January 18, 2013


So here's the deal. I am turning 23 in less than two months and I am having and identity crisis. I have been trying to google "23 year old stars" but all I get is this photo:

Drug fucked and mouth wide open in some crack heads borrowed Kmart hoodie. Not a major ambition of mine so moving on from this...
Maybe measuring my own success with North American youngsters in prestigious jobs isn't the way to go. (Who could've guessed?)

So it is that I am travelling back to when I was 15, and 23 seemed like a crazy number, a number where babies and house with garden and mortgage went hand in hand, where "hotness" and general physical decay become apparent (wrinkles what the fuck?) and the threat of being alone seemed like a bigger one than that of having a deadly disease..
The teenage brain is a weird and clueless one.

23 is incredibly, scarily close to 25. I am on the brink of "early twenties" and "mid-twenties". And, pardon my French, but it creeped the fuck up on me. It didn't take it's time or knock on the door. It knocked the door down Jason Statham style. Three short years ago (wait, 3 and a half OMG) I was a clueless little Austrian backpacker in St Kilda without direction or a mobile phone (I know, right?) and now I am an adult in Brisbane, getting fried alive by hell fire temperatures (now involuntarily carrying around two mobile phones. Dunno if I traded up or not on that one...), having a blast with a major hero of a husband, a crazily challenging career, my cyber family (hey skype, I love you!), planning on conquering the world, one flight at a time. Doesn't seem so bad after all, right?

Ok mid-twenties
here I come