Crying is totally natural, and totally okay. Welcome to the human experience. Sometimes, a wave of all-consuming misery strikes and there's nothing more necessary than a cacophonous, snotty, hearty sob, the kind of sob that turns your face into a bizarre, 'is-that-a-human?' optical illusion. It doesn't matter if your reasoning seems weird or pathetic or illogical, or even if your reasoning is erm, well, non-existent. (Story of my life, folks. I'm sure One Direction wrote a song about it.) If you feel the turbulent wave of tears, you just need to ride it, ugly crying faces and all. (And eat pizza. All the pizza.)
Alcohol is over-rated. Unless it involves good company and Scrabble, it rarely ends well. And long gone are the days where I could drink 2 bottles of cheap, disgusting wine on a night out and still function as a civilised human being the next day. Oh no. The hangover is real. Nowadays, the next day is spent bed-ridden, illiterate, and nauseous, with the occasional 'treat' of a short interval of activity, during which I will make 4 slices of butter-lathered toast and weep profusely about the state of my life. Oh. Let's just stay sober.
Exercise is not the enemy. About 2 years ago, my life was blessed with a marvel of activity. After eating far too many 'well, there's nothing better to do' custard creams at work, which lead to a humiliating photograph upon a broomstick at the Harry Potter studio tour (no further reminiscing on that topic, ta very much), I developed a sudden and surprising desire to actually get off of my juicy derriere and get those love handles flailing. Back then, I invested in a hula hoop, and I started throwing it around my porky body to cheesy 90s pop like there was no tomorrow. I discovered three things that year; firstly, that HULA HOOPING IS REALLY FUN AND PLEASES YOUR INNER CHILD GREATLY, secondly, that sports bras squash buoyant breasts into all sorts of awesome, peculiar shapes,(it's an art form, I'm telling you), and thirdly, that exercise in general is absolute tonic for both the body and the soul.
One day, we will be dead. Yup, there will come a day when every human being who inhabits this earth, including me, and you (sorry), will invade an unceasing state of total oblivion. There too will come a time when everything we ever thought and said and did and discovered will be forgotten. Even my amazing cartwheels. True acceptance of this knowledge fuels a life better lived, I'm sure of it. You can read more on my thoughts on mortality on right here.
Sleep is awesome. Life is much easier after a good night's sleep. And naps are brilliant. I used to mock my parents for napping, but I have been converted. I am a nap champion. Nappety nap. I love a nap. (Except for when it is prolonged and you wake up in a pool of your own dribble with no immediate knowledge of who you are, where you are, or what you are. Anything goes in those fragile moments. 'You're a wizard, Harry.' 'I'm a.... what?')
'Sexy' doesn't just mean 'YOU SMELL SOOO GOOD' aftershave, a hairy, handsome face, and toned forearms. Of course, those things go some way in increasing my temptation to take my clothes off, but, ultimately, the human mind is the sexiest thing of all. Sexy means you're kind and confident and ambitious and intelligent. Sexy means you'll exercise your funny bones and listen to me waffle on about things you're not interested in and share my enthusiasm for the night sky. Sexy means you'll still associate with me even when I'm sporting an insane monobrow and unruly calf hair, and that you'll tell me I look 'so lovely' even when I look like I've slept in a hedge. Understated eroticism...Isn't it grand? Who wants to date me?
As a general rule, clubbing is the shittiest thing ever. It involves a lot of money, a lot of alcohol, and a lot of noise. Do you know what's nicer? Staying in. Spooning a chum or a puppy or a pillow. Being wrapped up in a dinosaur onesie. Going to bed before 4am. Being sober and responsible and totally in control of your actions and not being dry-humped by the local 'BANTAAAAAAAAAAAsaurus'. Please and thank you.
Stuff is expensive. Once upon a time, my Granddad gave me £2.50 and I squealed with joy. 'TWO POUNDS AND FIFTY PENCE, WOWEEEEEEEEEEE!' These days, £2.50 barely covers a one hour stay in a car park littered with McDonald's bags and the urine of raucous drunks. Being human costs a lot of money.
I invent the best farmyard themed jokes. 'What did the cow say to her calf? We are FARMily.' Thank you very much. You're welcome.
You have to be your own best friend. The relationship you have with you is the most important relationship you will ever encounter. Preach it. Life will bring a mad scattering of change and inconsistency, but no matter what happens within the beautiful and terrible terrain of your existence, you will always be you. If you're not laughing at your own jokes or groping your own breasts, or declaring your own perpetual brilliance every now and again, you bloody well ought to be. Revel in your oneness. Love yourself. Click, click, head wiggle.
Time does actually fly. What?! It's November? Already? Why does February feel like it was just 5 minutes ago? It's still 2012, right?