This is the last post on bloodycomplaining.com. It’s had a good run, and my intent was sound – to complete and entire year of daily complaints, without repetition or hesitation – but I failed at the start of the seventh month.

Seven months of complaints isn’t bad going. Seven months in which I cast my baleful eye at the sky, flipped open the iPad, cracked my fingers and considered who or what was on the shitlist for the day. At the start, it wasn’t hard. Complaints, moans and whines rolled out of me as easily as they did when confronted with friends at parties.

But seven months down the line,it became a chore. I’d leave the site for days at a time, and then hurriedly backfill to cover my absence. The last gap was a month, and every day my Omnifocus reminder would stare out at me from the little icon on my iPad,and I’d consider it then shudder and do something else.

Yesterday I deleted that task, and decided to stop with the charade. I have been unable to complain for quite some time now, and I’ve become increasingly aware of what I sound like when I do complain. It’s not entertaining, or attractive, or even remotely interesting anymore.

My friends followed my daily posts on Facebook, and then one by one the fans stopped commenting. Then one day I let the barrier between what was intensely personal and what was ripe for consumption publicly slip, and it took several deleted comments and posts and a bit of tidying up to rectify, during which I felt like a fool.

When one gets to the point that a hobby becomes a chore, and careful consideration has to be applied to whatever I write, then in turn the site became a task rather than fun. I write a lot for work. I don’t want to consider the need to do more work when I get home.

This site became work, and the fun stopped. It’s a hobby that turned into an experiment and now the experiment is over.

I have a day off from work. I’d love to spend this day being creative and doing all my personal little projects, but my brain feels gummed up and I can’t do anything.

I really don’t want to waste a day.

Today I turn 42 years of age.

Although I don’t really feel 42, I suspect that’s because I have no term of reference, rather than the fact that I feel young and sprightly (which I don’t).

These trainers look cool, and I love them. Pity they express their love for me by mangling my feet, though.

Look, my Facebook experience is being ruined by this. You may think these ‘inspirational’ pictures are great, and feel the need to post them on your wall at the time, but they are tedious and insipid and meaningless.

And they block out any real news I may have from my facebook friends, which is sadly lacking at the moment.

What? I’m sitting in a restaurant, you’re the waitress, and I just ordered some food. It didn’t appear to be that odd, so why are you looking at me like I’ve just grow two heads?

Woah. I came here for a cup of coffee but my experience is ruined by your piercing, nasal voice.

You’re sitting across a tiny table from your friends; you don’t have to shout.

Why is it I can have hundreds of good ideas when I’m supposed to be doing something else, but the minute I have some free time to actually do projects of my own, they disappear out of my mind?

Dear child on the train demanding your ‘Grandpa Money’:

Your father may think its terribly sweet for you to be a total brat and be incredibly rude to him in public, especially when demanding money, but by god I wouldn’t have put up with it. Think yourself lucky that total strangers are allowed to admonish other people’s children.

I appreciate the fact that you visit in a group, even a small family group, and it’s hard to remain in conversation if some of you are behind each other.

That doesn’t give you licence to walk alongside each other, blocking the pavement, and then glare at me when I have to barge past you to walk down the road.