Too long, too soon

Time is such a difficult thing to grasp and I've never been one for the intangible.

Wasn't it just yesterday that I was 16 years old, battling teenage acne and puberty in secondary school? Fast forward to when I was 18, and love was when a boy offers you a cigarette (menthol light, just to put it out there), and a ride on his motorbike. What about when I was 21 and I'd let some friendships run their course? All of a sudden, I'm 24 now, and I've let six whole years pass me by just like that.

If I had the chance to rewind the time, I would still fall for the guy with the long hair and tattoos; I would still fill my lungs with cancerous substances in the middle of a school day, then walk across the street to have an ice cream; I would, without a doubt, still let the friendship go down the drain.

How am I suddenly turning 24 this year, with nothing to my name except my collection of luxury bags (which I'm sure, if my house catches fire, I would rather perish with them) (just kidding!!!) (or am I?), the couple of times Dr Martens featured me on their Instagram page, and a 4-page long order history from ASOS?

The next girl I see has her future laid out ahead of her – no need to worry so soon about ageing and suddenly hitting quarter life crisis. She just has to fill her little head with thoughts about how to complete that damn assignment on time, and how to keep her boyfriend interested in her.

And here I am, feeling sorry about myself for turning fucking 24 this year.