This is the story of one Cambridge boy, who, despite all his privileges, felt betrayed by the world. He saw destruction in every corner of his life. He lost all he thought he could ever love, so he fell to his knees and asked God, "Why must you punish me? I'm far too handsome to not be in magazines!"

But God said nothing to me, so I resigned to my room and scrolled, weeping, to the bottom of my Instagram. I clicked furiously through every one of my tagged photos and learned nothing about myself. I asked every girl I’ve ever slept with to rate my performance, and the results were horrifying. I watched Mad Max: Fury Road with my mother to learn what masculinity means. I read the top twelve pieces of relationship advice from How I Met Your Mother on Buzzfeed. I threw out my 2-in-1 and bought separate shampoo and conditioner. I listened to Jerskin Fendrix every day for a month. I googled myself so many times, I started trending. I read back my love letters to southeastern French villages, and knew that I was really just writing about you. I was so busy trying to understand who I was that I forgot my dog's birthday; I'm sorry, Dylan. I woke up every day and had to re-remember all that had been taken from me. Like the whole of Groundhog Day combined with just the second half of 50 First Dates

And at one moment, I never felt more like I wanted to die in my life. And in the next moment, I never felt more like I needed to try in my life. To be who I know I could be. To be an outrageous rock and roll icon. To be a masterful lover. To be the best dressed guy in this Shoreditch venue. To be on the cover of So Young magazine in collage form. To be a well-regarded DJ of rare techno on vinyl only. To be the hero of my dope childhood dreams

So I put on fresh socks and a Kanye West album, and went to find my next calling, to turn the page in the book of my life. I bought a coffee table book about minimalism, and a new sweater. I cut my own hair badly and started using face scrub. I unfollowed every girl who posted pictures of healthy meals, and every girl who posted pictures of happy meals. I’m sorry, Henry. I gave myself a hilarious name on Facebook. I pretended to not know who Lil Yachty was. I told everyone I'd met that I'd never seen Black Mirror. I threw out my bedframe, and put my mattress on the floor. I destroyed my aeropress and started drinking instant coffee. I acted like I knew nothing about craft beer. I bitched about every group in South London. I am sorry, Sorry

And as I started to define myself purely by the things I hated, I knew I had become the antithesis of my 2016 manifesto. I was so lost in my plight to exist, that I forgot to live, and I forgot to love. And so learn from me, children. Be better than I am! Vanity plagues me, but it's not too late for you. I love you. Good night