Read this: Plan B, by Jonathan Tropper.

Originally posted at Letters and Beans. That’s the one where I talk about books. 

–

I fucked things up last week. I fucked things up in a spectacular, breathtaking manner, and in the ensuing retreat into my cave, where I could weep and lick my wounds in peace, I finally got around to reading my copy of Plan B by Jonathan Tropper.

It immediately reminded me of Joan Didion’s famous words: “We tell ourselves stories in order to live.”

Stories teach us how to live.

Stories can also serve as further confirmation of truths that I was only starting to guess at, truths that were brought home to me while I was in the process of fucking things up with someone I care deeply about. If my life was a Looney Tunes cartoon, then that particular moment was not unlike the anvil dropping on Wile E. Coyote’s head. I’ve been dwelling on the past. I’ve been viewing my life through the lens of the past, sifting through old hurts and picking at the scabbed over wounds. Every single thing I’ve said or written about lately is just another tired rehash of all of the ways in which life has fucked me over … or at least, all of the ways in which I think life has fucked me over.

Because it’s all about perception, isn’t it?

I’ve become the very thing that irritates the hell out of me: the girl who can’t stop banging on about past heartbreaks.

My first reaction to all of this was to stop writing completely. It’s an unnatural state of being for someone who is constantly thinking in words, but it’s the right thing to do for now. It’s time to stop thinking, to stop spending so much time in my own head, and just be in the moment.

But I will write about this gorgeous book. The protagonist, Ben, reminds me of myself: he, too, has a tendency to dwell on the past.

“In his debut, acclaimed bestselling author Jonathan Tropper captured the anxiety and humour of a group of friends as they near their thirtieth birthdays and have to come to terms with a milestone that they never thought would be like this. Ten years ago, they went into the world full of dreams for the future. But now, Ben’s getting a divorce, Lindsey’s unemployed, Alison and Chuck are stuck in ruts, and Jack is getting more publicity for his cocaine addiction than his Hollywood successes. Suddenly, turning thirty seems to be both more meaningful and less than they’d imagined it to be.”

When I first read that synopsis, I (correctly) predicted that this book would probably hit a little too close to home.

“[Thirty] It’s a weird age, isn’t it?” Don said…”Leads to a lot of annoying introspection.”

Preaching to the choir, brother. Okay, fine, I’m still a few years away from that momentous birthday, but I’m already caught up in the introspection that comes with realising that your life isn’t exactly where you thought it would be when you’re that close to thirty. The really funny thing, though, is that I’m really looking forward to turning thirty, if only because I’m utterly convinced that a) I’ll have all my shit sorted out by then, and b) I’ll be exactly where I want to be at that age: happily married, hopelessly in love (and loved hopelessly in turn), and about to start a family.

I may dwell on the past a fair bit, but I am also an optimist who believes things generally work themselves out. I’m a bundle of contradictions, yep.

But enough about me: let’s get back to the book. Plan B confirms my suspicion that Jonathan Tropper tends to work from a template, and that template was first established in this novel.

Let’s see:

Funny, self-deprecating Jewish protagonist with a mild inferiority complex? Check. – that would be Ben, the one who’s recently divorced and nursing unresolved feelings for his ex-girlfriend, Lindsey.

Overbearing but well-meaning mother, and emotionally absent but equally well-meaning father? Check – even if both make a single, very brief appearance in this novel. Mr. Tropper will go on to expand on the big dysfunctional family archetype in his later novels.

The perfect chance encounter between the protagonist and his romantic interest, one that is full of flirty banter and laughter? Check – Ben and Lindsey as college students, sitting out in the snow, and the “Peanut Story”.

Highly dramatic and near impossible to believe storyline? Check – Ben, Lindsey, Allison and Chuck kidnap Jack and whisk him away to Allison’s family’s vacation home in a small lakeside town in a desperate attempt to save him from himself.

The only thing missing here is the open-ended conclusion. Unlike in his other novels that I’ve read (How To Talk To A Widower, and my all-time favourite and Mr. Tropper’s best book yet, This Is Where I Leave You), things are neatly resolved in Plan B. Which is nice, really. It ends on a positive and hopeful, albeit bittersweet note, and you can’t help feeling positive and hopeful about your own life too as a result. There are so many lessons to be drawn from this book. The past is the past, and should really just stay there, because what really counts is the present. Nobody ever really feels like a proper adult. Stop over-thinking, because it leads to nothing good. Friendships evolve, and in some cases this means that it ends. Life is short; make the most of what little time you have.

Which brings us right back to the original lesson (or at least, the one that I’ve chosen to take from this book): the past is the past; stop dwelling on it. There are so many things to look forward to.

Look forward.

Oh, and expect a hell of a lot of angst and introspection in the lead up to the big three zero.

My favourite parts:

Thirty…shit.

Crows feet, jowls, love handles. I’ve started to see myself through the eyes of the teenagers I pass on the street, repeatedly shocked by the realisation that they see me as older. So many of the things I’ve eaten with impunity for years suddenly give me indigestion. Nothing feels new anymore. Everything I see just reminds me of something else. I know now that there are certain things I’ll never do in my life. A shirt I still think of as new turns out to actually be seven or eight years old. Seasons are quicker, holidays vaguely disturbing. Statistically speaking, I’ve used up more than one third of my life span, the healthiest third. And where are the tradeoffs? Where’s the authority? The wisdom? The confidence that was supposed to have come with adulthood? I’m only experienced enough to know that I’m as clueless as I ever was.

–

No one spoke for a while. The weather was cooperating with our moods, with pregnant, gray storm clouds that obliterated the sky. “It’s just that, you try so hard to get it right, you know?” I said. “To get your life to this point you’ve imagined in your head and you tell yourself that if I can just get to there, I’ll be happy. You all accuse me of living in the past, but the truth is I’m thirty years old and I’m still counting on the future to bail me out. And that’s a crock. You can spend years working toward something and get killed before you reach it, so what’s the point?”

“Because you probably won’t,” Lindsey snapped at me. “Chances are you’ll live until you’re ninety, which is a lot of time to spend in an unhappy life. Peter Miller may be dead, but look at how many people he affected before he died. He lived in the present. You’re worried that you might be wasting your time trying to achieve something when you might die tomorrow. You should be worried about getting your life together as quickly as possible so that if you did die young, at least you’d have lived. You’re young, you’re healthy…”

“Health,” I said, “is just the slowest possible rate at which one can die.”

Lindsey twisted around in her seat to glare at me. “Shut up, Ben,” she said. I did, for a minute.

–

And on that note, I’m off to get my life together. Properly, this time: with my eyes fixed firmly on the present, and the not-too-distant future.

Who needs a shrink anyway?

Breaking news: “Emotional breakthrough achieved on the corner of William and Little Collins Street”.

Never mind what triggered the emotional breakthrough – that’s going straight into the “I’m not talking about it; it’s my dirty little secret” bucket, and I’ll never tell. All you need to know is that I was walking purposefully to the tram stop after my morning coffee at Patricia Coffee Brewers when it hit me: I have a fear of acknowledging and admitting to negative emotions, such as anger or sadness, when said emotions were caused by someone I love and care about.

Because I apparently think that letting the people I love and care about know that they’ve made me angry or upset will cause me to lose them. They will be angry and upset with me in turn, and then our relationship will fall to pieces, and I will lose them. They will abandon me. I’m not worth the trouble and the bother, after all. Who wants to deal with an angry and upset girl anyway?

Better that I just try to convince myself that I am not, in fact, angry or upset.

Better that I just put on a brave and happy face, and convince them that I’m perfectly fine.

I don’t want to lose them.

So I deny the existence of my feelings, rather than acknowledge their reality. I hold my tongue, and I still my fingers, willing them not to type out what I really want to say.

“That was a very rude and hurtful thing to say. Why would you even say that to me? You have no idea what our lives are like.”

“Why are you always taking his side?”

“Of course I’m mad at you. You broke your promise. Again.”

These are just some of the things I wanted to say but didn’t, because I wanted to be the perfect family member and the cool, easygoing girlfriend. I held my tongue rather than tell my cousin that the things she’d said to me were hurtful and wrong, because she was the one family member I couldn’t stand to lose. I held my tongue rather than tell my mother that she was being fucking unfair to me, because she was the only parent I could count on. I held my tongue rather than tell my ex-boyfriend that he needed to grow up and make me a priority in his life already, because he loved me despite all of my flaws and my weirdness, and I didn’t think that anyone would (or could).  It’s a familiar pattern; one that I suspect has its roots in the fact that I felt mostly unloved and unwanted growing up.

Hello, daddy issues.

Basically, I didn’t want to upset the people I care about by showing how angry and upset they’d (usually unwittingly) made me. And if I did let on that I was angry or upset, I would end up fretting for hours – days – that they were going to abandon me as a result.

That’s some fucking twisted logic right there, and I don’t exactly know what to do with this newly gained information. I’ve identified the flawed behavioural pattern. Now what?

I’ll tell you what: now I just make a snarky, semi-witty comment on Twitter about how walking isn’t just good for raising energy levels and clearing one’s head, it’s also good for emotional breakthroughs. And everybody says I should really be seeing a shrink? Pfft. Who needs a shrink? I’ll just keep walking around everywhere until I’ve figured out and fixed all of my issues completely. It’s totally doable. I’m sure of it.

The inevitable result of starting your day at 5.30 a.m.

I had actual things to write about tonight, but you guys, I am so tired. I know, I know: tiredness is not good conversation fodder, but … I AM SO FUCKING TIRED.

As it turns out, the amount of energy required to both manage and deliver the client work I get paid to do (‘sup, longer work hours?), while keeping up with two yoga sessions daily (HELLO, 5.30 A.M.) and making sure to carve out time for myself and my social life is … a lot. Hey, look, I no longer know how to use words properly. That’s nice.

So here’s one I prepared earlier: The Important Things. I wrote this a little while ago in response to something I’d read somewhere; I obviously don’t remember what it was anymore. In any case, it got me thinking about the things I consider to be important in my life, and this little essay was the result of that thought exercise.

The very lovely Olivia liked it so much, she wanted it up on her blog.

Having faith in something bigger than myself is important, even if I’m no longer sure what I believe in anymore. It scares me to admit that, after a lifetime of religious indoctrination: I don’t really know what I believe in anymore.

Being able to openly admit that, to be honest about my doubts, is important.

So I basically wrote something that is on a website that is not my blog. That’s kind of a deal, I think, but I’m too tired to appreciate it. How about you guys go appreciate it for me, mmkay?

Click.

Ways in which I am single as fuck (a non-exhaustive list).

1.

The bathroom door is never closed. Never. Nope.

See also: What happens when you live alone.

2.

I will call you a filthy liar if you ever mention this in front of my co-workers and bosses, but the truth is I am so much more willing to work long hours now that I am single.

Sad but true. God, I am single as fuck.

I do a pretty good job of keeping myself busy with all of my things, but even after taking these things into account, there are still a couple of extra hours here and there, hours that would ordinarily have been filled by a boyfriend, except there is no boyfriend right now (and truth be told, I wonder if this is even something that’s on the horizon for any time soon, or at least this year).

So I work instead. Coincidentally, I have reached that point in my career where most of my day is taken up by running around all over the place to put out fires and help the juniors. I don’t get a chance to do my real work until after hours anyway, when most people have left for the day.

They tell me this is what being a manager is like. I’m not sure I’m down with this but I guess I’ll have to be for now.

And yes, I know that working long hours doesn’t exactly put me in the best position to meet someone. Ugh, whatever. I actually believe that this shit sorts itself out, and I should just go pay attention to something else instead.

3.

My fridge contains nothing but milk and condiments, and my pantry is full of Doritos and assorted junk food (plus three kinds of tea). Because cooking for one is not worth the hassle, and I quite like being this skinny.

See also: Ways in which I suck as a feminist.

4.

Waking up at stupid o’clock to do yoga would never have happened while I was not single, because seriously, why would I ever get out of bed before I absolutely had to if there was a warm body lying next to me?

Winter is coming, and in the absence of a warm body lying next to me, I should probably go invest in more cozy PJs and fuzzy socks, and keep doing the 5.30 a.m. yoga thing.

(Except when I’m feeling tired and sore from the previous night’s class. Look at me, being gentler with myself!)

5.

All of the affirmations and notes to myself EVERYWHERE. Living alone has not caused me to start talking out loud to myself (or to my laptop), but it has caused me to invest in lots of Post-It notes that I stick everywhere and then hastily remove whenever someone comes over.

I am clearly still not entirely comfortable with my newly developed hippie tendencies.

I love that John Steinbeck quote. I just wish I could truly take it to heart and not worry all the damn time.

And this list is clearly pointless. I really just wanted to use the phrase “single as fuck”.

I watched bits and pieces of this on a long-haul flight. The Justin Timberlake/Mila Kunis version is better.

Things I have lost actual hours of my life to.

I like diving into the Internet Rabbit Hole from time to time. It’s warm and cozy in there; fuzzy socks optional.

Here are a few websites I’ve lost actual hours of my life to in recent times.

Adulting

I sometimes forget that I am technically an adult. Case in point: it still throws me whenever strangers refer to me as a ‘lady’, as opposed to ‘girl’. And then I remember that I’m not too far away from my 27th birthday (WHERE DID THE YEAR GO?!), and that I pay my own rent, and that I am now apparently old enough to be trusted to make the important life decisions such as choosing not to own a television or a Facebook account.

Oh, and I am apparently also old enough to decide to move to another country. There is also that. When did I get old enough and mature enough to do THAT?

Most days, I don’t feel like an adult.

Which is why I really appreciate the Adulting blog (“How to become a grown-up in 387 easy(ish) steps”), which is about ”how to act like an adult even if you don’t feel like one”.

I am totally on board with that.

My favourite post talks about the proper response to a compliment:

When someone says something kind about you, it is a small verbal gift they have chosen to give you, and you should thank them for it.

There is also another post about making peace with turning into your mother, but I can’t find the link to it (why did I not bookmark it? GAH). Suffice to say that it comforted me to know that this is a universal and inevitable truth: THERE IS NO AVOIDING IT; WE WILL ALL TURN INTO OUR MOTHERS.

Danielle LaPorte

One of these days, I’ll sit down and start writing about my (never-ending) quest for personal development, including that time I worked with a life coach.

No, I really don’t know who I’ve become. No, I never expected any of this.

Anyway, while we’re on the topic of personal development, I spent a couple of hours last Saturday clicking link after link on Danielle LaPorte’s website. It’s perfect for when you need a little comfort and a generous dose of inspiration and good juju.

My favourite posts, in a handy list:

1. “You’re a mess of contradictions. How very beautiful.“

2. “In honour of the fact that life is short.“

3. “Why self-improvement makes you neurotic.“

4. “The divinity of the suck factor.“

5. “Beware of possibility thinking.“

99%

‘Making Ideas Happen‘ is pretty much my bible for 2012, and I wander over to 99% whenever I need a reminder to stay on track with my job and my work. I really like the tips section. Hooray for creativity, focus and productivity!

This article is pretty neat: “Getting Better vs Being Good“.

–

What are your favourite websites to lose hours of your life to? Winter is coming, and I could do with some entertainment while I’m cooped up inside where it’s warm.

“I am not lost”.

I wish that I had a decent story to tell about how this blog got its name. I wish I could tell you that it serves as a tribute to one of the biggest lessons I’ve learned in my 26 years on this planet – that I am always exactly where I need to be. I just feel lost, but I’m not: I’m where I need to be. Everything will make sense one day.

Like the TARDIS, life may not always take me where I want to go, but it will always take me where I need to go.

(See what I did there? Doctor Who, episode 4, season 6. WATCH IT.)

But that’s not the story I’m able to tell about how this blog got its name. The truth is that there is no story – the name has no meaning.

Sure, I can imbue it with meaning now, having lived through everything that’s happened to me since I first created this blog. One could argue (and in fact, somebody did argue) that perhaps, on some level, I had had an inkling of things to come when I finally came up with the name five years ago. Maybe a strange kind of intuition had told me that life would throw all manner of beautiful nonsense at me over the next five years – a series of fortunate and unfortunate events that would make me the person I am today – and that I would need to be reminded, from time to time, that no matter how sad and hopeless I may feel at that exact moment, I am exactly where I need to be. I just need to trust that things will eventually make sense, and that life always works out in the end.

“I am not lost”. Lather, rinse, repeat. I struggled to remember this during the latter half of 2011. I woke up every single day during that period feeling completely and utterly lost.

Yeah, that wasn’t fun.

Like I said, I wish that that was the story behind the name, but it’s not. Here’s the actual story: I was sitting at my desk five years ago, trying to think of a name for this blog, and my gaze happened to fall upon a tiny little painting that I had bought not too long ago at one of the summer night markets at Queen Victoria Market. I’ve forgotten what the artist’s name is – I don’t think I ever knew it, in fact – but the painting depicts a funny little creature with the words “I am not lost” written above it.

Et voila. I named the blog “I Am Not Lost”.

The painting lives on the wall next to my kitchen. I think it's happy there.

And then there was that one week from hell. Mama needs a drink (or two) and a basket of fried chicken.

I made a few promises to myself a little while back.

I promised not to complain about my day job, because my day job is the reason I can afford to do all the things, like yoga and French classes, gallivanting across the United States, and single-handedly propping up the Australian bookselling industry. I promised not to be negative, or to use negative language (read: “I have nothing but love and good juju for my clients and bosses, and for everything I get paid to do. EVERYTHING. Even the boring shit.”) I promised to stay focused on the important tasks. I promised to employ all of the productivity tips I picked up during my (still ongoing) Personal Development Streak. I promised to mindfully respond to whatever life (and my job) throws my way, instead of mindlessly reacting to these things.

See, that last one is even on my list of personal commandments. Respond, don’t react.

I should probably come up with another five commandments. One of them should probably be fried chicken-related.

So anyway, I broke all of these promises last week. WAY TO GO, RAE. Turns out, I’m only human, I am ONLY ONE PERSON, and there is only so much bullshit I can take. Who knew?

(Not me, clearly)

So basically, there was a lot of bitching, moaning, whining, and complaining about EVERYTHING this week.

I may have also lost my temper and snapped at Boss* last Thursday afternoon.

Oops.

The funny thing is that he didn’t even realise that I’d snapped at him (although he was more than happy to accept the coffee I bought him the next day to apologise). This is both a relief and a concern: I’m not sure it’s a good thing that no one can tell when I’m angry. Am I really that bad at communicating my feelings outside of the written word?

I think I just explained my entire dating history.

(BRB, beating my head against the wall)

There are clearly lessons to be learned here (there are always lessons in everything, says the budding hippie). I’m pretty sure it has to do with speaking up, setting boundaries, managing expectations, learning to not get overwhelmed, and learning when to call in the big(ger) guns for backup when it’s evident that the big(ish) guns don’t seem to be hearing me. I’m determined to do/be better in the coming weeks, but in the meantime, I’m just making sure to enjoy the fuck out of this weekend (or what’s left of it anyway). Waking up at stupid o’clock to do yoga, going out for breakfast with the boyfriends J and D, visiting all the bookshops (yay!), reading all the books while lying on the living room floor, and writing words in Moleskine notebooks and blank Word documents. A girl’s gotta recuperate, you know.

A girl also needs her fried chicken. FRIED CHICKEN SOLVES EVERYTHING.

"I'll become a vegetarian when they decide to classify fried chicken as a vegetable, okay?"

 

 

* As of this coming Thursday, Boss will no longer be my boss: dude’s going to go live on an ashram in India, studying meditation and other spiritual things I don’t really understand yet. I’m super happy for him, but who’s going to be snarky and sarcastic with me now? Sad panda.

Little black dress.

Picture a little black dress, one that leans towards funky rather than classic. There is a slit down the back of the dress, and the armholes are rather large, which means that you’ll have to wear a tank top underneath, assuming you care about things like modesty (I do). Cinch the dress in with a black belt around your waist, lest it hang off your petite frame like a shapeless sack. The shorter hem in the front of the dress will show your legs off to full effect once paired with your favourite pair of high heels, the ones your friend Annie convinced you to buy the month before.

The perfect little black dress, hanging on a rack at Alphaville. You knew you had to have it.

–

The last time I wore that dress, it was 2010 and I had just turned 25 years old. I had a serious, long-term boyfriend, and a pleasant (if mildly fraught) relationship with my mother. My younger brother and I were just getting close after a lifetime of alternating between loathing and indifference. My hair only came up to my chin – I had chopped it off about 5 months before in a calculated move to break out of the rut I had fallen into.

(It was only a temporary fix. I was back in the rut soon enough.)

We had gone out to dinner that night. I remember feeling happy.

–

I wore that dress again last Friday – paired with black tights and a grey blazer, it can almost pass for appropriate corporate attire. Not that I still care about dressing appropriately for the corporate world, after four years in the thick of it. I take some measure of pride in the fact that I don’t dress like an IT auditor.

But my point is this: I am wearing that same black dress again, after an almost two year hiatus. This time around, it is 2012, I am single, and I no longer have a relationship with either my mother or my younger brother.

My hair falls just past my shoulders these days.

I’m no longer 25 years old.

But I know that I’m happy. I’m not where I’d like to be, but I’m where I’m supposed to be, and I’m happy.

I also feel like that dress was worn by two entirely different girls. That was me, and yet it’s not me. 25 year old Rae wouldn’t recognise 26 year old Rae, not by a long shot.

–

Funny how it took a silk dress I hadn’t worn in almost two years to drive this point home for me: Change is the only constant.

Change is the only constant. Nothing in this world is a given. Nothing in this world is definite; life can change in an instant. One minute I’m saving up for a wedding, and the next I’m sitting on my bed, staring at myself in the mirror, feeling an odd mix of relief and emptiness from the knowledge that I had just turned my world upside down. A flash of intuition and a single phone call – that was all it took to turn my world upside down.

Life changes fast.

Life changes in the instant.

You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.

The question of self-pity.

- Joan Didion.

What I’ve learned since then is to focus on the now, to not cling to anything – people, possibilities, plans. People change, possibilities disappear, plans fall apart. Nothing is certain. Nothing is set in stone. So appreciate what you have right now. Enjoy the fuck out of right now. Be grateful for everything in your life right now, but learn to also let go. It could all disappear tomorrow.

Sounds like a no-brainer, but it’s not, is it? It took me years to learn these things. I’m still learning.

Patricia.

Patricia Coffee Brewers is ridiculously out of the way for me, relative to where I live and work. In the interest of punctuality and efficiency (or something), I really shouldn’t make it my new pre-work coffee and reading/writing stop.

I really, really shouldn’t.

But the space is just so damn good-looking, I can’t help it. The dark wood panelling and clean lines, the beaten-looking wood floors, the neon sign above the counter that provides a lovely contrast to all the wood and clean lines, the fact that there are no seats, the handmade cups and saucers that feel amazing against your fingertips – all of these elements converge to create a little pocket of the city that I want to curl up and hide away in.

And I probably will. Who am I kidding? I am going to wake up at ridiculous o’clock as usual and make that ridiculous trek a million miles out of my way just to sip a cup of coffee at Patricia before work. It obviously goes without saying that the coffee at Patricia is to die for – proprietor Bowen Holden was formerly of Seven Seeds/Brother Baba Budan/De Clieu fame. I had the Small Batch Candyman Blend today, and it was a taste of coffee heaven on a cold and rainy day.

On procrastination, and how it relates to The San Francisco Project.

Procrastination, as it turns out, is a very handy coping mechanism for when the myriad tasks that go hand in hand with big, scary life decisions, such as moving to San Francisco, prove to be a little bit too much.

(Yes, you absolutely get to give yourself self-awareness brownie points for realising this when you did. This thought wouldn’t have occurred to you about a year ago.)

What nobody tells you is that there is a hell of a lot of work involved in deciding to move to another country through your workplace. There are forms to be filled out, long-distance phone calls to organise and prepare for, e-mails to send, and official letters to request. There are many, many conversations to be had – with your boss, with your mentor, with your other boss. You have to think about all the ways in which you can increase your appeal to the San Francisco office; your career is taking on a whole new level of importance these days. It helps that the Universe is conspiring to help you by tossing you a juicy opportunity here, and some much-needed support there. Hey, thanks, Universe! This is very helpful, because as it turns out, it’s not enough to simply tell your prospective Bay Area bosses, “Hey, I’m pretty awesome, and I have a cute accent. Whaddaya say?”

You wish it were as simple as that. You would scrawl it across all of the forms, in your best handwriting, in less than a heartbeat.

But it’s not, and so you cleverly decide to cope with all of the new and all of the exciting and all of the SCARY by doing the emotional equivalent of curling up in a little ball, rolling over, and playing dead. Procrastination, thy will be done. Because here’s the thing: this is the single biggest decision you have ever made for yourself. Hell, this is the FIRST big decision you’ve ever made for yourself. All other decisions – if you could even call it that, because you’ve spent your entire life just going along with what the grown-ups thought was best for you – pale in comparison to this one decision.

You’ve made this decision to move to another country, to a city where you know not one blessed soul. If things don’t work out, you have nobody but yourself to blame.

(Not that you were ever one to look for others to blame when things go wrong in your life)

There is also one other small matter: you think that your heart would break – would positively shatter – if your application to move to San Francisco is rejected.

So you procrastinate. That’s how you cope; you find increasingly creative ways to keep yourself “too busy” to deal with all of the San Francisco-related tasks. This behaviour is obviously the height of stupidity. You know that. Everybody knows that.

You’re fixing this, you swear.

Thank God for mentors and their deadlines.