I grew up in a gnarled and violent town somewhere in the nether regions of Wales; surely, this dancing lark was the domain of leotard wearing dames or tutu wearing Lady-boys?
What matters to us left behind, to those of us who suffer from the same darkness, is how do we protect ourselves?
I felt sad to let go of being 42 as, at the very least, I felt important thanks to Douglas Adams and his meaning of life.
While writing is usually considered a wise and earthly pursuit, it actually revolves around sitting in your underpants while typing and spurning life completely.
The act of helping others is one of the few actions which can truly sum up the worth of a person. I mean, what else is there to do with your life?
All this does not mean that I intend to become a beret and skivvy wearing wanker who sits in the corner of dank coffee shops writing about the inequities of the world.
The shock of entering your forties has been and gone and the horror of entering your fifties is far enough away as to be attributable to someone else.
Hurt and loneliness are weights. They are heavy to lift, they make living difficult. Yet they make you stronger too, if you can survive them.