I was today years old when I realised that was not what Maroon 5 was singing in Girls Like You. I mean, it’s a bit oddly put, but for a guy like Adam Levine it didn’t strike me as wrong, he probably makes like five million dollars per hour. Anyway, misheard lyrics aside, and onto the age-related thing: my birthday is coming up in about two weeks, and then I’ll be 24 just like Adam when he was hooking up with Cardi B (I don’t think I quite get that song). I thought I’d write a birthday post as usual, as it is a great way to reflect on My Life as a 23-year-old (not to be confused with My Life as a Teenage Robot), and a gentle but very real reminder to send me gifts. I like lipstick, bath bombs, and CDs by Arctic Monkeys and Taylor Swift (Reputation mostly, please and thank you).  

Obviously, as the whole set-up of this blog is talking about my sad love life so that I can play out this lack of attention and love as funny instead of bone-chillingly pathetic, I was making a list of times in my life that I have managed to actually date. I love making lists. Lists are these little scribblings that make you feel and look productive. As a freelancer, I’m pretty much at home all the time, so I feel like it reassures my parents when I sit down and draw little bullet points. I add things like ‘take nap’, ‘walk at least 500m today’, and ‘waste a minimum of two hours on Instagram’ so that I can cross off two things straight away. It leaves me feeling more accomplished instantly. Dating list wise, however, there is even less work on that than on the I ReaLlY HaVE a JoB I SWeAr list. 0-22 is pretty much empty, aside from two guys that broke my heart and are the reason I’m not capable of love anymore, and about four alright Tinder dates. 23, on the other hand, was the year I finally redeemed myself as Young and Attractive and actively tried to no longer waste my Good Boob Years. Most of my 2018 boys were quite attractive, and only one turned out to be big jerk, so I did very well. I still cry over the loss of Hot Welshman, but considerably less, in a way that it’s now a bit cute and no longer downright creepy. 

If 23 was in some way the foretelling of what is to come at 24, then I am in for a big treat. I hope this year I’ll meet someone a bit like the Martial Arts Guy from the Mardi Gras festival last February. Post-farm, pre-Welshman, if the timing is getting confusing. My friend and I were at the festival, walking along some booths when I saw one that advertised self defence classes. We walked up and met this insanely good-looking man who offered us free trial classes. Since I was an unemployed backpacker at the time, I went to meet him at the park for a training session. Somehow, he loved that my answer to his question ‘why do you want to take this class’ was that I would love to be in a bar fight someday (that’s on my to-do list for 2019) and he offered to train me for free for another couple of times. It was an absolute treat since he was hot, funny, I got to hit things, and at the end I didn’t have to pay the 90 dollars he would usually charge. We really hit it off and texted a lot, until he said he liked to read a lot of self-help books. Gross. I don’t want to date someone who’s actively trying to be a better person. Can you imagine? Before you know it, I’d be getting up at dawn, eating leafy greens, improving my mental health, and getting a solid eight hours of sleep every night. Thank you, next.

All jokes aside, for my 24thyear, don’t wish me a hot boyfriend or even an average-looking boyfriend. Wish me a job in radio, so that I can spread my joyful optimism about the world easily and nationally. Wish me a book deal. Wish me loads of clients as a copywriter so I can send lots of bills and become filthy rich. You know what, writing that last one down, go ahead and wish me a man, but only a really really rich one, preferably with a heart condition and million-dollar life insurance.