"Ask me again after another tequila."

A weekend wasted, is, as they say, not a wasted weekend. I fully, totally, undeniably agree with this. It's 19:02, the remnants of a hangover are still lurking on my shoulder, and I'm wallowing in a mixture of self-pity and guilt. I've spent the entirety of my weekend pouring alcohol down my neck at record-breaking speed. Stupid, and yet, I always do it. So now, I'm nursing a two-day hangover, it's feeling quite pitiful. Last night, well, [there are no words.] No suitable words anyway. I am, for my sins, forever making bad, ill-advised and completely, utterly stupid decisions when I'm drunk. Last night may have been a peak, or a pitfall, depending on which way I look at it. As the news blares in the background, the kettle whirs almost-too-slowly, and my family talk amongst themselves, I've zoned out. I'm staring kind of blankly at the screen of my laptop, struggling to successfully multi-task; suppressing an evident, tequila-related gag reflex, stay awake and trying oh-so-hard not to submit to my hangover from Hell. I pulled out all the stops last night mind, the bitter icing on the already-sickly cake being the fact I am, it seems, unable to go out and act like a normal human being. I drink, in excess. Always. About once a month, or maybe more, I'll end up having "one too many" and almost end up in a gutter or something. I'm shameless when tequila/sambuca is added to the equation. So, here's me, shivering, gagging and trying to actually keep some food down, after a very bad decision. Drinking doubles too quickly, downing our bottles of Desperados because we were sick of them and wanted another drink, accepting countless shots of tequila and sambuca. Singing badly with strangers. Losing everyone I was with. Having my best friend (who works behind the bar) in hysterics laughing at my plea for "just some more sambuca" when the lights went on. The bouncers asking me how much I've drank again, the antics, the decision to stay out until four, when the pub shuts at half two, the stupid, stupid inability I have to control myself. Downing drinks and throwing them back up faster, and getting another.

Today, I'm pale. Okay, paler than usual. Washed out. My hands look thin and my face looks a bit too wethered for someone of only twenty. I have very harsh bags under my eyes, and despite many attempts, I can't shift the pub stamp from my hand, or the taste of tequila out of my mouth. Dirty shoes, random walks and yes, the undeniable sense of regret. Stupidity may become my middle name. My head is banging, and all I want is my bed, and a rewind button. The latter, I'm afraid isn't possible, although I thoroughly wish it was. I think I've fucked things up, but I'm trying to assure myself, it's nothing too drastic. We'll see. My binge isn't something I should be celebrating, but I can't help myself, I just want to laugh. I'm a little bit out of hand. 

Anything but proud.

Well well well, the binge has been five days now. I've not really stopped drinking (until now) since Tuesday afternoon. I'm one big tequila-ruined mess. I'm a liability, obviously. Apparently "a tease" and "a bad influence." According to some anyway. I'm shaking I'm so hungover. Last night is a mixture of dirty knees, gag reflexes, bad singing, worse dancing and ridiculous antics. Hilarious, cringe-worthy and worth every penny of the £40 I threw at the bar staff. I must stop now. I might look over the last five days (and nights) with grins and grimaces, and a few tears (I'm not sure whether they're happy or sad) but there's one thing I'm not, proud. I don't think I can be. I smell of smoke (why?) and all I can taste is tequila and hairspray (WHUT?) I've got a few drunken, huffy texts and thank god, not many photos to document it. Also.. I must stop using "well at least I'm not boring" as an excuse to do stupid things. I'm feeling the backlash. Indirectly, if what I've heard turns out to be true, I may end up throwing a four-year-old style tantrum. Just a warning. I'm disgraceful. 

It's (ALMOST) Friday!

Cue the smiles and sighs of relief right around the country, yes, it's that time again. Almost the weekend. The time off work, school, uni, college or whatever. The time to relax, spend time with loved ones, or just chill. Whatever you end up doing, there's probably nothing better than that weekly countdown to The Weekend. For me, my weekend starts on a Friday. Yeah, I'm one of those annoying people who actually realises that the friday feeling is a very true life-like concept. Well, in my life anyhow. Friday signals the end of work, the start of relaxation, but also, so much more. 

Fridays to me are like the icing on a very, already gorgeous cake. The time for you just to kick back, relax and do whatever makes you happy. My fridays are spent in a mixture of different ways, depending on how I'm feeling. A silly, slightly-in-vain attempt to take in anything during my 1-hour lecture, before that Schools-Out kinda feeling truly takes hold. Pens down people, it's home time. You wish your friends/colleagues/acquaintances a good weekend, and then part ways, released into the weekend, wearing your best smile, or your best dress. After such a time, I'm usually found shopping frantically for a last-minute night out outfit, either for Friday or Saturday (or both, I tend to splurge) or spending my evening in front of the telly, pigging out, maybe a Chinese or a Pizza, some kind of lovely comfort food to end my oh-so-hard week of being a layabout student. 

So, what's in store for this week then? Well, I'm not sure. I write that excitedly, as having no plans on a Friday can be one of two things. Really, devastatingly boring, or, in this case, really really exciting. The world, or in this case, the weekend, is my oyster. It can be whatever I want it to be. While I'm sort of considered a bit of a party animal, sometimes there are days when I just want to stay in, put my feet up, and eat until my heart's content. However, right now, I'm in the mood for some excitement.

Tomorrow may have to be a Going Out sort of Friday. Out of habit, I never usually go out on a Friday night at home. Saturdays are the tradition, the night when the pubs are heaving and everyone is really ready to let their hair down, but the word on the street is this, Friday may be becoming the new Saturday where I live. This is strange, as I usually go out, get drunk(ish) and spend what should be my glorious, day-of-rest, Sunday, painfully hungover and craving my bed. Friday would therefore mean something different. It's like I have an extra day off. Maybe I'm making no sense, but this isn't really intended to be an eloquent piece of writing, instead, a little rambling about how happy I am that the weekend is approaching, and fast. Whatever I end up doing tomorrow (who am I kidding, I'll end up at the pub) I'm sure it'll be wonderful. Minus the inevitable sambuca-related hangover, but yes. Happy days, let's be havin' you.

Running in blind.

I trust you and maybe I shouldn't. Then again, maybe that's okay. Maybe I'm finally looking on the Bright Side of things, for good reason. Maybe. I'm not sure. But I can't be totally sure about anything. Everyone in my life, (okay, a fair few) are telling me one thing, but the feeling welling up in the pit of my stomach is pointing me in a different direction altogether. It's urging me to follow my heart. For once, take the risk and ignore what's at stake, because what I've got to gain is so much more important. I realise that. I know it. I  to take the risk. I'm just terrified of doing just that, and then, what if I'm wrong, and everything falls apart, and what if my support system fails me this time. What if they refuse to just pick up the pieces one more time? I don't know, I sometimes wouldn't blame them. 

Despite this, I'll follow my heart. (Soppy comment alert. Let's all cringe together!) In the very wise words of Meredith Grey;

"...knowing is better than wondering, waking up is better than sleeping, and that even the biggest failure, even the worst, most intractable mistake, beats the hell out of never trying."

I'm running in blind, but so what? Don't we do that every day?

Monday blues.

Ever get the feeling that the universe is just set against you? Well, if there's such a thing, it's working particularly awkwardly today with regards to me. I'll give you a little insight into my tormented day so far (btw: it's only 12:29 now!) My day started with a very unwelcoming awakening, the sound of rain hammering off my bedroom window. I sighed, heavily, turned off the shrill call of my phone alarm and physically forced myself to abandon the lovely comfort of my bed, departing my love until later in the day. I almost shed a tear, the separation is almost too much. It's 8am, and it's still grey and dark out. The street lights are struggling to break through the thick misty morning. It's not exactly a motivational start to the day. I have breakfast, (not enough coffee) and just manage to catch my first bus, after multiple people testing my patience (and my poker-face.) 

I end up just on time for my next bus, and because I'm a nice person, I let the elderly woman in the queue get on the bus in front of me. Turns out, everyone behind said woman got transferred to a bus due ten minutes later. Cue me ignoring every impulse I had not to swear and scream at my damned bad luck. Eveything this morning just seemed to be set against me, it went on and on, and now, I find myself on a bus homeward bound, funnily. Boycotting my last film studies lecture because I'm a mess, it's rainy and I'm in need of lots of coffee. Oh, and I have an unbelievable amount of reading to do for tomorrow morning. Really, today is a day for sitting at home with piping-hot food and lots of caffeine, maybe a duvet, a film, a good book or in my case, probably Sky+ planner. I have 2 hours of Downton to catch up on, and that's just in the last week. 

Ps. I need fish finger sandwiches, or soup as a matter of urgency. ✋

#thinkingoutloud: take 3.

Staring down the barrel of a gun, er okay not quite, a bag of kettle chips, but shh. It's 19:07 and I'm slumped lazily on the settee with coffee and a share bag of Kettle Chips that are disappearing rapidly. Emmerdale is on live pause. The puppy is staring up at me with sad, lonely eyes, eyeing up the latest form of sustinence I won't share with her and occasionally letting out an impatient cry. I must verify two things: 1. It's officially the weekend. 2. I'm only twenty years old. Both of which mean I should be doing something more exciting with my life, and my Friday night than sitting in front of the soaps pigging out. Note: I will, soon enough, but at the minute I can't motivate myself to move. The idea of staying in on a Saturday night is usually enough to move me to tears or insanity, yet with the horrible weather and my mountain of uni work, I am seriously mulling over the unthinkable; spending a Saturday night without my two BFFs; vodka and sambuca. I'm torn. I'm exhausted and worn down by all these uni commitments I have, and yet there's something else. Someone else. Someone who, given their due, keeps trying with me even though, I'll be honest, I'm an absolute nightmare. Anyone who can even contemplate the idea of choosing to be in my negative, compulsive, paranoid, moody life, deserves a medal, and a strong drink in my opinion. So, hopefully you are willing to do it, because it's not such a secret that I'd be a very happy girly if you did. 

They went in and out of each other's minds without any effort.

As I sit on the bus, staring blindly out of the window to my right, I grit my teeth as I struggle to draw back tears. We have just watched The Hours in our film studies lecture, and I feel like I might break down thinking about it. Some of you may think that's silly, to cry at a film, but yeah, I do that. A lot. Don't judge me. This one in particular has upset me, and I'm not sure why. In case you don't already know, it is a film based on Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway and how it affects the lives of different women, including Woolf herself. I haven't actually read it, (yet! It's on my list!) but I knew in advance, it's main focal point is suicide. For anyone who hasn't read it or seen the film and are now looking on with angered faces and/or confused expressions, this isn't a major spoiler. It's an obvious fact from the start, so cm your little selves down. 

To say The Hours is depressing, is something of an understatement. Although, it is a funny kind of depressing. In parts, it's all so trivial, but that's intentional. The whole point is, I think, that the drama is there is no drama. It's a perfectly normal day, a perfectly normal exchange of interactions. Everything is in place and just-so-normal. And then I guess the point is, nothing ever is as clean-cut as it appears, and while from an observer's eyes, everything may look fine and dandy, but, as the age old saying goes, nobody knows what goes on behind closed doors, and no one ever really can understand the extent of someone else's suffering. That upsets me. The fact that sometimes, it appears, even if you can and want to help someone, you might have already lost them.

I don't like to think that. It's too depressing in my mind. "My whole life is based on the theory that people can, and do, change" as my on-screen heroine Violet Turner frequently says on Private Practise. I like to think she's right. Nothing is final, until the end, so until then, everything matters. The flick of a pen or the cut of a knife. The casual smile from one stranger to another. Every breath. So don't stop making the effort until you physically can't. You never know when someone's counting on you to do just that.