Mass of negatives.

Lately, I seem to have given up with regards to my degree. I don't know what I'm doing with it, and I'm struggling. The assignments get me stressed and get me down. I cry. I honestly am not ashamed to say it. My writing is dwindling, my skill isn't even really there, and I feel like I'm totally lost. Whatever I started out to do seems to have vanished from my view. My friends are making plans for after this (final) year and I don't know where to start. The passion once in my eyes seems to have fizzled out. I'm passive, apathetic and maybe, just maybe I want to want something simple. 

I sometimes sit and curse the fact I've aimed for something better in life. I look at my family and want to make them proud. But at the same time, I have a lot of respect for them. I see what hard work does, but in turn, what it does to people. I want to make something of myself, for my family, as well as for me. But what? Writing is a stupid aim, I curse myself saying. What can I write? A journalistic article? I don't know enough. I'm too opinionated on things nobody wants to read about. I don't have the concentration or the skill to write a novel, and even then, that's hardly a livelihood to sit on. I need to get my act together and my arse into gear. 

But lately, I have my home ties more than ever. I want to stay close, my family are everything to me, and things at the minute need praying for. My 'career' or whatever that is/may come to be, is on the  back bench. I'm sick of everyone telling me to plunge myself into a career. WHY DOES EVERYONE THINK I'D WANT TO BE A TEACHER?! 

Stressed, bored, apathetic, lost drive. No enthusiasm. Winter blues, we meet again. 

Getting Noticed.

okay, I've fell into the habit of neglecting my blog again. Shit. For a few reasons I won't go into at the moment, but I have, and that's pretty rubbish. So basically, I'm calling out to any bloggers, no matter who you are, what kind of blog (if you even categorise it at all) you write, or whatever your interests are, to help me. I'm totally dense when it comes to technology, and I'm not sure where to start. I've been blogging for a while now, and I still don't understand all these different forums and blogging sites.

Translation: which is/are good blogging sites, or connecting sites, that can get my blog read by a wider audience? If anyone can recommend some, or just one or two, and a bit of a demo as to how to use it, that would be great. I feel like I'm missing out on so much blogging, and on different blogging communities, because of this.

Any help would be widely appreciated.
Either comment, or tweet me; @Eleanorward_ :)
big thanks.
x

Departure.

In less than 48 hours, I'll be departing Newcastle airport and arriving in Ibiza. The pilot will announce over the receiver the local time and the temperature outside, and be greeted with a few hundred passengers all cheering happily. Excitement brews. Prospects are all over the place. A week, two weeks? Ten days? All of these people have something in common, a holiday destination. And yet, they'll all have very different holidays. 

A girly holiday is our chosen plan. Betty, Steph, Sarah and myself are ready to hit the white isle for a second battering after last year's drunken antics. This time, with a little bit more money, a year's worth of preparing our livers, and an even more desperate need for a tan. 

This time however, things are different. I'm excited to go away, but there are things pulling my back. Ties I've made. Things I don't want to leave, not even for seven days. Excitement in the air, a tear in my eye and euros in my purse, I'm ready. Well, okay, that's a lie. My suitcase isn't even packed. The flight is Monday afternoon. I literally finished shopping for stuff today. I'm very, very disorganised and it's totally not like me, at all. My camera isn't free of photos, my iPod isn't stocked up with new songs, my money isn't properly sorted. I'm out of sorts. It hasn't quite hit me properly that I'm actually going away. Part of me still thinks it should be January or something. Madness. Let it begin.

'The Abyss.'

So, this is the piece I originally wrote for my blog, and then frantically deleted, revamped totally, and submitted for my Creative Writing Assignment for Uni. This, as I'm posting now, is the end version. (PS. I just got 65% for this assignment, and I'm very chuffed about it.) This is my favourite piece of writing to date, and for some reason, I cannot explain my attachment to it. It was very difficult to write. Harder to watch it get put under scrutiny. But, that's all over. Here it is.

 

                                    The Abyss.                    

 

‘The abyss looks back.’

 

She knew what that was like. Waking up every single day and resenting each breath that is snatched unwillingly from your lips. A crushing feeling that made your lungs tight and your face sour and blank. She coped, nevertheless. In the darkest places of her mind, were hidden the worst things imaginable, her very own Pandora’s box. For Molly knew what it was like, to look the abyss straight in the eye, to scream into an echoing void, to cry for help and her voice to be muffled. She was trapped. More than that, she was her own prisoner. The sharp corners of her mind, her cranium of torment. When she tried to break out of the never ending cycle that was her life, she was always caught with a fist clutching at her wrist, pulling her back, maintaining her consciousness for now. Then of course, there was Nicky. He was her rock, her crutch, her man-made safety-net. It was as if their ribcages were suitably entwined like an intricate, yet robust spider’s web, keeping them both alive. Most days, Nicky was the only reason she got out of bed, the one constant in her chaos. Blood ran through both their veins in rhythmic parallels.

----------------------------------------------------------------

I walked towards her street. Immediately, I spotted her. Molly sat on the window ledge of Victoria’s B&B, a dated old place. It was a hot day, in the height of summer. She was precariously balanced. Half a bottle of cheap vodka in her left hand, the neck of the bottle clutched between her fist clumsily. She kept taking a swig every so often, but never winced once. In her other hand, between her thumb and forefinger, she held a nail varnish brush. She was painting her toe nails, a mucky black colour. She had her right leg bent, touching her chest so she could access her toes more easily when applying the varnish. Her other leg was stretched out as far as she could, her ankle resting on the outer ledge, with her foot just dangling in mid-air, carelessly. She kept tapping her feet, and her anklet rattled every time. The window behind her was jammed open. The radio was playing ‘Sweet Caroline’ and she sang along to it, badly. Her favourite song. The bottle of nail varnish, cheap stuff and almost dried up with frequent usage, was balanced on the ledge alongside her.

 

Molly was heavily made up, with dark black eyes which made her face appear harsh and frustrated. Hers are the kind of eyes that you never forget. Wondrous, haunting almost. Her fingernails wore the same gaudy black nail varnish, bitten back so far that her fingertips shone red raw. There was very little remaining nail varnish on her fingers. She was totally spaced out, drunk, high. Occasionally she scraped her blonde hair back with one swift motion of her hand. Her hair was lank and messy. She sang along to the radio. As the song reached the chorus, she took another huge swig from the bottle of vodka. The second time, she was too busy singing to the music that she missed her mouth and the vodka spilled down her front. She didn't acknowledge it, that is, if she even noticed. Getting carried away with the music, she stretched her once-bent leg out, withdrawing it from its neat nook in her chest, knocking the nail varnish off the ledge and making her catch the brush on her knee. It left a dirty stripe on her bare leg.

 

“Shit!” she swore too loudly, as the bottle hit the concrete below and smashed.

The chorus of the song returned for one final time, as she took an even bigger swig than before, and sang at the same time. At that moment, she noticed me. I’d been standing just metres away, watching her, a witness to her own little nightmare. Her eyes became fixed on my outline.

“NICKYYYYYYYY!” she droaned, raising her arm, and the vodka bottle in tow, as if she was privately toasting me from her ledge. She got excited. The song was just finishing, lowering the volume to the end of the track. Fading, peacefully away.

“Nicky, where’sya been? I’ve been waitin’ fo’ ya f’rever” she slurred.

As I walked closer, I realised how much of a state she was really in. Her big, brown eyes were starting to roll into the back of her head. Her eyelids were swollen and the dark circles under her eyes made you think she hadn’t slept for a fortnight. I gulped hard, raising my arms all the while moving towards her, ready to catch her if I needed to.

“Nickyyyyyy!” she shouted, now seemingly euphoric at my arrival. A haunting grin was artificially plastered across her face. She clumsily got to her feet, and began to sway drunkenly on the ledge, caught up in the music.

“Shit Molly! What you doing?! Sit down, will you! You’ll break your fucking neck!”

I ran up the flight of stairs and burst into her room, all the while, my pulse vibrated through my eardrums. I fell through the door just to see her swaying on the ledge, her arms outstretched, like a strong gust of wind may catch her and sweep her off her feet at any moment. At that point, I didn’t recognise the song in between the stomach-churning fear and the distraction of her drunken slurs. I froze a moment, fascinated, before grabbing her wrist and pulling her back inside to the safety of her room. She didn’t say anything for a minute, just studied me closely. Like a young child would, all wide-eyed and full of intrigue. She looked at me as if I was the most wondrous thing she’d ever seen.

Molly was wearing the tiniest pair of denim shorts. Light blue, frayed around the legs. I couldn't really make them out properly until she stood up, because she was wearing an over-sized t-shirt that was almost down to her bruised knees. Far too big for her. If I didn't know better, I’d say it was a man’s shirt. It made her look drained, too thin, wobbly. As I grabbed hold of her arm, I noticed the syringe marks. They were raw and puckered, like tiny pin tucks. She’d been scratching at her arms and made them sore. Her eyes couldn't focus, and her heroin and vodka cocktail were pickling her liver more every second. I didn't know what to do. I never did. She caught me looking at her scars, and snatched her arm away, bitterly.

‘Get off me!’
“Right, put some shoes on. We’re going for a walk. You need to sober up.”

“I don’t need to, I am sober.”

I ignored her blatant cries of denial. My nerves were dead to it now. More than anyone, I knew never to trust the words of an addict. No matter how much they prevailed. She followed my lead, and we headed off down the road. I had my arm around her waist, a necessity, rather than a public display of affection. We wandered through town, as I tried my best to divert the attention from my junkie girlfriend. She was a total mess. We got a few funny looks, but I wasn't taking an awful lot of notice.

 

Her paces began to slow as we reached a bridge, and then, suddenly, I saw her eyes light up and her legs begin to strengthen. She broke free from my grasp and seemed to sprint towards the bridge. Once her feet were firmly united with its concrete, Molly came alive. She was euphoric. Deep down I knew it was the effect of her drug cocktail, but part of me wanted to see past that, see the Molly I used to know.

She sat down, very matter-of-factly, on the concrete, shuffled over to the edge and hung her feet over the side. I shouted at her, urging her to get up, my stomach lurching, but she ignored my pleas, so admitting defeat, I joined her. I nervously shuffled to her side, so both of our legs were dangling mid-air, with only the water below and each other for company. It was late afternoon, and it was quiet, peaceful.

Suddenly, Molly spoke.

“What if I jumped?”
“What do you mean?”
“What would you do if I jumped?”
“Um…” I hesitated.
“See. Nothing,” she snapped.
“Well that’s not entirely true, is it?”
“You tell me.”
“Well I don’t want you to jump.”
“I never said I was going to. I said if I did. I said hypothetically, if, right here, right now, there was just me and you, and I jumped, what would you do?” She might be totally messed up, but Molly’s tact and wit were still in full working order.

“I’d jump too.” I realise now that was a crazy thing to say to a girl who was fragile, mentally unstable and under the influence of both alcohol and drugs, but she caught me off guard.

“What?”

Her face almost crumpled at my response. Tears began to form in the crevices of her bloodshot eyes.

“You asked me what I’d do. I’d jump with you.”
“But… but…why?”
She looked increasingly puzzled and upset.
“Just ‘cause I wouldn't know what else to do.”


“Well, I guess I just expected more from you, that’s all.”
“Expected more from me? Are you fucking kidding Moll? Are we really going to do this now?!”

She just stared past me, blank. I knew then, I’d lost more than her gaze. 
“You know what they say, don’t you? If you stare into the abyss…”
She didn't respond to me.
“Don’t ever say you’d jump after me. Ever. Promise?”
“Er, I thought you said this was all hypothetical.”

You had to be matter-of-fact with Molly. There was no room for any more irrationality, sudden reactions or unexpected outbursts. She had all of those stations covered.

“It is.”
“Well then, why does it matter?”
“Because, Nicky. It matters to me.”
“I’m not gonna let you do this.”
“DO what?” she wears an innocent expression, not quite believable. Knowingly smug.
I shook my head, “Don’t patronise me. You know what I mean.”

She laughed sarcastically.

“I love you Molly.”
“Yeah. I know, more’s the pity.”

“Y’know sometimes, I don’t think that’s a defence mechanism, I just think you’re being a bitch.”
“Whatever, just don’t sign your life away on my account.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just because I might be bored with this place, doesn't mean you have to be.”

I refused to dignify that with answer. I saw through her cocky façade, and sometimes, it was just exhausting, being the other player in her constant mind games. I laughed, because, really, what else could I do? She was right, in a way. She was a complete fool, a waster, a junkie. But she was mine. I was blinded by her, and she knew it. I shrugged it off, my shoulders weighted down by such an exhausting responsibility. Just before sundown that day, we headed back. I walked her home to the door of the B&B.

 

“I’m staying the night.”

“No, no, don’t be stupid, you don’t have to do that.”

“”We both know I’m not gonna leave you like this Moll, so don’t patronise me.”

“Fair enough.”

 

I helped her clamber up the stairs, and through her front door, and sat her clumsily on the sofa. She was sobering up and looked totally worn out.

 

“Nicky, will you run me a bath?”

 

I nodded, and did what I was asked. I could hear her shuffling about in the next room, trying to get comfortable. When I came out of the bathroom, she was curled up in a foetal position, with her thumb nail between her teeth, half asleep.

 

“Moll?”

“Hmm,” she groaned.

“I’m just gonna go buy some tabs, I’m dying for a smoke. Sure you’re okay here?”

She looked at me indignantly.

“Yeah, I don’t need babysitting y’know.”

“I’m just checking. I’ll be back in ten.”

I began to walk towards the door when she grabbed my arm. Molly looked at me, her eyes clinging on to the very image of my being almost as tightly as she clutched my wrist with her tiny hands. She pulled me closer in one swift motion and kissed me like she didn't have another second to live. I grinned.

“Wait. I love you, Nicky. ”
“I love you too.”
I laughed, it was just like her. I smiled again, and watched her close the door as she headed into the bathroom.

-------------------------------------

“Molly? Hello? It’s just me, I’m back. Got caught up…I mean, ya wouldn’t believe it, they had no fuckin’ Marlboro lights.”

There was no answer. I could hear her old record player humming, notes drifting under the gap in the bathroom door, along with the very familiar scent of lavender. I smiled to myself, slumped myself in the chair and lit a cigarette while I waited. The sickly-sweet taste of Nicotine seemed to switch a light on in my tired eyes, the taste of relief after a very long day. I must’ve zoned out, because when I looked at my watch again, it was five to nine, and I only had six cigarettes left in the packet. My eyes darted from one side of the apartment to the other. It was dark outside now, and the only light was glaring from the bathroom. I could hear the radio crackling vaguely.

 

“Molly? Moll? You in here? Y’know that bath water will be freezing now…”

 

My voice trailed off as my eyes struggled to become accustomed to the scene in front of me. The radio was still playing. The bath water was discoloured, an almost rainbow effect that would’ve seemed pretty in another light. My throat was tight, I felt like my airways were constricting, and yet, it was undeniable, there was something remarkable about what was in front of me.

Razor blades and exposed veins. The radio skipped and was stuck on a particular line of the song. I was met with a scene of carnage. Blood. And yet, I would come to hate myself for thinking it, but at that moment, she had never looked so beautiful. Her eyes were open. Her pupils blown, dilated. Her wrists slit, her lips a dangerous, lonely shade of blue. They were parted slightly, sleepy and yet happy. Stunning. Peaceful. One of her hands hung loosely over the edge of the bath, the razor blade still in her mucky clutches.

Thoughts twisted in and out of my mind, making my stomach lunge.

It’s funny really. When you lose someone, there’s always an influx of people waiting to lay flowers and say nice things about how loved they were, and all of their positives. But at that moment, it was hatred loitering in my chest. She was a fucking mess, frankly. But she was my mess. The good days, the bad nights, the bitters slurs and the exclamations of adoration at three in the morning when the Methadone was wearing thin and her skin was raw and her nerves were needy and shaky.

She wasn’t fearless, Molly acted out of cowardice. Utterly and completely. It was naïve and selfish and if Molly hadn’t already got there first, I probably would’ve killed her myself for even entertaining such a monstrous thought. At that moment, beneath the anguish, the heartache, the sheer breathlessness, I wanted to cry, but more so, I hated her. From her selfish ways to her absent-minded self-indulgence. Her vanity. Her lust for all the wrong things in life. I hated how I’d sat back and watched such a soulful, passionate girl destroy herself all because I was too proud to admit I couldn’t cope on my own. Who was I kidding? I hated her and I hated myself, because I couldn’t handle her and I should’ve been able to, or at least, I should’ve been brave enough to ask for help when I realised I was in way over my head.

When I saw the razor, and the cuts on Molly’s wrists, I gagged. My stomach flipped, my heart leapt from my chest to my vocal chords and lodged itself there like something unpleasant you just can’t digest. And I knew the real reason for my reaction. Molly wasn’t dead because she’d slit her wrists, or because she drank so much cheap vodka she’d pickled her liver prematurely at 25, or even because she was a junkie who never got the right help. She was dead, truthfully, because she had a failed support system. Her crutch snapped beneath her deadweight, fragile frame. My knees buckled at the thought of losing her, so when she tested the water and saw the fear in my irises, she kind of got off on that. Knowing she was almost gone, as if she was standing on a cliff face readying herself to step over the edge into the abyss. And so she plunged, into the dark, lonely recesses of her mind. But the abyss isn’t as lonely as it seems. The abyss isn’t for the dead, but for the living. And the problem with it is, even when you snatch your gaze away with every ounce of strength you conjure up, the abyss always looks back.

Inside my head.

Long days and longer nights. Sleepy eyes and half-hearted smiles to keep you warm when inwardly, that grin has you glowing. Absence and unity, through a slight touch. That's all it takes. It's electric. Your heart skips three beats instead of one. Your breath isn't ever fully caught around them. You bite your lip, you stifle your laughter for it to burst out when you least expect it and frightens both of you. Every touch and you jump, flinch, draw back, just for a second. It tickles, and yet, it's a wonderful feeling. Catching a gaze, a raised brow, a slight movement and something beneath your ribcage begins to react like you can't even imagine. Someone who makes you happier by just breathing near you, being an arm's length away. Someone to shout at, laugh with and be yourself around. The one person who expects not one, but one hundred drunk texts from you. Every. Single. Weekend.

This is for you, and the ego you claim not to possess. It's mad to me, that notion.  You are entwined with my brainwaves and my body clock. I check my phone for your name every five seconds or three minutes, or every time I wake up. You shouldn't just have an ego, you should have the biggest ego in the world. Or at least, I know you would if you could see inside my head, (as much as you really do get inside my head.) The best thing to ever happen to me, even if now, I find myself trailing off mid-sentence to think about you or something. This doesn't count, evidently. I'm comfortable around you, in a way I've never ever been with anyone. So, I guess you should feel pretty fucking special about that. Where's your ego Lukas? Well, it's hiding in my dark, twisted little mind as far as I'm concerned. A little place reserved for you. My happy place. (yes, my inner Pheebs is calling out, AGAIN.) 

I'm blank when you feel low or are all spent with confidence, because, I don't see you like that. If only you could see yourself through my eyes, I think it'd work wonders. I can't even put it into intelligible words or sentences, because frankly, you fuck with my head (in the best, most intense way possible) so sometimes, yeah, I can't string a thought together. I love that. Honestly, truthfully, undoubtedly, this is the happiest I've ever been. So, those doubts, well, hide them away, or shout them from the rooftops, but they're your own criticisms, not mine, and there's absolutely no need for them. You're none of those things in my eyes; you're my rock and my ego, so fair is fair- I guess I should be at least partly responsible for yours. I can work on that. ;)

Hello Ego. Welcome to my world. You'll fit right in. Trust me.

x

Happy days: #2

Sunny days when you've got nothing to do but take advantage of the good weather. Taking too many photos just so you can document your silly nights out (or piece them back together the morning after.) Having someone you genuinely could tell anything and everything to, and not worry. Being so comfortable with where your life is going that you have a chance to breathe, (oh and potentially book a holiday, yay.) Anticipating summer 2014 to be the best yet. Grinning so much your cheeks ache and your jaw begins to seize up. Laughing so much that your stomach muscles feel like you've done three hours at the gym. Counting your blessings every single day that you have the most incredible people in your life, and they're happy to be there. 

From now on.

Seven days into 2014, and I've just sort of realised, where are my resolutions?! As a slightly neurotic, occasionally OCD person, I love to make lists. Shopping lists, to do lists, reminder lists, anything. So this is it. The one list that should count, right? My New Years resolutions. Here goes nothing, (or may be everything.)

1. Be happy. I mean it. Really, genuinely happy. This year has got off to a great start, so here's to hoping to just gets better. This year, I put my happiness first. I do what's good for me. 

2. Work harder. Uni wise. Also, I need a job. I constantly live outside of my means, and I need to get a grip and start living in the real world, even if I don't like it much. Everyone keeps telling me I'm so capable, so maybe it's about time I proved them right. 

3. Take risks. Lots of them. I'm tired of being scared of doing something, because of the chances of failure, messing things up or just not working out how I'd like. The bottom line is, if I'm not willing to take a risk every once in a while, I probably won't get to where I want to be. 

So, there's three. Seems a bit OTT to do many more, and it'll just fall into my obsessive list-making habit anyway if I continue. Today has been tiring, in the best possible sense. Even if I didn't do an awful lot. I'm drained. The festive season is well and truly over. New year is just some nostalgic memory fading on the horizon. The banners have gone, the decorations ripped miserably down as the clocks changed over and the ball dropped. There was no messing about. No hesitation. Once it's over, it's over. We don't dwell on it. There's dibs on who gets to sit on Boxing Day and say "well that's that over for another year" in such a nonchalant way that you'd think we didn't kick up such a fuss in the first place. 

To me, the eight days between Christmas Eve and new year are the only good things about winter. The hustle and bustle of eveything seasonal. The panic-buying, the happy crowds getting all tense and impatient, the food and not forgetting, the eight or so day binge we all have on alcohol. (Okay, most of us.) So it's all over. The presents packed away, no tinsel in sight, back to work, school and uni we go. Real life spells January blues, snow on it's way and the usual post-Christmas fads that usually die out by the second week of the year. I'm tired. Okay, scratch that, I'm absolutely exhausted. Everything is just so. Every smile, every breath, every movement, it all seems..well, right. I keep gushing about how happy I am, but I honestly can't emphasise it enough. (Lukas, you can take credit for this! You got a shoutout, even if you didn't want one, but I'm pretty sure you're grinning right now.) It's a hell of a big deal for me, and I'm still getting used to it. 

Let's be dramatic.

I've come to the conclusion that my writing is sparked by drama. Not the methodical act of drama, or drama in a worrying, chaotic kind of sense, but as in something dramatic. I write when I'm feeling, well, passionate. Yes, that's it. My blog is full of posts full of happy thoughts and gushing enthusiasm, as well as those on the other end of the spectrum. Those sad, tear-soaked posts. The pieces I write at 3am when I'm feeling upset or angry or distraught or just totally numb. Passion helps me write. None of these neither-here-nor-there feelings; the days that I'm "just okay" that are of no consequence, and just a week later will blur into the background and become a forgotten memory. My writing seems to, I've noticed, flares during emotional times. I write to illustrate my life, document an event or just to simply get a thought off my chest. My happiest pieces are usually written when I'm wearing my best smile, while my negative, upset pieces are composed when I'm wearing a deep frown and even maybe shedding the occasional bitter tear. It's took me a while to realise, but I'm just not one of these people who can write something brilliant on cue. (That's probably not a good thing to admit when I'm studying a creative writing degree, but y'know!) I feel like because I tell people "I want to write" they immediately think I should be able to whack out a bestseller in my lunch hour or during the adverts of Jeremy Kyle, but quite the opposite. It takes time, inspiration and patience (something my mam keeps telling me I need more of, and yes she's very right.) So, my ever-increasing dramatic life may actually give me some content for my "novel" but whether my personal life thrives or fails, well, it remains to be seen. 

the big 100.

"I ACTUALLY DID IT!"

I say to myself with a grin the size of China sprawled so effortlessly across my face. This, believe it or not, is my 100th blog post. A sign of my hard work, a signal of my determination, proof that, in fact, I can do anything I set my mind to. I'm big on achieving. I don't mean in the literal, 'here's-your-certificate' kind of thing, but the feeling of achieving something. There's nothing else like it. A sense of pride. Accomplishment. Knowing that hard work does pay off, and luck hasn't really got much, if anything, to do with it. It took me many attempts before I actually started up a blog successfully, but when I did it, I finally found that it was everything I wanted it to be, as well as so much more. It's a gateway to other writers, a place to share my inner-most thoughts and feelings without being judged, chastised or shot a hasty glance. It's a place to let off steam, or express my creativity, or just have a little bit of a laugh. To write a memoir, a list or a play. Anything I can think of. Well, it took me just shy of six months, but here it is. The big 100. The centenary of my writing, as it were. The milestone worth celebrating, getting out of my seat and shouting about. The number I never thought I'd get to. Countless hours, many, many late nights, various different ways of writing down my initial thoughts, but the ones that made it here, are truly, the ones that count.

I've been through an awful lot over the last six months, while writing this blog. As you read it from 7th March onwards, you can almost sense it. You can tell if I'm feeling high, or feeling low, or just feeling everything under the sun. My good days, my bad days, and the days I just wanted to forget, bury deep into the corners of my mind and wish with all my might that they never happened, are all documented here. Love, loss and laughter. My darkest times are reflected in some of my most bitter creative pieces, and my happiest times required me to write gushingly over and over and over again until the smile on my face cause my jaw to ache. 

Looking through the last six months in text messages, photographs, tweets, posts and Facebook statuses, I realise how much has happened. I started blogging in March, which saw my cousin Sophie celebrate her 16th birthday and me get some of my first uni results. April saw a lot of loss and heartbreak in my life, and a lot of others I know. It was a hard month. May was busy. It saw me prep, cram and stress before completing my first ever (eek!) uni exams, then celebrate like crazy when my little sister turned the big, legal 1-8. We certainly partied hard, and that's when my crazy weekends truly began. Also, late May bank holiday we added a new addition to our family, a shih-tsu/bichon frise puppy cross, Heidi. June saw happy, sunny days arrive out in full force and more alcohol was flowing than ever. Bad decisions were blamed on vodka and upset, and put down to experience. Two of my cousins celebrated their proms and I began to feel old. July was anticipated for a while, as it signalled something me and my two best friends were eagerly awaiting, a week in Ibiza. A wonderful, hilarious, drunk week was had by all. Note: I discovered absinthe and began a tumultuous love affair with sambuca. Returning from Ibiza saw the flow of alcohol return with more vigour and liveliness than ever before. My friendship group widened, my drinking partners doubled and my drinks trebled. My shopping habits got out of hand. My decisions got worse instead of better, but  all with good intentions. My (love) life [I just laughed at this] well, I best not comment. It's definitely an eyebrow-raiser. So, August has been waved goodbye to, sadly, fondly, and rainy, disgusting September is making its way unwelcomingly into my life (and everyone else's.) One hundred posts, six months, 180-ish days, lots of bad singing, too much binge-drinking, like, 12 birthday celebrations, hundreds of nail varnish applications, too many "fuck"s screamed,  hundreds of shots, 500+ photos, 20-something ASOS orders. Lots of smiles, too many tears but all-in-all, a wonderful half a year. 

Of course, there are things I would change, looking back, but mostly, I'm happy with what the last six months has had to offer. Despite the rain pouring down like there's no tomorrow, I'm smiling. Now to make sure the next six months are as good, if not better, than the last. Only time, and blog post #200 will tell. 

Kisses 

X

You're never too old for a new start.

Well I've done it. I've finally come reluctantly into the 21st Century, the modern age, the blogging phenomena. I'm actually (yes) blogging from my brand-spanking-new iPhone! It feels weird to be doing it, after all I've kind of come to associate blogging with my lovely little laptop. It's funny to think I'm now able to write on-the-go and post a thought immediately. It's kind of cute anyway in my eyes.

So, summer is drawing sadly to a close, and as every second ticks on, I realise that I'm one reluctant step closer to turning the horrendously big 2-0. However, there are upsides to this. As autumn approaches, so does the new uni semester, meaning that I get to see my three fave girls again, which I'm super excited about. (Hiya girls!) The workload, well, you can practically hear my brain sighing lazily as I even just mull over the idea. But then I guess the good things in life usually (we hope) outweigh the bad. Meaning this; when winter draws bitterly in, we'll appreciate the summer more when it arrives again next year as promised. When it rains, we know the heavy downpours are only temporary and its only a matter of time until it lets up. Sadness makes us realise how happy we usually are, loneliness makes us appreciate company and loss makes us grab love between our fists like an iron vice. 

So come at me winter. I'm ready, with my Hunter wellies and my parka, for anything you can throw at me. I'm ready to kiss goodbye to sunny nights and embrace cosiness and thick duvets for a few cold months. There's no reason for me to be unhappy any longer.

Kisses

x

(I had to add a cheeky little PLL reference in there, I mean OMG!)

The big 5-0.

This is it. My fiftieth blog post. I can't quite believe I'm saying that. To most of you, that probably doesn't sound like a big deal, or even a number worth celebrating, but for me, it is. For me, it's worth a lot more than that. More than an approving nod or smile. You know why? It represents a whole lot more for me, for many reasons, but one in particular. The fact I've got to 50 blog posts, shows I really do possess the determined streak I long for and am proud of. It shows I'm growing as a person, and more over, a writer. The experience, the feeling, the opportunity. All of it, I couldn't have done, without this blog. I feel a lot more confident in my work, and feel a certain freedom and fulfillment in posting my writing for the world to see, whether it be a few lines moaning about lack of sleep and too much rain, or a creative piece that is close to my heart, it has the same feeling,- I get the same release from it. I tell more people about my blog now, and receive so many compliments and reactions that it never fails to shock me. With every blog view or acknowledgement, supportive comment or tweet, my confidence grows, and I get closer to realising, maybe, just maybe, I can really MAKE IT BIG.

Dedication #2: Steph.

Right, I've been meaning to do another dedication for weeks, and never got round to it. I really probably should have a million and one other things to do right now, like revision for my last exam on Monday, but that will have to be done at a more motivated time. For now, my dedication is as follows. I hope she reads this, considering we've just been talking about my blogging habits over piping hot Starbucks.

Stephanie, or more so, Steph. One of my best friends. One of the craziest, funniest people I've had the pleasure of getting to know over the last few years. It's one of those weird situations. We went to school together for years, and always spoke, but it was like, as soon as we got into Sixth Form, we immediately clicked. I found myself thinking 'how the hell have I not been friends with this girl before now?' It's hard to explain. So, if a picture speaks a thousand words, here's a summary:

It's like there are no words to describe how much this girl means to me. She's painfully hilarious (we laugh for hours on end!) about anything and everything. There's nothing I can't tell her, and I like to think that the feeling is mutual. We've been through a lot together, from two years of mind-numbingly difficult A-levels, including our very weird Pyschology lessons, to receiving our exam results and finding out we both were destined for the same place. I know what you're thinking, stardom, obviously? Perhaps one day, rather the same Uni. Northumbria, to specify. Perhaps the lesser known of the two universities in our home town in Newcastle, but certainly that does not mean it's in any way less eventful, in fact, I think we certainly show everyone how to enjoy themselves.

I've had the funniest time lately, since starting uni. I trust Steph with my life, and I know I can say anything and everything to her, and she can do the same to me, (and has on a few very necessary occasions!) She's definitely what you'd call my drinking partner, and I'm always telling people exactly that. We get drunk together, we shop together and we never ever stop talking. In the past six months or so, we've been to pub crawls, countless parties (including a fancy dress foam party, pictured above) celebrated birthdays, holidays, exams, results, or just partied because it was Friday night. She's the kind of person I can talk with for hours on end, and we never ever run out of things to say. But even if we did, what would it matter? The one I immediately look for, ring or text when a particular favourite song comes on, when I spot a certain someone in a crowd of people, or just when I have some seriously juicy gossip to share. She's amazing, and I don't tell her enough how much I love her. She's been with me through a lot, and I know I can count on her. The girl who I know can ring me up for a quick chat or a three hour update on the latest things happening in our lives. She knows everything, and I trust her with every word I say.

                                                             "Trebles anyone?!"
                                                       

Also, I must say, at times she must have the patience of a saint. As anyone who knows me well, knows I have a tendency to get drunk and make a fool of myself, well, although this is fine, Steph's the one always there, to make sure I don't ring the one person I shouldn't, waste all my money on sambuca and get me home in one piece. I thank her for that often, because everyone knows it's necessary from time to time. The girl who honestly doesn't believe in herself enough, and she seriously should. She's amazing and lovely, and it's about time she realised the extent of it. I'd be lost without her, so much so, we're jetting off to Ibiza in the summer together, for a fabulous time, I'm sure. Steph's also kind of a genius. She'll laugh when she reads this, because she's quite modest, and god knows why, because there's no need to be sometimes! Pursuing a degree in Human Biosciences (yes, oh my god) genius. Not only is she studying something scientific, she's also pretty damn good at it, and that's not what many people can say.

So, Steph, if you're reading this, then I hope you're smiling. You're fab. I wouldn't change you, and you're not losing me any time in the near (or far) future, just to instruct you of such. (I know you'll probably be laughing!) There's so much more I'd say, but it all depends who's reading this. Steph will understand the references more than most. We're very alike. In more ways than one. She copes with my drunken antics, and I'd do the same for her. And she, somewhat astonishingly, hasn't slapped me, when my increasingly foul mouth runs away with itself. Dilemma hour seems to be a regular thing between us, and I'm so looking forward to spending the summer with her (and others) and having what will, hopefully, be the time of our lives.

Because let's be honest, we always do.

In a vacuum, no one can hear you blog.

It's strange, I debated making a blog for ages before I actually did it, and now I have, I'm sort of relieved. I never thought for a second anyone would read my online scribbles, although I'm not actually sure how many people are. I think there's a certain kind of liberation you get from blogging. Putting all of your thoughts down the minute they happen, and being able to press 'publish' immediately, and your brainwaves are out there. A live-feed into my unconsciousness. An insight into how messed up, crazy and chatty I really am. 

I feel like when I write, I'm sharing the world's biggest, most important secret, (not because I value my scrawl that much) but because it's nice thinking you're writing for an audience who don't have expectations. Posts can be from the mundane to the hilarious, and people will read them, enthralled and excited, no matter which. I know I've read countless blog posts and thought 'Wow. I want to know this person' and I've always wondered whether someone could react like that to my writing, even though it's mainly spontaneous thought. 

I haven't mentioned my blog to an awful lot of people. I guess I have reservations about how it's going to be received, but if I'm really honest, I write for myself, not for a readership of any kind. Writing is my passion, so my blog is my way of sharing the thing I love with people who may or may not appreciate it. If it's not to your taste, then I really don't mind, but I'd be eternally flattered if you like my blog, and would love it if you shared your thoughts with me. After all, there's nothing more flattering than finding out someone appreciates your opinion, in whatever shape or form. 

So, if you happen to come across this, I hope you like my nonsense. Whether it makes you grin like a Cheshire cat, laugh uncontrollably, or identify with privately, I appreciate it more than words can say.

:)

Beginning the Madness.

MASSIVE HELLO.

I'm a total Blogspot rookie, so you'll have to bare with me until I get the hang of this thing. For all of you who don't know me, I'm Eleanor. My nineteen year-old, caffeine-junkie self is currently studying English Literature and Creative Writing, at Northumbria Uni in Newcastle. Writing is my escape, but I've never actually broadcast it online, unless you count my constant tweeting and bitching. I have absolutely no idea what I want to do with my life, but I'm having a hell of a time figuring it out. I've wanted to start blogging for ages, but always seemed to find an excuse. My constant procrastinating has finally come to an end, to the relief of myself, and hopefully anyone who reads this. I really hope you like my blog, and would  hugely appreciate any comments/feedback/help of any kind. I'd like to post something other than my slightly neurotic stream-of-consciousness, but I'm not making any promises. And of course, I wouldn't have been able to do this without Gracie, whose blog is my constant source of reference, conversation, laughter and amazement. She's such a talented writer, and I think you will all love her. So, for now, I'll sign off, send my First Ever blog post into the unknown, and hope for the best.