How to fail in January

January had brought with it the reality that shit needs to get real, I have to clean out my handbag at some point, and all the collected trash of emotional baggage that goes with it to attempt at the very least to get my shit together.

Not only am I faking the sense of absolute control and security at work, a stable mysterious ooze of self-assurance measured by the crisp cut shirt and designer bag (second hand eBay…I thank you.)

Yet, I still manage to roll my ankle, (misspell ankle) cry in the toilet and sometimes (well most times) Yes sometimes – google so many astrology sites in one day (that all ultimately contradict each other.) Until I get one that eventually says the things that I want it to say.

And then with a sigh of disbelief, look over the top of my computer to the staff in the office working hard at the work I have assigned them and think to myself how amazingly scary and accurate the stars can be.

January has brought with it a few insights, the stars are pretty much going to cluster ass fuck me, without even the smallest hint of a casual drink or courtesy lubrication in the way of dry spit to the palm. (Thanks Uranus) So, knowing this, I have to be realistic and gear up to the reality of a few things.

Firstly, I have to stop being the person doing coke every weekend. (and the person judging people doing coke every weekend) Not merely to go out and rage – no, I mean the stay at home and bang two grams into my face to try and feel a sense of something in my life. Generally, when you and your dealer are sharing book recommendations things should be a red flag.

Secondly, this likely means I have to stop drinking, mainly because as soon as I do I want to party which invariably leaves me behind a duvet at 5 am hearing my heart beating in my throat, and wishing I’d never lied to that teacher back when I was 11.

The familiar spiralling into the hole of self-loathing and remorse means I end up hitting up Deliveroo. This is followed by promising myself I’ll get my work out routine together at some point, watching inspirational influencers yoga pose with camel toes while eating chocolate biscuits. Thinking to my self how I too feel empowered, I too, “Am woman.” I too want to bear the same confidence it takes to wear 2 x fit girl French plaits, and air punch my #Independence with hard nipples under a midriff top.

But then again, I can’t today, because today is the day I binged watch Goop and feel empowered to have a life-altering experience and change my life.

Turning 30 plus some other numbers in February brings with it a daunting realisation that 1. I do not have my shit together, 2. My financials are such a mess that Marie Kondo would just up and say, “Fuck this!” In the New York accent we all know she’s hiding. And 3; My psychological state of mind is so far gone, that I need to face up to the fact that I’ve been in a daze for the past 5 years after Dad died. (Yeah thanks for that one Universe, you owe Oprah and me an apology. Everyone has to apologise to Oprah, and you aren’t getting past this one either)

And lastly, if at some point the impending doom that is ‘the call to motherhood’ happens I will at some point have to be able to wear a new pair of underwear each day, live by the sell-by date, brush my teeth every night, and admit to picking my nose now and then.


How to fail in January

  1. Blame the stars for all things fucked up
  2. Appear to hold your shit together to the people you work with by looking busy and reading about Uranus
  3. Create a book club list with your drug dealer
  4. Apologise to Oprah and clean out your handbag
  5. Stop pretending to not be picking your nose