untypicable turns one on 2nd November — a Sunday, which already feels like a breach of etiquette. We don’t usually post at weekends, mostly out of respect for our collective sanity and the faint illusion of work-life balance.

But birthdays deserve exceptions. So here we are: slightly over-caffeinated, overdressed in metaphorical party hats, and pretending this was all part of the plan.

When we first launched untypicable, we weren’t sure what it would become. A blog? A magazine? A safe space for overthinking and tea-based existentialism? Apparently, yes. All of the above — depending on the phase of the moon and the strength of the Wi-Fi.

A year later, it’s still here. A bit lopsided, full of personality, and prone to picking up strange ideas and waving them around like toys. But somehow, it’s walking. Sort of. Sideways.

The Early Months: Teething and Technical Tantrums

They say new parents live in a fog of exhaustion and doubt. Running a blog is the same, except the baby is a web server and it screams in error messages.

In the early weeks, we learned a lot — mostly about plugins that break everything and SEO guides that read like spiritual tests of endurance. We fretted about “niche,” “tone,” and “engagement metrics,” before realising we could just write whatever amused us and call it editorial direction.

Each post felt like a developmental milestone:

• The first piece that didn’t make us cringe.
• The first that was read by someone we weren’t related to.
• The first spam comment congratulating us on our “excellent insights into cryptocurrency.”

Those were simpler times.

The Identity Crisis Phase

By month three, we’d developed the modern writer’s trinity of despair: impostor syndrome, analytics obsession, and the creeping suspicion we’d peaked with the homepage font choice.

We looked at other websites for guidance. They all seemed confident, professional, and horrifyingly consistent. Meanwhile, untypicable looked like a bright idea scribbled on a Post-it note and stuck to a teapot.

But then people started to get it. Not everyone, but enough. Readers who liked that we weren’t chasing trends or pretending to be lifestyle gurus — just three people quietly muttering about life, the universe, and uncooperative printers.

Apparently, relatability is the new expertise.

Parenting a Blog: The Toddler Years Begin

Now that untypicable has survived infancy, the terrible twos are looming. The site is walking unaided but bumping into things, experimenting with tone, and occasionally shouting NO! for no reason.

If it were an actual child, it would be eating crayons and insisting it could run a podcast. It’s confident, unpredictable, and slightly sticky with creative ambition.

We’ve read that the “terrible twos” are when toddlers start asserting independence — which, in blog terms, means we’ll probably ignore good advice and publish something called “An Ethnographic Study of Lost Socks.”

Lessons Learned: The Honest Ones

1. Consistency is overrated.
   Life happens. Some weeks we post twice; others, we stare at drafts like archaeologists examining disappointment. Both count as progress.
2. Ideas come in bursts.
   Inspiration isn’t a tap — it’s an unreliable kettle that hisses and occasionally floods the counter.
3. Everything takes longer than it should.
   Writing, editing, resizing images, rethinking everything, then doing it again slower.
4. Nobody knows what they’re doing.
   The best blogs are run by people who look confident while Googling “how to sound confident online.”
5. Success isn’t going viral.
   It’s when someone emails to say, “This made me laugh,” or when we reread something and don’t immediately regret it.

Analytics: Our Emotional Rollercoaster

Checking analytics is like stepping on the scales after Christmas. You know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help yourself.

Some days, the numbers spike — usually for inexplicable reasons (“how to untypicably fold laundry” remains a suspiciously popular search). Other days, it’s tumbleweeds.

But the truth is, we didn’t start this for the metrics. We started because we had things to say, jokes to make, and a shared sense that if we didn’t write them down, we’d end up shouting them at pigeons.

Besides, one genuine laugh from a stranger beats a thousand drive-by clicks any day.

What Nobody Tells You About Year One

No one warns you that running a blog is basically an emotional apprenticeship. You learn by doing, by breaking things, and by occasionally arguing about commas.

You’ll publish something you love and it’ll vanish without a trace. You’ll toss off a late-night rant and it’ll get shared 300 times. There’s no logic — only chaos, caffeine, and mild despair.

And occasionally, amid all that, you hit a sentence that just works. That’s the moment. That’s why you keep doing it.

The Terrible Twos Forecast

As untypicable enters its second year, the plan is simple: survive, evolve, and maybe fix that one image alignment issue we’ve all agreed to ignore.

The site will probably:

• Experiment more.
• Swear slightly more.
• Wander off-topic and insist it’s “conceptual.”
• Post at increasingly odd hours, because apparently, we’ve already started the toddler phase.

Publishing this on a Sunday feels symbolic — like the blog climbing onto the coffee table and shouting, “Look what I can do!” before collapsing in a pile of cake crumbs and enthusiasm.

Still No Idea, and That’s the Point

After a year of this, we’ve realised that not knowing what you’re doing is secretly a gift. It keeps you curious, humble, and occasionally hilarious.

Certainty is dull. Uncertainty is creative. And if we ever start to sound like we know what we’re doing, please assume we’ve been replaced by corporate doubles.

So here’s to another year of doing it wrong, accidentally doing it right, and writing through the bits in between. untypicable will keep growing — sideways, diagonally, and sometimes back into its own archive — but growing nonetheless.

And if the terrible twos bring chaos, at least we’ll have good material.

Closing Thoughts (Before We Throw a Tantrum)

Publishing on a Sunday feels rebellious. Wild, even. Tomorrow we’ll go back to pretending we have a schedule, but today, the blog gets to stay up past its bedtime.

If you’ve read, shared, or even accidentally clicked on untypicable this year — thank you. You’ve helped a strange little corner of the internet find its footing.

Year two will almost certainly be unpredictable. But then again, so are we.

Now if you’ll excuse us, we’re off to baby-proof the analytics dashboard before Dwight tries to install another plugin.

Regards, AJ, Dwight, & James.

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AJ Wright

AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.

As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.

AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.

For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in.  Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.

untypicable.co.uk

Pavement cracks are proof that even the universe has bad days. One minute, the asphalt is smooth, confident, and full of potential. The next, a tiny crack appears, and suddenly it’s all downhill—literally, if you’re pushing a pram on a slope. These little fractures start small, but they grow, multiply, and weave themselves into a chaotic web of tripping hazards, like they’re in a competition to outdo each other. And isn’t that just life?

Regret works the same way. A tiny mistake here, a poor decision there, and before you know it, you’re staring at the tangled mess of your life wondering if B&Q sells emotional filler. Spoiler alert: they don’t.

Cracks: Nature’s Way of Saying “Oops”

Have you ever really looked at a crack in the pavement? Not just tripped over it, cursed it, and moved on, but properly studied it? It’s like a tiny road map to nowhere. Some cracks are straightforward—a clean line, almost polite. Others? Pure chaos. They zigzag wildly like a toddler let loose with a crayon, no rhyme, no reason, just vibes.

Why do cracks even happen? The answer, apparently, is stress. The pavement expands in the summer heat, contracts in the winter cold, and eventually just says, “Nope, I’m done.” Honestly, relatable. If I were a slab of concrete, I’d crack too.

The Domino Effect of Regret

Regret is the emotional equivalent of a pavement crack. It starts small—a missed opportunity, an awkward comment at a party—and then it grows. You replay the moment in your head, wondering what would’ve happened if you’d just kept your mouth shut or said literally anything else.

Before long, that tiny regret has connected itself to every other bad decision you’ve ever made. It’s like a horrible join-the-dots puzzle, except instead of forming a cute picture of a bunny, it spells out, “Why are you like this?”

Patching Cracks and Pretending You’ve Got It Together

Humans are great at pretending things are fine, and pavement is no different. When cracks get bad enough, someone shows up with a bucket of tar and smears it over the problem like a cheap Band-Aid. It never matches, it always looks worse, but hey, at least they tried.

We do this with our regrets, too. Instead of addressing the root cause—like maybe not eating that third kebab—we slap on some emotional tar. “It’s fine,” we tell ourselves. “Everyone has a meltdown in Tesco’s frozen aisle once in a while.” Is it convincing? No. Does it stop the crack from spreading? Also no.

Cracks, But Make Them Philosophical

The thing about cracks, though, is that they’re weirdly beautiful. Step back far enough (like, really far—preferably with a coffee in hand so you look contemplative rather than lost), and you’ll notice the patterns they form. Some look like lightning bolts, others like tree branches, and a few—if you squint—like abstract art.

There’s something poetic about the randomness of it all, how a tiny fracture can grow into something both destructive and strangely elegant. It’s almost enough to make you think cracks have personalities. The timid ones stay small, minding their own business. The bold ones go rogue, creating elaborate networks that make pedestrians trip and toddlers cry. They’re like the rebels of the pavement world, refusing to conform to society’s expectations.

Regret Is Just Emotional Kintsugi

In Japan, there’s a beautiful art form called kintsugi, where broken pottery is repaired with gold. The philosophy is simple: cracks aren’t flaws; they’re part of the object’s story. If only we could apply the same logic to our regrets. Imagine looking at your worst mistakes and thinking, “Wow, that really adds character.”

Instead, we’re stuck with emotional duct tape—awkward apologies, half-hearted promises to “do better,” and the occasional drink to numb the embarrassment. It’s not glamorous, but it gets the job done. Sometimes.

When Cracks Get Sentient

Let’s be honest: if pavement cracks could think, they’d be smug little jerks. They’d take pride in tripping you up, ruining bike tyres, and causing minor but deeply personal inconveniences.

Picture this: you’re on a nice stroll, coffee in hand, minding your own business, when your foot catches on a crack. As you stumble, spilling your latte in a way that defies physics, you swear you hear the pavement whisper, “Gotcha.” You’d complain, but what would be the point? The crack would probably just spread out of spite.

The Crack-Back Guarantee

Here’s the real kicker: cracks never really go away. Sure, you can patch them, fill them, even replace the entire slab, but give it time and they’ll be back, smugger than ever. It’s like they know they’re inevitable.

Regret works the same way. You can apologize, learn from your mistakes, and vow to do better, but some regrets linger, popping up at 3 a.m. to remind you of that thing you said in 2008. You can’t fix it; you can only accept it and hope no one else remembers.

Learning to Live with the Cracks

If there’s one thing pavement cracks and regret teach us, it’s that imperfection is unavoidable. No matter how much you plan, prepare, or overthink, life has a way of cracking under pressure. The key is to stop obsessing over the flaws and start appreciating the patterns they create.

So the next time you trip over a crack in the pavement, take a moment to look at it. Study the way it branches out, its jagged lines and unexpected turns. It’s not just a crack—it’s a story, a mark of resilience, a reminder that even the strongest surfaces can falter.

And when your own regrets sneak up on you, try to see them the same way. Sure, they’re inconvenient, occasionally painful, and sometimes downright embarrassing, but they’re also proof that you’ve lived, made choices, and survived the consequences.

Walking the Cracked Path

Life isn’t about avoiding cracks—it’s about learning to laugh when you trip over them. So embrace the imperfections, the regrets, and the pavement that’s out to get you. After all, a smooth path is boring. It’s the cracks that make the journey interesting.

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James Henshaw

James Henshaw is a brooding Geordie export who swapped the industrial grit of Newcastle for the peculiar calm of Lincolnshire—though he’s yet to fully trust the flatness. With a mind as sharp as a stiletto and a penchant for science-tinged musings, James blends the surreal with the everyday, crafting blogs that feel like the lovechild of a physics textbook and a fever dream.

Equally at home dissecting the absurdities of modern life as he is explaining quantum theory with alarming metaphors, James writes with the wit of someone who knows too much and the irreverence of someone who doesn’t care. His posts are infused with a dark humour that dares you to laugh at the strange, the inexplicable, and the occasionally terrifying truths of the universe—whether it’s the unnerving accuracy of Alexa or the existential menace of wasps.

A figure of mystery with a slightly unsettling edge, James is the sort of bloke who’d explain the meaning of life over a pint, but only after a dramatic pause long enough to make you question your own existence. His wit cuts deep, his insights are sharp, and his ability to make the surreal feel strangely plausible keeps readers coming back for more.

For introverts like myself, life in an extrovert-dominated world is an adventure in quiet endurance. When everyone around you seems to be recharged by the same social events that drain you, everyday life can feel like a funny, yet exhausting, contradiction. From sidestepping awkward small talk to the art of stealthy exits, being an introvert comes with its own set of unique (and sometimes downright hilarious) challenges.

The Unending Battle of Small Talk

Picture this: you’re at a social gathering, and a friendly acquaintance heads your way, already radiating energy. The weather? Work updates? What’s new? Cue your internal dialogue scrambling to keep up. “Do I comment on the weather? Or… ask about their cat? Wait, do they even have a cat?”

Small talk for introverts can feel like an Olympic event—it’s draining, requires strategy, and usually leaves you feeling like you need a good nap afterward. And while extroverts seem to glide through the chit-chat, you’re left wondering, “Can I just…nod? Would they notice if I just nodded?”

The Art of the Stealthy Exit

If there’s one skill introverts develop early, it’s the silent exit. Big, boisterous farewells that involve all kinds of hugging and fanfare? Not quite the introvert style. In fact, “ghosting” can feel like a necessary skill.

There’s a certain thrill in successfully making it to the door unnoticed. No long goodbyes, no explaining why you’re leaving early—it’s a covert victory. The irony, of course, is that you’re the only one who sees it that way. Extroverts, on the other hand, might need multiple farewells and goodbyes at the door. As for me? I’ll be home in pyjamas by the time they’re done.

The “Social Hangover” After Every Outing

The social hangover is very real. Extroverts leave a party with energy to spare; introverts leave needing 48 hours of pure, undisturbed solitude. It’s not that introverts don’t enjoy socializing—it’s just that it comes with a price. For every hour spent out and about, at least two hours of downtime are required to recharge.

Your ideal post-party recovery? A cozy blanket, a good book, or a Netflix binge that requires no interaction whatsoever. Bonus points if you don’t have to check your phone.

Phone Calls: The Ultimate Source of Anxiety

For introverts, the words “I’ll call you” might as well mean “I’ll give you a full-blown anxiety attack.” The unpredictability of a phone call—someone’s voice suddenly in your ear, expecting a response, and there’s no way to read body language—can be stressful.

And then there’s the age-old introvert tradition of letting the phone ring out, hoping it goes to voicemail, so you can just…text back. Nothing beats the beauty of a written message, where you can think before you “speak.” Extroverts may never understand the sigh of relief when a call goes unanswered.

Group Activities: The “Why Can’t We Just Hang Out Alone?” Dilemma

Sometimes, you’ll make a new friend who loves group outings, parties, or game nights, and you’ll find yourself smiling awkwardly as they invite you to a “group hang.” You’d probably prefer a quiet coffee date with just the two of you, but no, now you’re at a full-blown gathering with ten strangers talking over each other.

This scenario tends to lead to internal monologues that go something like, “Why didn’t I suggest a one-on-one hangout? Will they notice if I just quietly slip away?” And while extroverts might jump into the chaos, you’ll likely hover at the edges, hoping for a quieter way out.

The Relentless Need for “Alone Time”

One of the hardest things for introverts in an extrovert’s world is explaining the need for alone time. It’s a core part of who you are, but to the untrained eye, it can look like antisocial behaviour. Extroverted friends will say, “Come on, we’ll have a blast!” while you’re thinking, “Yes, but also… no.”

Your friends might not understand it, but alone time is sacred. It’s the quiet retreat after an exhausting day, where the only voices you hear are your own (and possibly the ones in a good book or podcast).

Networking Events: A Special Kind of Torture

Nothing brings out the introvert sweat quite like networking events. Picture it: a crowded room filled with unfamiliar faces, all intent on making “connections.” For an introvert, this scene is the stuff of nightmares. The idea of walking up to strangers and starting conversations that “build rapport”? Yikes.

Extroverts often see networking as an adventure, a place to collect new contacts like trading cards. Introverts, on the other hand, are secretly praying for a fire alarm or some equally valid excuse to cut the event short.

The Creeping Death

Whether it is in the office, or as part of some social or community group, that bit when you all meet up and it goes round the table with everyone telling you about what they have been doing, what they are going to be doing, and generally updating everyone, the slow creep of death approaches. Trying to make yourself sound like you have been as busy as everyone else has been, scrambling to find something new to say when you have been happy doing the same-old same-old.

The creeping death creeps ever closer, and the panic rises…

The Difficulty of Saying “No”

Introverts aren’t exactly known for their love of confrontation, so declining invitations can be challenging. Extroverted friends, ever eager, will assume you want to join every plan, every time. But introverts are quite skilled in the subtle art of dodging without explicitly declining.

You might find yourself saying, “I’ll see if I can make it,” knowing full well you’ll spend that evening curled up at home. And even though there’s often a pang of guilt, you know that taking time for yourself is what you need. Plus, your real friends will understand.

The Struggle to Avoid Eye Contact

You know that feeling when you’re walking down the street, see someone you know from a distance, and instantly start calculating how to avoid interaction? Introverts have mastered the art of “not noticing” people. It’s not out of a lack of affection; it’s a survival mechanism.

Eye contact with someone you know (or someone who might start a conversation) often triggers the instinct to look busy. Maybe you’ll fake a text, pretend you’re in a hurry, or take a sudden interest in nearby architecture. Anything to avoid the dreaded small talk.

The Dilemma of “Extrovert Friends”

Being friends with an extrovert is like having a personal event planner who refuses to take “no” for an answer. They’re wonderful and loyal but also relentless in their quest to “bring you out of your shell.” They’ll schedule outings, parties, and adventures without hesitation, and for them, the best part is dragging you along.

You’ll appreciate their enthusiasm, but also wonder if there’s a way to support them without joining every event. Maybe send a fruit basket to the party in your place?

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AJ Wright

AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.

As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.

AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.

For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in.  Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.

untypicable.co.uk