Let’s face it – we all know how awful it can feel when things don’t go to plan. For a good few weeks, I’ve been preparing to head off to the States on my first ever press trip with BrewDog Airlines. Flights, amazing accommodation, tours around Columbus, Cincinnati and Indianapolis. Spending money. All paid for. You know, the whole shabang. I’d spent hours emailing travel magazines and websites to set up blog posts and articles, walked many miles up and down the shopping centres in Budapest trying to find the perfect outfits for when I’m there, and basically just spending every minute being equally excited and nervous (in a good way). I was so buzzed to go to the US and meet other bloggers and journalists, and of course, sample the best beer and cider that BrewDog has to offer.
And then, my health had to go and fuck it all up.
After writing about a million different beginnings to this blog post, all of which I felt were incredibly cheesy, I will start with a simple HIYA. Since my last blog post, which feels like it was a million years ago, a lot has happened. I slaved away day and night writing my dissertation (from which the hard work actually paid off, and I won an award and a little bit of money for it), I did a LOT of travelling, I graduated uni, and I got a new job and moved countries. As you do.
I’ve been meaning to write a blog post about this for a while, because I have pretty strong views on social media as a whole. I’ve written a couple of features about the correlation between social media use and mental health struggles, and I’ve based lots of my essays at University on social media in journalism. It’s a tricky one, this, because I’m an active user of Facebook, Twitter and Instagram – the latter is primarily to promote my blog and actually get people to read it. But even so, I still feel like a hypocrite for saying how unhealthy I think social media use can be, when I’m an active participant in it.
Twenty bloody four. Sorry, but how is that even possible? It only feels like yesterday that I was chugging a bottle of Frosty Jack’s on a Grimsby field with Basshunter on repeat.
(This isn’t a recent thing. I was 15 – although I am a bit partial to Basshunter every now and then.)
I actually turned 24 at the end of July, but I’ve been so busy trotting across the globe that it hasn’t really sunk in until now. Being jet-lagged and drinking countless cocktails doesn’t really gel well, which is why I don’t have a very clear memory of this year’s birthday. That probably has something to do with it too.
But the reality would sink in eventually, just like it always does. The reality being that I am approaching my mid-twenties, which is just downright terrifying.
Here’s 24 things you learn by the age of 24.
It was generically reading Eat, Pray, Love six years ago because everyone else was doing it that made me want to go to Bali in the first place. So, when I finally got around to doing so, and found out that tourists are able to go and see the actual son of the medicine man from the book, I obviously jumped on board.