I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking the country must be in seriously deep shit if fun-pokers and gals about town like me feel the need to air their views about the State Of The Nation.

Truth be told, until now, I left the mulling over current affairs to my mates in politics and news reporting. I pay my taxes. I vote. I (mostly) keep out of the way of the law. If I choose to spend my spare time discussing Kanye’s beautiful dark twisted fantasy, as opposed to Cowen’s, that’s my prerogative.
Unfortunately, as of November 24, I can’t help but re-evaluate my place as an Irish citizen.
Ireland – you’ve been swell.
Irish Government – you’ve not been so kind.
In my first year in college, my classmates and I were told it’d be near impossible for us to get work when we graduated. That was three years before the word “recession” had been smeared across the faces of the nation. By the time I got my degree, friends who had left school at 15 had a brighter-looking future than I did. 
Uncle Scam hasn’t neglected me totally. I got a small grant during college and when I was only able to get part time work, I received about €80 a week from my local Social Welfare office (who, by the way, still owe me around 1,500 smackers, but hey, if ever there was a case for Dropping The Debt...)
Still, I feel punished. By rising taxes, by rapidly diminishing public services, by the look on my mate’s face when I offer to loan her a few bob – and on my Mam’s when I ask the same of her.
I didn’t benefit from the boom. I didn’t pick the Government that got us into this ginormous mess. I didn’t do anything wrong.
So why do I feel an invisible force shoving me out of the place I’ve called home all my life?
By the time this issue hits the news stands I’ll be on a plane to New York, clutching onto a ticket purchased for me by my clever older sister, who jumped ship way back in 1999. For the first time ever, I really don’t want to come back.
As if the crummy weather wasn’t already persuading me to set up shop in another country (I used to think “Hey, why don’t I get outta this ice box and move to Miami?”; now I think “Hey, why don’t I get outta this ice box and move to Moscow?”), there are a lot of reasons to leave Ireland right now. 85 billion reasons, actually.
I don’t want to reach my thirties and wonder: “Why did I work so hard for so long to help pay to rebuild a government that screwed things up for me and my peers in the first place?”
As a 23-year-old single female, I’m used to getting mixed messages. Right now, the State is sending me a Dear John letter. “I don’t give a damn how talented and hard-working you are,” it screams, as it shoves a fiftieth snow ball in my face, “or that you break your behind trying to stay positive and inspire positivity in others. I’m just going to keep sending curveballs your way.”
Over the last two years, going-away parties have taken the place of birthday parties and housewarmings. My group of friends has halved in size, and halved again.
I count myself very lucky to be able to make a living out of speaking to and writing about artists whose music genuinely excites me. But lots of these wonderful men and women have just as strong an impetus to bail out (pun intended) as I do.
And what then? The rise of the one-man band? An ASIWYFA solo show? DJ sets from the guy who fell on RTÉ news last winter? 
This month, Twitter was all a flutter with #ImOuttaHere and #ImNotLeaving hashtags.
For now I’m sticking with this:
#ImNotLeaving because I love my country, the chocolate is top notch and I derive great pleasure from doing things that people say cannot be done. 
And hey, I’d miss the choons.
Still, if nothing changes for the better around here, I might just change my mind…