Dipping your toes in.

The way to my heart is through the neck of a vodka bottle, the gap between the front door and the local pub, my lips and a cup of black coffee at 6 in the morning, the soles of my shoes and the northern concrete, the space between me and you, the time difference between Newcastle and New York City, the thud of our heartbeats and the next touch of skin on skin. The feel of a fresh, crisp twenty in my hands, hot cookies, the smell of real leather on my shoulders and around my ankles, perfume that makes you remember something distant, the instant photos taken in a drunken haze, the screamed words and bitter slurs. The sticky mark left on the bar when the tequila runs dry, the murky puddle when the sun isn't quite out, the cold cup of coffee, the downpours, the black eyeliner and burgundy lipstick, the expensive dress only worn once, the paper shopping bags that are overfilled, the six inch heels that hardly ever see daylight, the bitten down nails, the karaoke music, the cheesy grins and the psychotic rages. The hearty laughter, the constant Friends repeats, the silly cravings and the mental notes, the feeling when you open a new book and the spine cracks a little. OCD tendencies, memorable quotes and sitting on curbs having tipsy conversations. The first breath you take when you're waking up and become aware of it, the summery daze drinking pints in beer gardens, the last words in your favourite song, the first time you meet someone, and the last time you feel alone. 

Firsts, lasts and always.

The rain taps ever so slightly on my window pane, traffic gliding past once in a while. I hear puddles being disturbed, silence being temporarily broken. It's almost April 2014. I know right? Where did the time go? Where did the beginning of the year creep off to? I honestly have no idea. I've become lazier than ever, at home, at uni, just generally I'm in hibernation-mode. I feel like I've not read or wrote anything substantial in months. I probably haven't done enough work for uni, and my energy is just drained by the cold northern weather, the long, sleepless drunken nights and the few boringly jagged days separating the time between vodkas. 

Somehow in the midst of the laziness I've pursued, I've managed to maintain something wonderful. A relationship with someone who is like my best friend. Yes, I'm a soppy bitch as of late, forever gushing about no longer being single, and my friends watch as the sides of my mouth turn ever so slightly upwards everytime I mention I start name-dropping or utter "boyfriend." You'd think I was 12 again, cringe. So the cramming must commence, I suppose. Seems like one thing starts and a hundred things end at once lately. I get caught up in the silly little things and zone out on big decision-making, important assignments and revision timetables. 

This time next week, I will officially no longer be a second year uni student (minus the fact I have an end of year exam to sit in May, but y'know, basically.) This scares the hell out of me. Module deadlines. Word counts looming. The days are being crossed off, counted down, reminisced over. I want to bury my head under my pillows and leave all the important decisions to someone who doesn't drink 62% proof rum on a Wednesday afternoon, or tweet thirty times a minute. Perhaps. Then again, I've made a couple of really good decisions to outweigh the bad. 

So indecisive, so adamant.

You don't mind me singing badly to Robbie William's greatest hits, or the fact I'm a tad neurotic and very, VERY high maintenance. The fact I can and do, on many occasions, quote Friends in real life situations. My caffeine addiction you seem to accept thoroughly. The way I can't walk past a mirror without checking my hair or touching up my make-up. Your willingness to let me get drunk and show you up, and yet you still pick me up when I fall flat on my face giggling. stop smiling Lukas. The days I don't want to speak, or get out of bed, or smile, and you let me do that if that's what I want. My stupid irrational shopping habits, my ambitious dreams, and my OCD tendencies. Knowing when to leave me alone, and fully understanding that sometimes, I just need to cry and have a massive hug. Knowing I gorge on stupid telly and will end up having an emotional breakdown every time something remotely sad happens in any programme whatsoever. [not that I ever do this, obviously.] You accept me drunk dialing you at 2am, and 3, and five. The fact it takes me about six hours to get ready for a night out. With a face full of make up, or totally bare. Knowing that I will go out every weekend, and moan about my hangover over and over until I can't take it any more. Staying up stupidly late with me because I just can't sleep. Coping with my sarcastic, bitter slurs at times, and banishing all doubts from my mind when I'm feeling really low. Telling me I look amazing, when I feel shit, holding my hand when I'm scared and encouraging me when I'm unsure of something. You are the reason my smile hasn't vanished in 78 days solid. The reason that 2014 is turning out to be one of the best, ever. The reason I wake up smiling and go to bed feeling content.

Gullible.

That's what I am, what I've always been. It's funny, it's silly and everyone gets a laugh out of it every now and again, but sometimes, I hate it. I hate the fact that I believe what I'm told. I'm trusting. I believe the people in my life, whether it's a big or small matter, because I have a tendency to lap up the information I'm given. Oh, and the obvious bit; I trust my people with my life. 

It brands me "blonde" and "hilarious" and just plain "stupid" at times, and I think I just need to give myself a shake. I began writing this piece a while ago, and then stopped, probably because I was hesitant. Until maybe, it doesn't really matter. Until there's someone who likes that part of me, and then, I guess, that's alright too. 

First impressions don't count.

It's mad, looking back. Today my sister and I were talking, and those old times kinda talks just drifted in and out of our minds. Remember when we used to be friends with [insert name] and when we used to spend all of our time [there] and, well, you get the picture. 

It's all so chaotic. I have fragments of memories hidden in the shelves of my brain, and yet, certain things that didn't seem to matter at one point, really do now. Like, for example, as everyone says, first impressions count. Well, I can't remember the first time I met most of the important people in my life, because, I suppose, at the time it didn't really seem significant. A first conversation, an impression, a look, an action. Whether the first time you met me was drunk or sober, at 14 or 18, in a pub or a classroom or a bus stop, I probably couldn't tell you what I thought or what I said. If I do, you must be pretty damn special. (Either that, or maybe I was younger and just didn't have the opportunity to get drunk!) 

But there are one or two I do remember. Not vividly, but in fragments, some pieces are sharp and clear, others are blurred around the edges, softer, out of focus. Maybe I remember the first thing you ever said to me, or what I was wearing, or what you were drinking, or the class we were in at the time. A smile, a laugh, a clumsy introduction. A handshake? A kiss? I'm damned if I remember. The significant people in my life are just that because of what they are to me now, what they've become, not who they were when I met them. I guess that's what fascinates me. You never know, when you meet someone, what they're going to end up meaning to you. That's kind of scary, but also kind of brilliant. 

Plan B.

Wrongly, I've always been one of those all-my-eggs-in-one-basket kinda person. I throw every inch of myself into something if it's what I really want, in the same way I won't make the slightest bit of effort if my heart isn't in it. All my choices are based on what I really want, but there's always a little voice in the back of my head whispering something about a Plan B, a second choice, a back-up. 

"Or you could always go into teaching?" I hear one of my relatives say when I tell them for the millionth time (vaguely) that I want to write when they ask about my career prospects and "what are you really going to do with a Literature degree?" My face expression goes blank. I don't even have enough self-restraint to hold the bored, unimpressed grimace back. It's too close to home. My face scrumples as if someone has just spat on the pavement in front of me, as I wonder how I can explain to the people who I love that the only thing I will ever consider doing and happily, is writing. It's unrealistic, ambitious, dreamy, naive, whatever. I've heard it all. It's arty, risky, "a tricky field to get your name known in" it's "not great money" and "not a steady wage" and "you'll never get a mortgage" and "how will you support yourself on that?" SHUT UP.

How I see it is this; I'm not choosing, even unwillingly, to get myself into 30 grand's worth of debt (bearing in mind I'm a normal person from a normal working-class background) and I can't even envisage how much money that actually is.. To then settle for something that doesn't make me happy. Something that makes my blood race and my veins pulse and my brain explode in ecstasy. It's what I want. Simple as. Back up plans maybe aren't for me. 

Blind Panic.

I'm typing this on my brand-spanking-new laptop, (let's hear a cheer of relief, excitement, whatever) because it's taken me days to fully work out even its navigation system. Who knew, Windows 8 is really confusing, especially with a touch-screen. Armed with industrial strength coffee, I am attempting to steady myself. Sleep deprived, on the edge of a nasty hangover, I'm procrastinating like never before. With an assignment due on Thursday, all I really want to do is hide under my bed covers and channel my avoidance for the foreseeable future. I'm too tired to function, so let's all forget the work and bask in the laziness that goes hand-in-hand with Sunday evenings. 

#blindpanic.

I'm a sentimentalist.

Okay so let's get one thing straight. I'm one of those sentimental people who has the ability to fall in love with something in about three seconds flat. Whether it be a person, a material object or more commonly, and brilliantly, a line of a book. I have just picked up, and when I say just, I mean, like, literally (see my Instagram @eleanorward_ for evidence!) Rainbow Rowell's widely acclaimed novel Eleanor and Park. I have had this book, along with about half a dozen others, sitting on the draws beside my bed since around Christmas. The titles visible when I open and close my eyes, there when I wake and when I drift heavily off to sleep. There is absolutely no denying that literature may be my one and only true love. (Sorry, to anyone this may offend, it's nothing personal.) 

But seriously, it's amazing. That feeling. I can't describe it in clearer terms. I just read half a page's worth; an inserted extract before the novel actually begins, and that's it. I'm in love. Properly. Like doe-eyed movie kinda love, intoxicated, overcome, totally and utterly seduced with the words on the page in front of me. If you know what this is like, you'll be pretty familiar with the feeling. My smile is happily escaping from my lips, as I get ready to discover a book that has been flung into my grasp too many times to even count. Plus, and this is the obvious bit (and I can't even explain why) I mean maybe I'm a narcissist, but I kind of like the fact I'm going to read a book entitled with my name (even partly so.) Vain or what? Who cares, let's do this. 

You can very obviously expect a blog post/review/babbling document as a follow up in time. Oh, while I'm at it, with books and everything.. I finished Nathan Filer's The Shock of the Fall today, and it's brilliant. I loved it. YOU MUST READ IT. Even @nathanfiler favourited my tweet about it, so y'know, he even knows how good his own work is.