“If you’re a bad writer, no one can help you become a good one, or even a competent one. If you’re good and want to be great… fuhgeddaboudit.” – Stephen King on writing
For late nights and bus rides in the dark, for rainy days, for the hours when you’re supposed to be asleep, for the times you feel sad, for the times you feel stressed, or for the times when you feel happy. For working hours at the local café or the school library, for strolling along the Thames or the park, for flying home. For heartbreaks, for reminiscing someone you once loved. For butterflies and blushing.
Being the youngest out of three sisters, I have always had a tendency to try to stand out in a way. The lastborn is said to be the most free-spirited, fun loving, manipulative and self-centred. I can honestly say that I do recognize myself in these statements, both good and bad.
Two years ago I applied to universities in London. One and a half year ago I dragged two heavy (and I mean HEAVY) suitcases with me on board a plane and landed in my new home country. Now, only one month away from being halfway through my bachelor degree, I’m proud to be as free-spirited and open for new things as I have grown up to be.
Self-centred. Not something I’m proud of, but I like to think that the extent of the ‘me, me, me’-syndrome decreases every day. Well, who am I kidding? Today’s society is build around a bunch of competing self-centred individuals, the majority from the ‘Me Generation’ that I’m born into. The generation where everyone strives to be the best, and the most perfect version of themselves. But let’s stick to the point, shall we? As a little girl, I loved to put up shows for my family. It almost always included singing, even though it is a well-known fact that no one in my family has been provided with a talent for song. But talent (or my lack of it) didn’t matter, as long as everyone’s eyes were fixed on me. Me me me.
If we continue the reminiscing from my childhood, I may as well point out my manipulative side. As daddy’s little girl, I’ve been used to get things the way I want. This is sadly the truth. I can’t recall how many times my older sisters have called me a brat. But isn’t that one of the perks of being the lastborn? I don’t claim twisting people around your little finger to get things your way is okay, but as the last born you will always be the last bird flying out of the nest, prevented by parents that is not quite willing to let you go yet. And with that comes a bit of pampering, even if you’d like to admit it or not.
It is almost frightening how I find my own personality in these statements of the last born in a flock of siblings. At the same time, it is quite fascinating how much the timing of your birth says something about you as a person.