Forever the party animal.

                

I don't want to miss a single second of it. A breath, a smile, a grin or grimace. A tear resentfully shed. A punch-up, a drunken night, a brawl, a conversation, an inside joke. I have the ultimate bad habit. I have the Fear Of Missing Out. Symptoms of which include; not being able to say the word "no" forcefully or meaningfully, declining any social arrangements that will cost you money you simply don't have, or turning down an invitation just because you can't bare to miss out on the excitement. 

I hate it. I HATE staying in when all my friends are at the pub drinking vodka. I HATE having to decline invitations to things I really want to go to. I HATE the feeling of regret when everyone you know goes out/makes plans/does something without you, and spends a considerable, somewhat obscene, and not to mention, insensitive amounts of time talking and reminiscing about it. 

This is why I have no self control. I would rather I didn't get invited somewhere than knowing I'd have to decline the invite altogether. I need to work on that. I keep choosing tequila over essays and sambuca over studying. Uh-oh. 

Penning down life.

Radio One is playing in my ear, as I sit cross-legged on my bed, and the smell of food drifts into my bedroom from downstairs. I think it's Biffy Clyro and Bastille doing a cover. Playing I mean, not cooking in my kitchen. My dad's making lasagne. I am suppressing my deep stomach rumbles as I continue to type. I'm on a writing mission, as I explained a few posts ago. I need to beat last year's post record. Also, I somehow believe that writing and publishing snippets of my writing, whether it be random head-space typing on the bus home after a long, rubbish day at uni, or drunk 2am notes made on my phone, a creative piece or just a rant, or a list or something, in the long run, maybe it will make me more organised.
I've got to work on my ECP/CWP: it depends which uni you attend, some call it an Extended Creative Project, while others, including my Uni, know it and refer to it as a Creative Writing Project. Either way, it's a project I write myself, creatively. A story. A plot. A narrative piece of my own brainwork. Whatever, its a creative writing dissertation. As far as some are concerned, its slanderous. I should be writing my own, English Literature dissertation. Well, I stick two fingers up to those people, because this thing is bloody hard work, and I'm trying.

So yes. Back to my point. I told you, I tend to wander, both physically and mentally, from time to time. Maybe it makes for good writing, but at the grand old age of 21, I'm yet to know either way.

I should be using my Thursday evening for something constructive or organised. Instead, lucky me!!! I'm off out for food with my lovely boyfriend. I'm very excited about this, because as everyone knows, I LOVE food, and even more so, I LOVE going OUT for food. (hence the really bad caps.)

Maybe no one even reads this. I'm a bit frantic, and sometimes, I write for an imagined audience. Although, I must say, I hope there's someone in that void. Someone reading my mad rants, drunken outbursts and occasional attempts of real writing. Let me know, whoever you may be. I'll be ever so grateful.

Definitely.

"I never could do handstands," I told him, as he was tying my shoe laces. He stopped for a moment, looked up at me and smiled.

"Well you better learn."

I giggle heartily, and feel my cheeks begin to burn. His dark eyes are hidden behind his thick lashes, but I know he sees it too. The heat between us. It's suffocating almost. As I sit a metre away from him, suddenly too aware of my scruffy pair of converse, I can't breathe quietly enough. There's something unsaid between us. My laugh faded and embarrassment sets in. I don't know whether he's being coy, or maybe whether he really does think I'm an idiot.

'Definitely, an idiot.' I think aloud.

He breaks the silence by clearing his throat. I meet his gaze and he grins at me, a soulful, happy grin. And the next thing I know, his hand is in mine. My fingers curled around his, and the edges of my mouth are pointing upwards in amazement and glee.

"Your laugh is wonderful, Em."
"Really? You think so? I always kinda hated it."
"Definitely."

Once.

We go home every day with memories filling up our pockets and photos hidden in our irises and no one ever seems to notice. The days pass and the nostalgia lies behind your eyelids and the important things lurch in the safety of your carefully entwined rib cage. The things we don't say are forcefully choked back; the things that were once on the tip of your tongue become uncomfortably lodged in your throat and the daily conversations become difficult and stifled. The things we never said mount up. Eventually, they become the things we will never say again. At all, or to each other. 

A tear pricks my cheek, and my chest feels hollow. I'd never felt that before and I knew then, I'd never feel it again. And thank god. There was something comforting in that. In knowing that I could only go through this once. 

Behind.

             

Gosh, I'm a rubbish writer when I'm happy. I always say that. I can't write when I'm caught up in my own lovely life with a grin on my face and a spring in my step. But instead, it's when I'm at my lowest that I manage to do some of my most heartfelt writing. Weird, and kind of awkward too. 

Hence my dilemma. I've just noticed my blog count for 2014. At the minute it's 105 posts short of 2013's. Fair enough, last year was my first year of blogging, but still. This year's is a poor effort, and for funny, happy reasons. 

I've found myself too preoccupied with the good things in my life to stop for breath and time to type something up. Okay. It's 23:56 on Wednesday 29th October. As part of my CWP for uni, I intend to smash last year's blog count. 105 to go to level it. Ish. Some more to out-do it. In under two months.

Let's do this. I'll write everything. This is my blog. And it's what I'm supposed to do. Especially if I'm going to be a writer someday.

9.

this time nine months ago, I was very probably drunk, hungover, or planning on being drunk within a few hours. It was January. It was freezing. I drank a lot. A lot changed in about three weeks. There was Christmas celebrations surrounded by family, the New Year blow-out, lots of catch-ups and I finally got together with one of my best friends, after a good seven months of complications, drunken nights and lots of revelations.

Nine months yesterday, we were official. And by that, I mean Facebook Official. I hate that. I hate that its even a thing now, but apparently, that makes it real. Disgustingly public, but its okay. It's daft, but nine whole months for me means something unbelievable. It means a lot. An investment of time, energy and feelings. I'm not ashamed to say that at the age of 21, it is the longest, and only real relationship I've ever had. So yes, it means more than I can say.

You all are probably shrugging your shoulders thinking that nine months does not count as a milestone, ever. I've been reminded of this a few times today. I guess its more of a personal thing anyway. It doesn't matter to me what anyone else may say. I'm happy. I'm in a relationship with my best friend. He makes me laugh like no one else. I trust him with my life, and honestly, I'm not sure what I'd do without him sometimes.

Moody.

A strong cup of coffee and some stodgy comfort food always cheers me up. I like my carbs. When I'm feeling low, put Friends on repeat and hand me some chocolate, preferably Galaxy. I have a sugar dependency. I get grouchy when my sugar is low. Sometimes, I really just do need to be left alone to sleep, read or just blast some music. I'm a girl, I will spend time hating myself. Disliking the way I look and feeling rubbish about the reflection in the mirror. But there's someone who can tolerate my moods, my cynicism, moodiness and defeatist ways. Bare with me, it's only a day. I'll snap out of it soon enough. With enough coffee, chocolate, and the right person's company.