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Into the Wild

Things are changing. And I, usually reticent to change, am able to deal with it because lots of other things aren't changing and I am clinging onto them with my fingernails, dire as they might be.

The Chef and I broke up; or, to be more exacting, I broke us up. I have written only sporadically about The Chef on these pages and I do not intend to start now, at a time when we are both at our most vulnerable. The last week has been traumatic, and immensely sad, but I have made the right decision and on this occasion, I am embracing the change it will bring - as much as one can eagerly embrace the prospect of Saturday nights with The Guardian and tuna salad for one for as far as the eye can see.

Unfortunately, my feelings for The Chef just faded, over time, as feelings are wont to do. It was not conscious, and I am sorry that I shan't end up with someone as wonderful as he. But the break-up was precipitated by more than just that: I wanted - nay, needed - to be alone. It was a "mental-space" thing, as horrific as that sounds to anyone with ears. I want to devote myself to my own personal progress because it was making me pretty fucking miserable to wake up every morning to the thought that I am almost 26 and have achieved precisely zero with my life. I am nowhere near where I want to be...wherever that is. I suppose if you were being pernickety one might suggest I should probably set firm on my destination before cramming my dreams into a rucksack and setting out on the journey. All I know for certain is that I don't want to be on a dialysis unit with 60 year-old men who hock up phlegm and I do want to drink more cocktails, write more, study harder, dress better, exercise more vigorously and maintain contact with my friends more assertively. So perhaps it's not my destination that counts after all, but what I do as I go about getting there; all I know for sure is that I shall be travelling by myself for a while. And that is really ok.

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