Orange

Over the years, I’ve noticed many changes in myself.

It began with clearing the bedroom floor of its layer of clothes on a weekly basis rather than monthly and eventually turned into developing a strict work ethic which now sees me regularly switching the lights out behind me as I leave the office, alone in the dark.

Whilst these have been welcome changes, others have not, such as my newfound penchant for pastels and most disturbingly of all, my sudden delight in the colour orange.

There have always been personality wars taking place inside me, but lately their voices have all been getting louder, fighting for domination and today, when I picked up a loosely crocheted orange jumper and considered trying it on, I realised that Crazy Old Lady Bri (I mean, really crazy. “Smells like warm milk and loneliness” crazy) was far too close to the surface for any kind of comfort.

These personalities will forever jostle and shoulder each other out of the way and I occasionally indulge them all in their fifteen glorious minutes, but liking the colour orange is taking it all too far. I have many arch nemeses in my life, such as Tuesday, that hobo on the corner of Liverpool and Castelreagh streets and Peter Everett from Ready Steady Cook, but ever since I can remember, orange has been my arch nemesis colour. To suddenly turn my back on who I have been has shaken my world.

Tomorrow night, when Irresponsible 20’s Bri decides to drink a bottle of whiskey and ruin Mother’s Day with a hangover, I’ll probably change my mind about Crazy Old Lady Bri’s place in the world but I guess we can all take comfort in the fact that whichever Bri I happen to be whilst in your presence, there’s usually a different one waiting just around the corner, and if you hang around long enough, you’re sure to meet her. I’m not saying you’ll like her, but I can at least guarantee, she won’t be wearing orange.

However, she may still smell like warm milk and loneliness.

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