Honestly, I tend not to reference myself in the third person — as though I am some omnipresent narrator observing myself from a faux leather recliner somewhere, a bowl of sweet and salty popcorn perched in my lap. To me, that would be like commentating the life of a parallel version of myself. And I’d like to think she spends a lot less cash on jars of peanut butter and Rick and Morty merchandise (only because that means there’s more left out there for me!).

But anyway. In the words of one Joseph Francis Tribbiani; how you doin’?

Me? I’m…

I will never understand why it’s called Medium when it’s home to such high quality writers.

I know it’s the medium in which we share our stories but honestly, I think we should re-title to Usdium, because it’s not the text on the screen that showcases value: it’s us. Our words. Our intentions. Our storytelling souls. Or at least bloody Medamn, because damn. Have you read some of the astounding stuff they stick on here? It’s Mediunbelievable.

Much like the five writers I’ve listed below.

Some of Medium’s Finest™ and not necessarily because they’re the most well known writers on…

That bottle of bleach beside your toilet. That veggie lasagna. The jawline of Robert Pattinson. The scab on your knee. That thought you just had. The thing you feel in the bottom of your heart. That memory. That hope. That penis-shaped magnet from Amsterdam.

Everything ever is made of energy and matter. Including you.

So preserve your energy. Channel it only towards goodness. Save it for those who won’t drain it but instead, turn it into light. Everything you touch, everything you direct your attention towards, everything you do (or don’t do), has chunks of your soul infused right there…

Another day and the same old sun,
And another snowfall, just for fun.
So of course my heart went and did the same,
Fluctuated faster — she loves this game.

I cried at first, sobbed into the sink,
Overwhelmed with sadness I could barely think.
But then, later on, with my friends online,
We laughed for hours and transcended time.

It’s weird, you know, to feel so much,
Both ends of the spectrum you brazenly touch.
Like it’s wrong to be happy and also be sad,
In one solitary day? Girl, that’s mad.

But we need to know, it’s okay…

Our weight does not matter.

It doesn’t correlate with our worth. There’s no linearity between Our Weight (measured in kilograms) and How Valuable Our Soul Is (in megahertz). Squidgyness is not a personality trait. Our weight does not matter and we’re told this ad infinitum, but let’s be honest, you still think your weight is important don’t you? I know I do.

An additional pound on the scale has the ability to dictate — and destroy — my entire day. I don’t want to fall in love until I’m below a threshold size or else my lover won’t be able…

Ginger, I adore this (and you). We immortalise ourselves within the pieces of us we hold onto, the bits of us stashed in shoe boxes beneath our bed and in inside pockets of old handbags and inside the messages we'd send to our old school pals. You have turned my "hoarding" into "horcruxes" and you are my hero for it.

I snipped my necklace today.

I’d bought it in France with my mom, a placeholder necklace to wear whilst swimming in the lake to replace the silver locket I usually wear on (soggy, damp, smelly) dry British land (I like my neck to look pretty in case a hungry Robert Pattinson vampire passes by).

That image, that holiday, that chapter of my life (one of the best. I’ve bookmarked each of those pages and pressed tiny french flowers in between them) was in 2019. I’ve been wearing that necklace for a damn long while now. …