This is a photo of me when I was about 10, getting ready for a kiddie ‘goth’ party at a church hall. I like to think that Nan Goldin took it.

It’s a question we’ve all asked ourselves at some point, right? Okay, so I’ve managed to use an unforgivably cliché opening line, but the chances are, unless you were raised by wolves or are Tracey Emin (who might actually have been raised by wolves), you’ve probably wondered if you’re as interesting as your friends. I mean, friend A has lived in like, a hundred different countries, friend B would still look cool in a vomit-coloured satin blouse from TK Maxx, and friend C has been so fucked up that they’re now an ultra-talented writer rolling in cash made from their emotional pain (no, I’m not referring to Lena Dunham).

oh, look, it’s an irrelevant photograph of Anna Nicole Smith

With the ability to curate our lives via social media, it’s easy to keep the boring details private and make ourselves out to be unfalteringly fun and worthy of attention. This is most commonly achieved by instagramming the fuck out of everything and owning a tumblr. I’m definitely guilty of some of this (I mean writing this blog makes me feel that little bit more interesting, even though it has about 8 readers), but I’ve never been shy about my less glamorous rituals, either. You know for sure you’re my friend if you’ve seen me binge eating with a face covered in sudocrem in an attempt to counter the adverse effects that a kilo of milk chocolate is probably going to have on my skin. Still, if you say you haven’t given your ipod’s 25 most played tracks a makeover or two you’re probably lying. I tend to shift Bonnie Rait and Aretha Franklin in favour of Schoenberg and A$AP Rocky (because I’m like, so diverse in my tastes).

You might be expecting me to end this post with a ‘We’Re AlL dIfFeReNt aNd N0BodI iz BoRiNg!!!1! <3’ sort of thing, but I don’t think that’s really my style (and some people really are boring, right?).

In other news, I appeared on daytime TV last week, and I’ve been offered an internship at Wonderland magazine, which is probably the best news I’ve had all summer (I use the term ‘summer’ lightly, because it’s been pissing it down for weeks where I live).  On Wednesday, I’m meeting a male model after work to sell him two tickets to a squat rave.

YEAH. You heard me. A celebrity to grannies who watch television at 3pm. Fashion magazine. Squat rave. Male model — does that make my life interesting?

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