And so, the end is near, and then they raise the final curtain *cue sobbing*. For, lo, it was that even My So-Called Life had to come to an end. (Though at least we got seven runs, unlike our namesake which was cancelled after a season which I am STILL not over).
So, happy book birthday to me. And bye-bye Sad Ed, Scarlet, the Jack Stone Five, Grandpa Clegg and his Hammerited racist head, the all-consuming Dog, James and Mad Harry and the Ghost Hustlers and Beastly Boys, Mumtaz, Mrs Riley and her proscribed list and anti-wifi helmet, Justin Small Nipples Statham, Mr Big Nipples Vaughan, Fat Kylie and the Mr Whippy sex tape, Donkey Dawson and his saveloy penis, the saggy sofa of Palestine, Goth Corner Mark II, Uncle Jesus, Grandpa Riley and the child bride from Bolton, and Rachel. Who has been my alter ego for nine years now. But she’s all grown-up (ish) and it’s time to let her go. And get the hell out of Dodge. Or Saffron Walden. Which is so not like Dodge, but one can dream. And she sure as hell does that.
So here’s to The Time of My Life. It’s been very.