white boy

I wonder about it.

What I heard when you spoke to me that first time. We let our tongues loose on topics like travel and gender inequality in the workplace. You expressed scepticism over whether the latter really still exists, and I went to work trying to convince you with facts. I didn’t remember for long moments that you were a straight white male, that you had little knowledge or need for empathy towards those that didn’t look like you. The ones that carried more than your three monikers.

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The reject queen

I am the rejection queen. I don’t administer too many rejections myself, but I have become an expert at receiving them. Especially the big rejections – the ones that have a larger life impact, that can sway how the rest of your day, week, even year could go. And it’s not something I ever foresaw myself being able to handle really, because at heart I am a pretty sensitive person, who used to be very impacted by the opinions of others. But I suppose age and practice really do make perfect. Or they make for mild desensitisation; it’s unclear.

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The shark

Two years ago around this time, I wrote about my desire to keep moving, and the beginning of my detachment from the London I had once considered home…

Maame Blue Writes

“Home is where the heart is.”

I have always struggled with this phrase. It sounds simple enough but actually, I’m not sure it means anything more than “Home is where you like to sleep”, or “Home is where the person you like, likes to sleep”; but that sounds a bit like the mantra of a stalker, so maybe it’s not quite as simple as that.

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Bracing for the cold

Midnight, or 12.04am to be exact. The Piccadilly line is taking an age, and there are people scattered on the platform. I’m exhausted, in the way that’s starting to feel more and more like London. I wonder what I’m doing out here, at night alone, doing a mediocre impression of a mole. Bruno Mars tells me to raise my pinky in the air but only if I’m a player. I am not.

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2015: The Recap

Is it just me or have we been blind-sighted by the swift arrival of Christmas and the impending end of 2015? Perhaps I haven’t been paying enough attention to time carrying us along on a train to older age, because I’ve been distracted with despising house shares, commuting in a hell tube, and eavesdropping on strangers’ dates. So maybe it’s time to take stock of 2015? OK, you’ve twisted my arm. Let’s do this.

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