Monday, December 31, 2012

Fix it, or get over it

When I was 24, I figured 25 was proper adult. This meant I had six months to quit smoking or I was an idiot. So I did.

I'm a few days of 28 now, and I still in no way feel like a proper adult.

There are expectations you have when you're a kid about what being an adult is like. You have a job, your own house and car, maybe your own children. You make your own decisions about what to eat for dinner and when you can go to bed, but you have to pay bills.

What I've learned from my twenties is; having a job means you have to go to work even when you don't feel like it. You can't drink the night before, because you can't do your job properly when you are seedy. Having your own place, even if you are renting, means now you have financial responsibilities greater than the dole would support - so you're stuck working for THE REST OF YOUR LIFE. Your car needs petrol, a service, a new set of tyres. Your dinner needs to be paid for, prepared before it can be eaten, and you still have to do the dishes after. You could stay up as late as you wanted, sure, but you still have to get up at six the next morning, so best tuck in early. I don't have children, but I do have a dog, which means I can't travel whenever and wherever I want, I have to feed him and walk him every day, and if he decides he won't stop licking his foot I have to pay hundreds of dollars in vet bills until he gets a new hobby.

In that sense, I know I'm an adult. I have independence, financial responsibilities and a dependant. What I still have tho, is the insecurities of a sixteen year old girl.

That's why, my 2013 New Year's Resolution, is fix it, or get over it. 

Example one: You can't keep whining about the 5 kilos you can't seem to shake. Either lose them, or accept them as part of who you are in your late twenties.

Example two: You can't keep complaining you don't have enough time to write. Either make more time, or accept you won't get to write as much as you like. Your book won't get finished before it gets irrelevant, you won't be published before your thirty. And be okay about that.

Example three: You can't keep being lonely because all your friends have moved away. Either make more of an effort to keep in touch with them, or get over your social anxieties and make new friends.

I have two years left until I'm thirty, which is when I've re-decided proper adulthood actually begins, and you can't keep being insecure and anxious, or you're an idiot. You can't have kids until you're happy enough with who you are that you can raise them to be happy in who they are. You can't quit work to be a full-time writer until you've proven you can spend a day off not watching DVDs.

I can not turn thirty until I'm proud of who I've become. So this year I'm gonna fix it, or get over it. Then I get a whole year just to enjoy it.

Happy New Year all xoxo

Sunday, December 9, 2012

If you're happy and you know it...

Today was a good day. I celebrated one year with my wonderful man. We drove home from our weekend away in Blairgowrie back to our beautiful unit in Brunswick. Shaun had a lovely play in the park. The sun was shining, and I made pasta for dinner.

But then it happened. Somebody asked me politely how I was.

'How are you?' is the most complicated sentence in the English language. The sentence itself, seems harmless, but if you misjudge the context you can cause much harm.

Example one: Walking the dog in the morning. Nod a polite 'How are you?' to the man with the staffy you pass at 6:20am every weekday morning. He answers, not with the expected 'How are you?' nod back, but rather answers the question and you have to stand awkwardly and listen to the reply.

Example two: (True story) Sales assistant asks customer: 'How are you?' Customer replies with 'Actually I have breast cancer.'

Example three: Friend asks friend 'How are you?'

This is where it gets tricky. Sometimes you know that friend has had an awful day. Sometimes you know they've had the worst 6 months of their life. You are feeling excellent. So you answer - fine.

Sometimes you've had a bad day. You stubbed your toe, your train was late, your boss was grumpy. But your friends mother just died. So you answer - fine.

I first realised two months ago I was happy. Actually - I didn't realise so much but my dad looked at me and said 'Could you be any happier? 'But with the knowledge of my happiness came its closest friend. Guilt

Guilt that my friends weren't so well off. Their relationships weren't going so well. Their job wasn't as fun at Christmas time. They were sick. They were unhappy.

And I didn't feel happy anymore.

Maybe happiness, like love, is only true when it's shared. You can only be truly happy in the presence of others who are truly happy.

Can you happiness make someone who is sad happy? Or will it only make them feel worse?

Can you ever answer a question honestly, without taking in all the factors? Because today I feel great. But I have a mosquito bite on my foot that is itchy, and if you asked me right now how I was I'd say pretty pissed off actually.

So there's the ying and yang. You can't appreciate the good without the bad blah blah. But wouldn't it be nice, if when you were happy, and you knew it, you really could just clap your hands?

Saturday, November 17, 2012

It's time to go... values

Lately it seems my Facebook feed has been inundated with announcements of my previously vegetarian friends getting back on meat. The status update is typically met with lots of 'likes', lots of congrats, and lots of invitations to head out for a parma*

Putting my vego ideals beside, I've been wondering what is it their friends are really celebrating? 'My friend had a really strong, personal conviction about something they believed in, but now they can't be bothered keeping it up'? Or, 'Thank god, one less person to make me feel guilty about cage eggs'?

I commented on one announcement with a simple, 'I couldn't do that'. Not judging, but in genuine bewilderment. There are so many reasons I choose to live a vegetarian lifestyle, how could I possibly turn my back on them?

But then I remembered. I remembered 18-year-old Lucy, when all her friends slowly but surely, began to leave the Pentecostal church, turning to her youth pastor and declaring, 'I could never do that.' Followed by a desperate attempt to reason - 'I guess they didn't love Jesus as much I do'.

Okay - I'm getting to my point. I did leave the church, and it was a massive decision. I'd identified as a Christian for 23 years, and giving up the title was difficult, but it didn't change who I was. And my friends, who have returned to their pre-vege lifestyle, haven't changed. They're still the same people.

If we're not defined by our values, what are we defined by? We're not defined by how we look, or where we live. We're not defined by how much money we earn, or how many friends we have. We can't even say we're defined by our words, or our actions, because they only ever paint half the picture at best.

I like to think we're defined by our heart - by our capacity to love. I gave up church, but I still love people, I still love the world. I still live to share love with whoever I can. I could give up being a vegetarian and still love animals. I could still be an advocate for animal rights, and I could still be the parent of the happiest, healthiest dog in the park. I would still be me (but I couldn't do that).

Not to encourage you to all go out and throw away your passions, your convictions, your beliefs, but just to remind you - Barack Obama changed his value on gay marriage. Richard Muller changed his beliefs on climate change. I changed my mind about eating a McDonalds double quarter pounder with cheese. Never be afraid to question what you believe in, and check that your 'value' matches your heart.

(*or parmie, depending if you're in Tasmania or Victoria).

Saturday, September 8, 2012

For my dad

Originally I'd planned to blog tomorrow. Somewhere near the beach on the Sunshine Coast, reminiscing on a lovely few days with my dad. I wanted to write about the man he is, what he means to me, and probably what good buds we are.

But then life happened, including one cancelled flight to Queensland, one trip to emergency with my pup and one very unsettling discussion on marriage equality with a couple of old acquaintances. So instead, I'm going to write about the man my dad is not.

My dad is not a paralympian, although as a child I sure thought he could put his missing hand to better use. He is, however, a surfer, a musician, and a man who has never been defined by his disability.

My dad is not generous with words, but I've never felt unloved, or un-special. He's not that generous with money either, but I've never been unsupported.

My dad is not tall, but he sure is handsome.

My dad is not my life coach. He's never told me what to do. He's never told me a boyfriend was no good (well, at least not until after we'd broken up). He's never told me what to study, how to vote, how best to succeed. Yet, every decision I make, I know what he'd want me to do - and I know it's for the best (except voting for Tony Abbott. Friends don't let friends vote for Tony Abbott, Dad).

My dad was never on the parent teacher committee, but he took me to soccer on Saturday mornings, and debating on Wednesday night.

My dad was never my minister. He never told me what to believe in, what was important. He listened to my concerns for his eternal life, my concerns for the world, and more recently, my concerns for dairy farmers. He never told me I was right, never told me I was wrong, but he was always my sounding board.

You know what else he wasn't? A man in the sky, who created me to feel a certain way, but forbade me to ever act upon such feelings for fear of eternal damnation. A man whose words, written thousands of years ago, having been interpreted thousands of times, in hundreds of languages, set the precedent for modern law.  And if your Father is like that, you'd have to be wondering why you got such a rotten deal.

I don't like to speak about fundamentalistic Christian faith, because I know not all Christians share the same view. But I know if I ever put words in my father's mouth, or took him out of context, or decided it was my place to enforce his judgement, he'd have something to say to me about it.

So to my old pal who told me today that my decision to stand with the chaff (Matthew 3:12 if you'd like some more context) was between me and God, you bloody bet it is. As it is for every gay couple who choose to marry, and definitely not anything to do with you.

I'm so grateful for a father who let me grow into the person I am. A person who can see the mistakes of their past, because they were allowed to make them. A person who can walk comfortably into the future, secure in the fact they will make more mistakes, but that's okay too.

Anyway, Dad, if I'd gotten on that flight this morning we'd have had a different day for sure. But everything happens for a reason. And at least you've still got your grandpuppy.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

There's no such thing as free love

I've been lucky enough to spend the last few months with the guy I always imagined myself with, in the relationship I always wanted, feeling the love I'd always hoped to feel.

Everything else in my life has lost importance. I don't care about the car I drive, the bed I sleep on. I don't care about going out for fancy meals or drinking fine wine. I don't need to go out to the movies, or go on overseas holidays - I just want to be where he is.

So is it true, then? Are the best things in life free?

Meet my friend, Kate. She is one of the kindest, most gentle, most loving girls I have ever met. She has a beautiful son she adores, and a husband who is her best friend. She is living the life I hope for when I am her age, with a grace I will only ever be able to fake.

Then, one day, every thing changes. Her husband doesn't want a family anymore, he wants to drink wine on a school night, eat in front of the television and stay out all night. He wants to be twenty again. And so he leaves her.

Kate finds strength she never knows she had. She protects herself and her son as best as she can. But she hurts.

I took my man out for vegan pizza and told him how frightened I was. That I have a happiness I never knew without him, and I have more to lose than ever. I told him I wanted to trust our relationship, to trust us enough that I could know that would never happen to me.

I expected him to assure me he'd never leave me. To promise that we would be different. We were a perfect fit, the lucky ones who got it right.

He made no such promises. Only that we'd do the very best we could, and if we failed, we'd still be okay.

It's not the stuff fairy tales are made of, it didn't read like the script in my head, instilled from Hollywood expectations of love and happily ever after.

It meant that to love him completely would come with a cost. The price I pay for love is the risk of losing him. It's a gamble.

No, it's not a gamble, it's an investment. I can make a wise investment, get sound advice, choose low risk stocks. But there is no certainty in life, and certainly not in love.

I watched a documentary this week about free love. My new fave Brit, Dawn Porter, stayed in a free love community and searched past its all accepting, all generous and painless exterior, to find the loss, the insecurity and the fear of it's residents.

We're naive to believe we can live a full life without paying for it. And maybe Kate's husband, when the thrill of mid-week hangovers and walks of shame wears off, will realise he stopped paying for love, and therefore doesn't deserve it.

Because we do make sacrifices, we compromise, we change to fit the one we choose. It's a cost, a price we pay. And we can't expect to yield the high returns if we don't make the investments, and re-invest the dividends*.

You know what tho? I reckon he's worth it.

*I haven't used so many analogies since I spoke in the Christian church...

Saturday, July 7, 2012

I could save the world - if I could be bothered

At some point in the last few years, I've become incredibly lazy. At first I thought I was nesting - building myself a nice home and all that. Then I figured I was 'growing up', I didn't get the same enjoyment out of late nights and loud pubs as I used to, and that was to be expected.

But at some point, I've turned into the person who would more than happily spend Saturday night at home watching old DVDs. And wake up Sunday and do exactly the same thing.

I know I crave boredom. I find it very hard to come by. I live a busy week, with full-time (and then some) work, daily walks with Shaun, visits to the gym, the supermarket, the pay-day dinner out. On the weekend, all I want is to feel bored. To wish for some entertainment. To want for something to do. I spend my weekends not making plans, avoiding all social functions, with the premise that avoiding them may make me bored enough to want to attend.

But then I catch myself, watching the same episode I watched the week before and ask, 'Would Marieke Hardy* be doing this?'

*Marieke is my litmus test. She's a vegan, living in Brunswick with a dog with a human name. She also has a cool blog, is a columnist for Frankie and writes a successful sitcom. And I'm pretty sure she's been on #qanda.

There's so much I want to do with my spare time. I wish I blogged more often. I wish I could finish the books I'm working on. I wish I would write another article and get myself published again. I wish I would get to work on my documentary idea. But I can't get all that done and be bored at the same time.

Sooner of later I figure this stage will pass, and I'll go back to being the passionate, driven, determined Lucy of my youth. In the meantime, I guess I'd better go fold my washing.


Saturday, June 9, 2012

The 3am Philosopher

The other night I was woken by a text from a friend. It was 3am, and I could only assume he had been drinking. I read the message and rolled over, ready to resume my sleep. But I couldn't stop thinking about his message. I knew exactly how he was feeling, exactly where he was at, and so I turned back over, grabbed my phone and replied.

My reply was concise, thoughtful and wise. I was really impressed by myself.

We went on to exchange several text messages, each more wonderful and philosophical than the last, until eventually the need to return to sleep overwhelmed me. When I woke in the morning, I was faced with an enormous question:

Was I really that super intelligent and insightful last night, or was that just 3am talking?

Is 3am 'just woken up' the same as 3am 'been up all night' when you really believe you could solve all the worlds problems - if you cared enough. Or, is it that your mind is so clear because there is nothing clouding it that you can see solutions to problems clearly, interpret the world accurately.

I remember sitting up one night in 2010 in a backpackers in New York City because I knew if I let myself sleep, I'd lose the thoughts in my mind forever, and they couldn't be forgotten, I had to write them down.

I'm ready to share some of those thoughts with you:

- it's impossible to act feminine when you sneeze and accidentally sneeze up snot.
- when all else fails, watch Alias season 5 again.
- if someone is drowning in quicksand, don't be polite about rescuing them, do it quickly and roughly and apologise later.

Now you know, these are pretty true thoughts - but so wonderful I had to write them down, at 3am, never to be lost?

You be the judge. I'm happy for the record of my NYC brain. Actually, that was the morning I sat up and decided I would start a blog. It would be called 'Lucy's Thought of the Week' and it would be about whatever was on my mind, and how I was working it out.

You know what? It IS impossible to act like a lady when you've got a face covered in your own mucus. Alias season 5 is a wonderful way to feel better about your life. And if you were to save someone from quicksand, they probably wouldn't give a shit how you manhandled them. They'd probably give you a drink. Or their first born.

Until next time.


Thursday, May 24, 2012


Taken from my novel - 'Jesus, Boys and Life In Between'. This short story is called 'Clare' - not my Thought of the Week this week :)

David Coleman was my first. No, not the first guy I had sex with – the first of many of my future loves who would turn out to be a raging homo. I say that with love, of course. How can you not love the gays? They make the best boyfriends. They talk to you, they shop with you, they talk hair, fashion, drink martinis with you. But then they leave you on the dance floor alone to grind up a sweaty man in a tank top. Every Saturday night.
No #2 didn’t know he was gay straight away (pun intended). We dated for about three months until he burst into tears on my couch one Sunday afternoon confessing he’d had a sex dream about my brother. Of course many years later he would move in with my brother and I returned to my comfortable position as least favourite child and least likely to procreate. How does a gay brother become more likely to parent than his younger, more attractive hetero sister? Simple: she has a biological predisposition to repel straight men. 
Number #3 hurt the most, because I was convinced I’d chosen wiser this time. We met at a pub. He was drinking beer, watching footy with mates. He goes for Collingwood for Christ’s sake. He didn’t care for hair gum, he didn’t find Judith Lucy funny, he’d never even watched Are You Being Served? But after six months I felt him drifting away from me. First it was the dropping of the hand. Then the spontaneous cuddles. Then he stopped staying over all together. At dinner one night he confessed he’d been cheating on me with men. I forgave him, because I am a sucker, and we continue to be the best of friends. I’m even best man in his wedding in NYC next year. But as happy as I am for him, there’s a huge part of me that hates him too.
My brother reckons it gets easier as you get older; people are more aware of, more comfortable with their own sexuality. There’s less margin of error. I’m know I’m ‘still young’ – but I’m in my prime, and if I don’t shack up soon I’ll have to settle and that isn’t the stuff fairy tales are made of. I want my prince charming. I want him to be kind, and handsome, and dashing, and ride a white horse, and sing and dance with woodland creatures, and wear leather boots, and hell. I want a gay straight man.
He has to exist. A wonderful man with fabulous gay qualities but no desire at all for some hot male on male action. He’s all about the boobs. And beauty. And brains, of course.
So eligible men, form an orderly cue. Because with me, you never have to pretend the Veet cream in your toiletry bag is your sister’s, you never have to be responsible for the ethical re-movement of spiders and you can drink all the vodka cruisers you desire – because they are delicious. And we should all stop pretending that they’re not. 

Friday, May 11, 2012

Advice to my eighteen year old self

People don't always believe me when I tell them, but I'm a very shy person. I am incredibly nervous meeting new people and I suffer horrible anxiety going to new places.

Most people don't see this side of me, they see the Lucy who's 'been coming here for years', or the Lucy who you've 'known since high school'. I'm not at all shy once I'm comfortable. But the anxiety I experience in new places can be crippling.

I talk a lot about preferring to stay home on a Saturday night and that's not because I don't like to have fun with friends, or get dressed up, or watch live music. It's because I'm terrified at the thought of being somewhere I'm yet to establish myself as comfortable. So I say home, where I can be myself and I'm not at all worried about what anyone thinks of me.

Something has changed for me in the last six months quite dramatically. I'm not sure if it's an age thing, if it's a new group of friends, or just because I'm finally accepting I am who I am, but the anxiety that made me sneak out of pubs and wait in the car for two hours for my boyfriend, is going away.

I went to the Swinburne Aviation Society trivia bonanza last night, and I didn't hate it.  I wasn't nervous. I went with two of my closest friends, and we had to join up with some pilots (so we didn't fail miserably) and I was okay with that - in fact, I quite liked it. I had to expose my 'I'm actually really awful at general knowledge, especially geography' shame to new people, and I wasn't afraid of being judged. You know what, I spent the whole night not even worrying about how people were feeling about my new haircut.

I couldn't help but wonder how different my Uni years would have been if I could have attended the Entrepreneurship society functions with the same level of confidence I felt last night. If I would have been able to approach the people I wanted to be in group assignments with, instead of forming that group with whoever was left.

I don't live life with regrets, but if I could have the chance to talk to my eighteen year old self, I'd tell her she's fabulous, just as she is, right now. Even with those few extra kilos she hates, with the pimples on her forehead, and with the chest that none of the boys are talking about. I'd tell her the best way to make friends, the best way to meet boys and the best way to get what you want is to be confident.

I think I finally figured out what confidence was last night. It's called - don't give a shit. Because if people don't like you exactly how you are, don't worry - somebody else will. And I promise, you'll like them better too.

I also speak from experience when I say I've had some pretty wonderful loves in my life, and not one of them has ever cared about the few extra kilos I hate, the pimples on my forehead, or been disappointed in the chest that none of the other boys are talking about.

Oh, and we won the trivia night.


Wednesday, May 2, 2012


I got paid today. I paid my rent, put some petrol in the car, donated some money to my friends fundraiser and bought some groceries. Got home, checked the balance.

I've got $14.94 left.

I figured I had two choices. One, transfer some money from my hard earned, very small savings account. Or two, see how far I can make my $14.94 go. I chose two.

It's going to be tough. I can't even remove that amount from an ATM. But I'm up for the challenge. 

Hell, my house is full of things I've previously spent money on. Food, clothes, entertainment. Tea bags, red lentils, tissues.

So I'm spending the next 7 nights making the most of my previous spendings. Anyone want to come watch DVD's with me this weekend? Or take the dog for a long walk?

Challenge set. Stay tuned.

PS I have the beginnings of a cold. I think the majority of the $14.94 will go on lozenges.

Sunday, April 1, 2012

nineteen eighty-five

*This blog is dedicated to my boy, Shaun, who turns two on Tuesday. You've taught me more about unconditional love than any person I've ever met. And I love you.*

On Saturday morning I had the fabulous opportunity to spend some quality time with some old, dear friends. You absolutely take old friends for granted until you move away from the place you grew up, and its simply marvelous when two people you have known for over 15 years marry and live in the same city you do now. I'm so grateful for my friends Robb and Phillipa, because they know me. I never have to justify myself, excuse myself. They know me, they know my intentions, and they trust me. And on Saturday, I carpooled with two very precious new friends to Yarraville, for brunch.

But I haven't even got to the truly wonderful bit yet. Phillipa's parents were visiting from Tasmania, and would be joining us for raspberry and white chocolate muffins, fruit salad, sourdough and mercy valley cheese.

I can't explain how special it was to eat, drink tea, and talk with this amazing collection of people. People that I feel safe around. People I feel connected to, loved by. And as I was giving Phillipa's mum a big kiss goodbye, I shared something with her that I'd only just realised to be true:

I am absolutely loving everything about getting older. Not for one minute do I wish I was fourteen again. Or eighteen again. Or 21 again. Especially not 23 again. I've discovered an age where you feel confident, loved, respected. Where you are challenged, needed, and important.

I love having a little guy in my life who truly needs me. Shaun and I are best friends, we are family. And if I don't come home he shits on the carpet. Because he needs me.

But also he wants me.

Family is an incredible institution, and I'm lucky to have some amazing relationships with people in my family. I also spend time heartbroken for the cousins that are growing up so fast and if I'm lucky, I get to play lego with once a year. But my family is unique. If we don't like you, there's a pretty good chance we probably just won't talk to you. We don't have an overwhelming bond of 'family' that forces us to love each other unconditionally. And while sometimes I wish for that - there is something to be said for the fact that every person who is in my life is there because they want to be.

And so, this sappy blog comes to you from one very loved up, very happy girl. Because this weekend I was able to spend time with special friends, old and new, celebrate my baby boy's second birthday, and see Tom Ballard live at the MICF.

I'm not sure when I realised I was living the life I had always hoped for, living the life I wanted for myself. I have it. And I'm not even afraid to jinx it.

Also, wisdom and experience tells me life isn't perfect. And it won't be. But I'm not scared of imperfection. Of heartbreak. Of pain. Because everything I have experienced so far in my life has brought me to this point.

Also I have an incredible safety net. The wonderful people, who after knowing me for 15 years, still want to know how my week was. And the people I've just met - who want to come to the beach for my dog's second birthday.


Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Ignorance is bliss - so don't read this blog.

Tonight I'm going to tell you something so bleedingly obvious, you'll wonder why you haven't known it all along. And I'm going to tell you why you haven't known - you didn't want to know. In fact, you still don't.

Indonesian abattoirs aren't the only ones treating animals cruelly. Honest. Simply type 'Australian abattoir cruelty' into google and see for yourself.

*I don't recommend watching any related YouTube videos. You can imagine well enough from the journalism. The videos will make you wonder about the people we share our world with. They will change you. They will hurt you.

I know you don't want to. Because then you know the price of your dinner. But nothing makes me angrier than Australians getting all self-righteous about Indonesian practises when we refuse to look in the mirror.

Paul McCartney famously said 'If abattoirs had glass walls, everyone would be vegetarian.'

So why aren't we seeing news reports about Australian abattoirs on TV?

Well, for one, we're not dumb enough to let people with cameras in. We leave that to the Indonesians, and the Americans.

Two - remember how the beef industry got up in arms when their live export business got suspended? Imagine if their entire organisation was shut down. We can't handle that level of political fall out.

And thirdly, we like eating meat. And we like paying as little for it as possible.

Yes, I'm a vegetarian. It's 'easy for me' to say these things. Because I'm not being hypocritical complaining about the treatment of animals while munching on my pork crackling. But I'm not writing this blog to promote vegetarianism, or judge anyone for their personal choices. I believe in the circle of life; if you need it, take it. But if you don't need it, how about you leave it alone?

I'm writing this to promote education. To encourage people to research that little bit further. Because you have values, and ignorance isn't an excuse. It's hard. It's hard to shop ethically, to read the back of every item you pick up in the supermarket to check for palm oil, to investigate the factories where your clothes, your iPhone, are manufactured. It's exhausting, and completely un-rewarding.

But we are what we eat. We live and die by the choices we make. So isn't it best to know exactly what we're choosing?


Saturday, January 28, 2012

I'm sorry I wasn't good enough

I wonder if I wasn't there for you - if I wasn't actively involved in your life. I didn't appreciate your memories, your adventures, your witty one-liners. Your opinion on politics, on current affairs.

Maybe I was too quiet. I didn't say enough, didn't respond enough. I wasn't excited enough about your dinner plans, your new job, the movie you went and saw. Maybe I didn't listen when you complained about the traffic, didn't offer enough support in regards to your noisy neighbours. Maybe I forgot your birthday.

Facebook friend 689, I'll miss you. And I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that the events leading up to my deletion were so severe you didn't feel you could simply remove me from your feed - you had to remove me from your profile all together. I'm sorry you were no longer interested in the latest photos of my dog, my most recent holiday, my constant links to animal welfare organisations. I'm sorry if I didn't update my status enough - if I updated too often. I'm sorry if my check-ins made you want to smash your iPhone on the ground in a jealous rage because I was doing the locomotion with @Lainey Fitzpatrick and @Will Tremayne and you were home alone watching The Big Bang Theory.

Maybe it wasn't even about me. Maybe you're so hipster you simply have to keep your numbers down, you can't have too many friends. Maybe you deleted me because I am a Facebook junkie, and my decision to add @Akmar Ramasavarga from Turkey offended you. I'm sorry I thought my non-rejection of him, a man who has never done anything wrong by me that I am aware of, would be more offensive to you than my blatant disregard to the very definition of the term 'friend'.

Mostly I'm sorry I don't know who you are. But I'll miss you. Because now I'll likely never get to 700 friends.