It’s nearly midnight on a Friday night and I’m at my mum’s watching junk on Netflix and hating myself. I’ve spent the last week going through three shoe boxes of receipts dating back 18 months. All my spending habits there in black and white, on faded, scrunched up slips of paper.
When I cried my way through February, my month of Money, A Love Story, I vowed to change my ways and I did a bit but not enough. I got stuck into the Secret and figured that ‘abundant thoughts’ would translate into an abundant bank balance. They didn’t. Then there was two months of rejection therapy which made me so miserable I took to drink. Which is expensive. Then lovely trips to Italy with F**K It.
So I’ve been having conversations with my guardian angels. No really, I have. We’ve become pen pals.
In her books Doreen Virtue suggests you close your eyes and ask what your two angels are called. I did that and the name Mary and John came into my head. I tried to picture Mary and John as angelic beings, with feathers and lights and love pouring out of them, but I couldn’t. With Mary, I just pictured my mum. Unsurprisingly given that Mary is her name. And with John, I pictured a builder in a vest with a gut and builder’s bum. A bit like Bob the Builder but with stubble. I don’t even want to think about what this guy is doing in my sub-conscious… but I don’t believe he’s an angel.
Well, as predicted, the angel stuff is not sitting well with me.
So far I’ve read two and a half of Doreen Virtue’s books in the hope that one of them will make more sense to me but they’re largely the same book repackaged in different ways. She may spend her days in the ‘angelic realm’ but she’s no fool when it comes to business. Sell the same thing 40 different ways and you’ll find someone to buy it. Including me now, which is irritating me.
But everything about angel therapy is irritating me.
Oh dear. I’d written a lovely final post for F*K It. It was wise and wonderful, profound and witty. It’s now gone. Not sure what I did but I obviously didn’t save the draft. Oh well, F**K It – here’s a very hastily – and reluctantly – written post. Thing is, I don’t want F**k it to end. I really don’t.
I want to live in a F**K it world forever, preferably in Italy, drinking wine in the sun and listening to John and Gaia uttering funny, wise words which serve as an antidote to all the crap we listen to every day of our lives.
The crap that tells us that if we’re not pushing harder, doing more, striving to be thinner, fitter, richer, more successful, then we’re not doing it right.
As one friend put it, reading this book is like letting out a sigh of relief.
Hello hello! How’s everyone? Thanks so much for the lovely messages on Friday. Who knew that turning down a major opportunity would be such a popular move?! But really, thank you. I had a little cry when I read some of the comments, they were very kind.
But I do seem to be very emotional these days. I cried during a re-run of Sex and the City over the weekend. It was that episode where Carrie realises she’s spent all her money on shoes. It made me feel crap cos I don’t even have shoes to show for what I’ve spent my money on. Just hangovers and a frightening coffee habit. Then Bob Dylan’s ‘Blowin in the Wind’ came on the radio yesterday and I cried at that too. Not sure why. It was just pretty and the sun was shining.
A couple of months ago I said F**K It to something quite major and I didn’t tell you about it because I worried I’d made a big mistake. I was worried that it was a sure sign that self-help had made me crazy.
In April I was offered a book deal and I turned it down.
I was offered something that I’ve dreamt of my whole life and said ‘No, thanks.’