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Death's coming, and I'm still running.

I didn't want this to be hideously depressing, or consider it my venting post or whatever, but sometimes I suppose I'm going to want to utilize this and have it be somewhere I can actually write about how I feel about things. One of the things about the internet is that although there are millions of potential viewers, most of which you won't know, there will be the odd few people who actually know who you are and judge you for whatever content you put online.

Most of you know me from having stuck my life on the internet since I was 15, creating and deleting blogs, collecting social media accounts and now barely a day goes by that I don't post something, somewhere. If I'm absent from Instagram or Twitter for more than a few days, my Mum sends me a concerned text. She knows what the absence means. I always thought I'd wanted to be a presence, rather than an absence. But sometimes I wish I'd never gotten wrapped up in the internet world and instead spent time reading books and taking walks and being young and naive and meeting people rather than developing superficial keyboard relationships. I don't really know where I'm going with this. I suppose I'm just meant to be this person, that's always believed in the internet, and not a raw, pure, natural, technology-free girl. But anyway.

It's a horrible thing to say, that you feel like death is following you. But I genuinely believe it is.

I've died a fair few times in my life. I'm not sure how many, but I'm sure it's less than nine. I'm allergic to everything under the sun, and twice in the past week I've been much closer to death than I'd like to be. When I was young, I came up with a theory that I had nine lives, like a cat. That I'd die before I hit 30, or I would live forever. I'm not going to die at 27, like everyone else. I had a dream when I was little that I wouldn't die of life-threatening allergies. It'd be a freak accident, or it'd be cancer, and I'd be 28. I'm saying this lightheartedly, I'm not emotional about it. I know reading things like this is a bit sore for some people, but it isn't for me. I've spent enough time being sensitive that the only thing to do is be frank and, in a way, prepared. When living is as roundabout as dying my hair blue and ending up in a resuscitation ward with needles in my arms and a smile on my face for no apparent reason except pure body failure and rejection, to telling someone I feel like I'm going to die soon and having another scare the following day. I'm pretty sure I can see into the future. I dyed my hair blue. Now I've cut it all off.

I spend a lot of time thinking about people.