My Beautiful Friends… or Why turning 31 isn’t so bad

I’m not always a great friend. I spent a lot of time inside my own head; my demons are loud and easily persuade me that everyone in my life merely tolerates me, and that no one actually enjoys my company. “Quite right!”, I think “I don’t like me much either”. Which is why, when the people I secretly love (but can never tell, in case they reject me), do something kind, something thoughtful, I can’t easily find the words to thank them appropriately.
This birthday, a year I was hoping would pass by unmarked as I hurtle towards my mid-thirties, my Beautiful Friends clubbed together to buy me the vintage typewriter in the photo. Not being able to carry it all the way to Berlin, where we happened to be, they gifted me my present in the form of riddles. “What has many letters, that can’t be sent?”, “What has a ribbon, that is not wrapped around it?”, “What has hammers, but no nails?”, “What has keys, but no door?”.
I’m still unable to put into words just how touched I was by the present, and by the method in which they gave it to me. What a joy to have friends who know me so well, who are so free with their affections, so open with their love. I feel very blessed. I vow to try harder.


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