Census meme
Mar. 14th, 2011 10:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hawkwing_lb2011:
I am 24.75 years old. I live in a town an hour by train from Dublin city on the northernmost coast of Dublin county, with my mother and Vladimir the cat. I am reading for a research degree, trying not to self-sabotage too much, and not to let intermittent shitty depressive moods affect my behaviour. On the whole, I'm succeeding rather less well than I'd prefer.
I have a degree in ancient history and too much imagination. I write poetry. I try to be mindful. I try to fail better - or at least, fail differently.
Oh. And from this vantage, the progress of the global handcart service (destination: the hell of your choice) seems to have speeded up.
2001:
I am 14.75 years old. I have not yet been diagnosed with hypothyroidism. I have been living in this house for more than a year, in this area for almost a year and a half. (With my mother, and with Conch the cat, who is shortly to abandon us for the pleasures of living wild. Back then, there were still rabbits behind the back wall.) It is approximately seven months since I cut my hair from a long braid into the short crop I've had ever since. I attend a Catholic girls' school, where I will in four and a half more years continue not to succeed in making any particularly close friends. I shout at my grandmother a lot, because I haven't yet figured out how to deal with her peculiar views of the world. I am lonely in ways I do not know how to express. Field hockey, reading, and writing juvenile attempts at epic fantasy are my solace. Intermittently, I have black terrible moods, which in retrospect look to me a lot like the shitty depressive moods I still have now, except with more fury and screaming.
1991:
I am 4.75 years old. I live a set of steps away from Claremont Strand, in Howth, Co. Dublin, in a low bungalow that catches sea-spray on its windows when the wind gusts high and from the right quarter. My mother and my grandmother are co-resident. Our immediate neighbour and landlady is a retired doctor of elderly vintage with a passion for gardening. She does not like small children. We do not have a cat, but there are several in the neighbourhood, the vast majority made of evil. They, also, do not like small children. I attend a Montessori preschool in a - Portakabin? I think it was - on the grounds of St Mary's Anglican church, adjacent to Deer Park, the desmesne land attached to Howth Castle (I don't know if the hotel and golf course was there back then: probably), from where I retain a strong memory of learning to read and form simple words like "jug" and "cat", and finding them insufficiently challenging. If it were not for this particular memory, I would not recall a time before I read with reasonable fluency. My grandmother takes me walking beside Howth harbour, and in summer - I'm nearly sure it started that summer - we lie down on the grass beside the sailing club and find pictures in the sky.
I am utterly self-centred and, mostly, blissfully happy.
1981: I do not exist.
I am 24.75 years old. I live in a town an hour by train from Dublin city on the northernmost coast of Dublin county, with my mother and Vladimir the cat. I am reading for a research degree, trying not to self-sabotage too much, and not to let intermittent shitty depressive moods affect my behaviour. On the whole, I'm succeeding rather less well than I'd prefer.
I have a degree in ancient history and too much imagination. I write poetry. I try to be mindful. I try to fail better - or at least, fail differently.
Oh. And from this vantage, the progress of the global handcart service (destination: the hell of your choice) seems to have speeded up.
2001:
I am 14.75 years old. I have not yet been diagnosed with hypothyroidism. I have been living in this house for more than a year, in this area for almost a year and a half. (With my mother, and with Conch the cat, who is shortly to abandon us for the pleasures of living wild. Back then, there were still rabbits behind the back wall.) It is approximately seven months since I cut my hair from a long braid into the short crop I've had ever since. I attend a Catholic girls' school, where I will in four and a half more years continue not to succeed in making any particularly close friends. I shout at my grandmother a lot, because I haven't yet figured out how to deal with her peculiar views of the world. I am lonely in ways I do not know how to express. Field hockey, reading, and writing juvenile attempts at epic fantasy are my solace. Intermittently, I have black terrible moods, which in retrospect look to me a lot like the shitty depressive moods I still have now, except with more fury and screaming.
1991:
I am 4.75 years old. I live a set of steps away from Claremont Strand, in Howth, Co. Dublin, in a low bungalow that catches sea-spray on its windows when the wind gusts high and from the right quarter. My mother and my grandmother are co-resident. Our immediate neighbour and landlady is a retired doctor of elderly vintage with a passion for gardening. She does not like small children. We do not have a cat, but there are several in the neighbourhood, the vast majority made of evil. They, also, do not like small children. I attend a Montessori preschool in a - Portakabin? I think it was - on the grounds of St Mary's Anglican church, adjacent to Deer Park, the desmesne land attached to Howth Castle (I don't know if the hotel and golf course was there back then: probably), from where I retain a strong memory of learning to read and form simple words like "jug" and "cat", and finding them insufficiently challenging. If it were not for this particular memory, I would not recall a time before I read with reasonable fluency. My grandmother takes me walking beside Howth harbour, and in summer - I'm nearly sure it started that summer - we lie down on the grass beside the sailing club and find pictures in the sky.
I am utterly self-centred and, mostly, blissfully happy.
1981: I do not exist.
