Birds do it, bees do it. Even educated fleas do it. Let’s do it. Let’s move in together to secure greater financial freedom in a housing market crisis. Moving in with your partner can be a joyous step in an intimate relationship. It can also be a terrible mistake. So how do you know which way the rental cookie will crumble? Lucky I’m here, eh?
I don’t write this blog alone in a darkened room. Instead, I alienate strangers at parties by asking them over cheese straws whether they feel lonely. Loneliness is a common human experience. It’s big in the ‘25-35 London house parties’ demographic. You voted on Twitter for the first topic in the ‘Big Scary Word’ series. Loneliness won by a landslide otherwise reserved for Russian presidents.
The world is shrinking. I’m just a simpleton without an astrophysics degree, so maybe it’s also expanding. Let’s all agree on this instead: we live inside the internet-machine now. The internet-machine laughs in the face of city walls. We co-exist with an online and offline life. Offline, moving around is easier than ever before. You can fly from New York to London in six hours. The barriers which traditionally separated communities are being eroded. “Cool, I didn’t realise I’d clicked on an A-Level Sociology essay, isn’t this meant to be about sex, mate?”
I didn’t start having good sex until my early twenties. I lost my virginity at sixteen, complying with government legislation on the matter. I’d wrongly been led to believe that if I consensually did the sex before my sweet sixteenth, a police squad accompanied by a Channel 4 film crew would burst through my door. I’d be behind bars, watching myself star in the fictional documentary “Britain’s Teens: Young, Dumb and Full of Cum”, probably narrated by Dr Christian Jessen.
The friend zone isn’t real. You can’t jump on the number 18 bus, ride six stops to the friend zone and buy yourself a KFC Zinger meal. The friend zone is a fairytale and KFC has run out of chicken. Welcome to the world, baby. For the benefit of those without Google and my wide-eyed mother, I’ll quickly describe the friend zone.
At primary school, friendships were easy. You befriended the person who sat next to you in registration. This secured your bond for the next seven years through the alphabetical order of the British schooling system. You slowly killed your Tamagotchis together. You traded Pokémon cards illicitly on the playground. You stole pick ‘n mix from Woolworths, thus ensuring the collapse of the franchise. Then, breasts, Twitter and iPhones happened. We’re not on the playground anymore, Dorothy.