When I was younger, I read an article that in a nutshell said that you should have your life together by the age of 25. I know, right? So after that, I basically went about my life trying to get everything in order by that big quarter of a century milestone – get successful, climb out of the overdraft, and find a smokin’ hot boyf that wasn’t a crotchfruit. Easy peasy, I had five or so more years.
Fast forward to a few months before said birthday, and it couldn’t be more opposite. Broke, bored, and my only relationship was with Damon Salvatore (but I was – and still am – extremely invested in it). Not ideal.
That’s when I met you. Home of the frivolous and free, the fun-loving and the risk-taking, you were exactly what I needed. You showed me that ain’t nobody got time for getting all “responsible” in their twenties, instead we should be living life for what it is, and enjoying every up, down, twist and turn. You showed me the true meaning of that age old saying – not to get too caught up with making a living, that you forget to make a life. Basically, you got me all philosophical and shizz.
I’ll always remember the weekend we shared together, wandering your streets lit by twinkling fairy lights in the darkness, cruising lazily down your winding canals, sampling your finest beer, giggling over cheeky space cakes and giant genitalia, and ogling my favourite musicians in intimate music venues. You romanced me with your unique architecture and surprised me with culture around every corner, always making me want to come back for more. You welcomed everyone in with open arms, whatever nationality and whatever activities they enjoyed, and eliminated all judgement.
You broke down my walls and opened my mind, and for that I’m forever grateful. Our relationship was short and sweet, but you got me good, and it’s only a matter of time before we meet again.
Lots of love,