I love Twitter, you know this. Admittedly sometimes I want to block half my timeline, but that’s mostly hormone-related or I need to just step away and eat half a pound of licorice comfits or punch a bookcase or something. It’s a happy place for me, a world of banging on about unimportant things, sharing pictures of badly photoshopped animals and creating unnecessary hashtags. Only now I’m finding it genuinely difficult, I’ve become crippled by the fear that I’m just going to be a massive mum-nause, and it’s sort of hard to chat on about things and participate in general conversations when you’ve heard NO NEWS and watched NONE OF THE PROGRAMMES. Over the last twelve weeks, I’ve mostly been alerted to world news by snatching covert peeks at Twitter, which gives me a bit of a skewed view. I trust nothing else has happened bar the cis/trans thing and appalling weather conditions, yeah?
It’s a very odd state of affairs when you could talk about your breasts pretty much all day long. I mean, I am breast-obsessed. I have mammenui. From waking up with them too full and spraying all over the place like a garden hose you’ve lost a grip on to offering them to close friends/relations saying plaintively, “But which would YOU say is the fullest?”, they’re kind of on my mind as much as they’re on my ribcage. If you think I’ve been talking about them and babies and that a lot, you have no idea how much I’ve reined it in. I delete so many tit-tweets before I’ve posted them it’s untrue, and that feeling of censoring myself on a social networking site feels pretty weird, I’ve never really done that before. Admittedly I will delete stuff that I decide doesn’t really sound like me, and I’ll never post a photo where I look hideous, leaving you with the decidedly inaccurate impression that I’m at least 15% more attractive than I actually am.
So, I’m probably a bit quiet but I’m figuring it out. On the plus side, I was a bit concerned that this doing a baby thing would lead to a huge identity crisis in real life, but happily that’s not the case. I may be feeling massively self-conscious about talking about it all online, but as for the rest of it, I feel really happy and content. I’m starting to have secret suspicions that I might actually be doing a half-decent job at this parenting lark, and am more entertained by my daughter than I thought possible. If nothing else, it’s a wonderful thing for a show-off like me, because where else am I going to find someone to fully appreciate all my shit jokes, wholly inaccurate impressions and badly choreographed dance routines? OH GOD, I’M GOING TO BE A COMPLETE NIGHTMARE, AREN’T I?