Warning by Jenny Joseph
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

At 30, I decided I'd waited long enough. Nobody is going to be shocked my eccentric old lady habits.

I am unapologetic of my appearance, something I spent many years getting to achieve. I am finally comfortable in my skin, flubby bits and all. I have purple hair. I have several tattoos. My apartment is overstuffed with bookshelves. I own more books than clothes. Which is good because my fashion sense consists of t-shirts and jeans. Though these days I live in yoga pants because I am adult, she says as she stuffs more cake into her mouth. *nonomnomnom*

I have taken to hiding my book hoarding via kindle. This is a space saver but the smell isn't the same. My shelves are overflowing with enough sweet, sweet chaos to make a bookstagramer's eye twitch.

I live more of my life online than off.

Be it a sign of the modern age or what not, I have cultivated many friendships online through gaming and writing. I am an avid RPGer. The people I adore most are spread across the world. I don't have many friends in driving distance. It doesn't bother me as much as it used to. I still hold out hope for teleporting technology. I'm convinced the secret is cats. They seem to teleport under my feet whenever I'm walking with my arms are full.

I have grown comfortable with my writing style. I chase many plot bunnies. I juggle ten plots at once. It's how I roll. I have come to accept my mind spits out more story ideas than I shall ever be able to write. I know that is a blessing as much as it makes me sad. I wish I wrote faster, I wish humans had more time to create. I wish there more hours in a day. I am glad there aren't as most days I collapse in bed shortly after my kids.

My kids, my kids, my kids. More on them later. My life is richer with them in it. Some days my life is harder with them in it, through no fault of their own. Some nights, I lie awake, worrying about their future. Worrying about next year. Worrying about next week. My husband says I worry too much.

He is the stalwart practicality to my flippant whimsy.

I don't need to be the next JK Rowling, but someday I hope I can make just enough with my art that it is a little easier for us to get by.

I have come to realize my life decisions have left me few other options than writing or bust. Some days I wonder if I have any talent at all. Those days are no fun. I eat ice cream for breakfast on those days. I am fairly certain most writers have these days. Unless they are a sparkly unicorn. (Careful sparklers, Starbucks might hunt you down for the next technicolor frappuccino)

I can't draw for beans but I have a great admiration for artists. I secretly hope I will someday inspire fanart. I get super giddy when I receive fanart. There is girly squealing and everything.

I have memorized too many lyrics from sesame street songs. God dammit Elmo.

Everything's better with googly eyes.

Love and Squeaky Toys,

Krazydiamond