As it’s almost the middle of July, and my desire to cry and drink Pimm’s is at an all-time high, I’ve finally decided to admit defeat and join the rest of the world in celebrating summer. Unfortunately, my wardrobe doesn’t quite match my mind set; I’d love to spend the next few months wearing woollen tights and oversized cat t-shirts but both society and the weather seem to frown upon that.
In search of a solution to my clothing issues, I spent the afternoon shopping for pieces that would further my plans to emulate the current queen of boho, Vanessa Hudgens. However, whilst trying on a multitude of patterned dresses and kimonos, I spotted something that changed any plans I had to look summer chic: Harry Potter t-shirts.
After 15 minutes of sitting on the changing room floor, torn between the Hufflepuff and Slytherin shirts, both two sizes too small for me, I realised: selecting my summer wardrobe is the least of my problems.
Ever have a defining moment where you realise you are no longer a child? Not even a teenager test-driving life and seeing if you’d like to hop in for a ride. No, you’re a full blown adult and you’re driving this car alone! Well earlier this week I had such a moment, and the subsequent realisation that you are perhaps royally fucked.
In a Friends-Esque flashback I was filling in a form for my new job and reached the section where I have to decide who the primary person to call in case of emergency is when I realised: it’s not my parents. I don’t live in the same city as them, never mind the same house: if I had to call them in a dire emergency I’d be waiting a long fucking time. Where’s HP and his ability to ‘apparate’ when you need it? I’m living in the real world now baby, no longer will my parents come and collect me if I’m feeling ill at school or feed me dry toast and let me watch ‘The Exorcist’ to nurse me back to health. NB: this only happened one time because getting sick is for weak-willed pussy types. But if it did happen I’d have to rely on Google search to find out how close to death I am and hope we have some sort of honey and lemon drink in the cupboard.
It’s a car crash waiting to happen.
I have the attention spam of a goldfish. I blame the Internet; everyone’s to blame but me. Right now I’m supposed to be applying for jobs in order to move to the city, start a new life and basically become the new Carrie Bradshaw. In the last 2 hours I’ve applied for a grand total of 1 job. I have however been using Google search like there’s no tomorrow. Recent searches include: “Made in Chelsea: Who’s dated who?” “How do you know if you have Dyspraxia?” and “The OC quotes.” Productivity at its best, I’m sure Harry Potter never had this kind of problem. Still waiting on my Hogwarts acceptance letter, oh well, as my friend just wisely told me “You can’t always get what you want.” Isn’t that a song? I should probably Google it.