Being 23 was brilliant, and frightening, and terrible.
Wrote a novel, taught myself poetry. Gained friends, regained old friends, watched helplessly as friends fell away. I joined a political party, marched in protests, and saw my political apathy reach an all-time high. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I got laid so many times I completely lost count. I discovered more writers and read more books in the past year than I probably ever had before. I got a new job. I got published as a fiction writer, at last. I lost two and a half stone in weight and kept it off.
I fell in love. Stupid head over stupid heels. And it was mutual. I got my heart broken. And I think it’s about to happen again.
So it goes.
Roll on 24.