Happy birthday tooo meee! I’m turning 19 on Friday, which means I’m another year closer to being all fat, wrinked and dead. Ain’t it a reason to celebrate?
No, honestly. I used to hate birthdays, because they reminded me of my perishing youth. Not that I love it that much. I’d rather be middle-aged, if that means having life experience and all the confidence that comes with it, a stable job, and the right to say “you’ll grow up and see.” Nevertheless, I’ve always felt irrationally sorry for every year that passed.
Here’s a confession I need to make: I read Cosmopolitan. And by read, I don’t mean browsing through the pictures in the dentist’s waiting room, and shaking my head with mild disapproval. No, I actually go out of my way to spend a precious 2 pounds (or 3.50, depending on the gift) on an issue of Cosmo every single month. Embarassing, I know. I usually buy it along with New Statesman, just to save my face in front of the pretty guys working at WH Smith.
I grew up believing thatDavid Hockney’s iconic painting A Bigger Splash was all about contrast: between the static, orderly background and the seemingly uncontrolled “splash”, which, by the way, was carefully painted with tiny brushstrokes. Alright, good enough.