I have a magazine passion (read: slightly desperate enthusiasm for) meaning I have to rent them from the library on my student budget. The other day I nearly didn’t buy one because the pages weren’t shiny. I wish I was joking.
These magazines, (like this blog it’s our fantasy world. It’s a world where the girls are slim, beautiful, carefree and wearing the best outfits, the guys are a million miles away from that one semi-cute guy in your lecture theatre (who, in retrospect isn’t that cute but we’re getting desperate). But my new-found, post travel, introspective self wants to know, who’s publishing our reality? I’m not talking reality TV because that’s not relatable, nor is it really reality.

What about the fact that we trip down stairs, wake up with pimples, pash the wrong guy (again) and always run out of time to shave our legs properly? What about the fact that we’re 21, and would half the time rather stay in with a Jane Austen adaptation than go out. What about the fact that we’re supposed to be adults, we’re supposed to be well on our way to figuring things out and some of us still need our dad to talk us through changing a tyre? If you’re making cynical “first-world problems” jokes to yourself then I don’t know if this relationship’s going to work, it’s not you, it’s me.

Now then, it’s where Adrian Mole, The Princess Diaries and Anne Frank have all gone before, but in a slightly less eloquent, slightly less fantastical (sigh) much less hiding-from-the-Nazis-trying-to-stay-alive, type of way.  Luckily, my life has none of these existential crises nor the perfection of the aforementioned magazines.

That doesn’t mean it’s uninteresting, does it? Does it?!


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