There’s nothing to say about 26.

It’s an unromantic age, full of misery and growing pains.

In another time, in another country, I’d be considered an old maid or a cast off. Thankfully, New York considers 26 ripe. Just let me know when it’s too late and I’m rotting.

I’m not going to wish myself a happy birthday. It doesn’t work like that. I’m not sure how this blogging thing works—it’s all very self-indulgent—but it’s not like that.

And many more.


One response to “26

  1. I’ll do the happy birthday for you.

    Kate x

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