, congratulations-on-your-new-baby-girl Pink. The people who have had a full 20 years to realise I hate pink and will not wear it unless a) paid large amounts or b) for charity (more on that in a later post, I feel…) got me pink cards. I am 20, not 2. Unfortunately.

I also laughed at the card from my parents which told me I had “my own style”… yep, the style you tried to stop me having throughout my late teens. I.e., black and pretty much not giving a fuck what other people thought.

My brother told me how my mum confided in him that she was worried about me not showing interest in having a boyfriend and how she thinks I should get one because it would be good for me, or something like that. This both cements My Resolution further AND makes me wonder WHY she wants me to get myself an awkward appendage. From an astonishingly large part of passive experience, I have found that Friends that become Boyfriends also become insufferable in the process.

What do I do with all these cards?

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