Twelve to love

anyway, I find myself here again, wanting somehow to sum up the past twelve months as I have similarly done for the last twelve years, but frustrated that in doing so, I’m having to participate in the valueless annual “New Years’” charade. And, quite honestly, who gives a shit? But, as mentioned earlier, I’m anal in my need for order and repetition, and posting something here is mostly for me, so I have a record of time passing, than it is for people to find interesting. So if you’re reading this dull entry, sorry: there won’t be any hot sex in it. I had some this year, if you must know, but I made promises not to write any details, and I’m a woman of my word.

To sum up: it’s been a tough year, which is the understatement of the year. It was shittily shit. I got down, I came up, I got fit, I got fucked. I didn’t have anyone steal my heart (I’m not quite ready to give it away again), but I was reminded that my brain is as sexy as my hard thighs and also that my appetite is a good thing, not bad. I didn’t publish as much writing as I wanted, but I have a handful of projects I worked on and of which I hope a few will come to fruition this year. I tore my quadricep tendon and fractured my foot, but neither have stopped me running, because running is what keeps me alive. I tried to be a good friend and be more present with family, but both of those I could be better at. I attempted to avoid online battles and ignore personal attacks when they were thrown in my direction, because life’s too short - and those things fill me with anxiety. I slept too little, didn’t love myself enough, and realised that whilst anger and pain eats at the soul, joy nourishes it. I hope to spend the next twelve months in pursuit of all things joyful. Here’s hoping your 2016 is filled with happiness too.*