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30.

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I’m not an adult. I’m not even close. I veer wildly between eating whatever I can find in the fridge, in whatever form it fits in my mouth, and spending extravagant amounts of time and money creating gourmet cuisine from scratch. Last week I made gyoza, including the wrappers. The last time I was home for dinner (six days ago, which is a different point) I ate something that included the instructions “just add water”.

Of my four oldest girlfriends, one is a mother of two. Two of the others are pregnant, and the fourth just got engaged. All of them own their own homes. They have diamonds and lounge suites and lawnmowers. I’m willing to bet there’s milk in all their fridges, and it hasn’t even expired.

Meanwhile, I woke up hungover for the second day in a row and my car hasn’t run since New Year’s Eve. However, the fact remains that I’m about to turn 30. And I must, at some point in the last 30 years, have learned some things about life.

So.

On the eve of my 30th birthday, here’s what I know:

Everything changes. Everything stays the same.

You’re in charge of both and neither.

Too much and too little are as bad as each other (wine, productivity, Ian Somerhalder, feelings). Have fun. Follow your heart. Accept that sometimes your heart’s an idiot. Forgive it. Make mistakes. Apologise. Care. Say yes to things that scare you and no to things that bore you.

There’s no such thing as “just one lolly”.

Be nice.

Self-control is something — it’s not everything. Always sleep on it. Don’t argue in email. No, really: don’t. Never comb naked if your hair is longer than your nipples. Credit cards are the devil’s work. Don’t confuse fear with a lack of desire. Everyone else is as weird as you are. You’ll feel better if you go to the gym.

If you figured it all out, you’d be bored.

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Writer of things. Annoyer of cats.

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