I'd probably still adore you with your hands around my neck.

Little miss negative has just plummeted to the depths of despair and thank god there's surely no further to fall. I'm overly pessimistic, I keep picking faults with everything I do, I'm lazy and I put everything off, and I'm pretty hopeless at times. I bite my nails and stress a lot, I let stupid things get to me, I'm clumsy and dull and I have days I don't even want to get out of bed or see anyone. I push away the people who care about me, and pull the ones who end up hurting me even closer. I'm naive and gullible and people take advantage of that. I'm quiet beneath a shouty exterior. I'm uncomfortable around people I don't know, so if you know the silly things about me, I must really trust you, so don't make me regret that. I take things too literally, I have the worst laugh in the world, and I don't look in the mirror and like what I see. I have a bit of an addictive personality. I can't function without coffee and enough sleep. I'm thoughtless at times, I can be selfish and self-motivated. I don't think before I speak or act and then have to deal with the unexpected consequences. I don't think full-stop sometimes. I'm ditsy and clumsy and a little bit stubborn. I'm shy and cagey at times. I don't confide in many people these days. I spend too much money and I'm constantly living outside my means. I have about six people outside of my family I'd trust with my life. I'm horrifically insecure sometimes. I wake up with no confidence some days, and other days, it's there in abundance. I don't ever like to share my personal writing. I'm shit scared of taking important risks. I have a couple of irrational fears. There aren't that many people who have my back. I shout when I need to whisper and then can't find my voice when I really need to speak up. This might seem like a list of negativity, pessimism, faults. In one respect it is, in another, it's my venting process for today. All of this is true. Very true. There's things I don't write and never will probably, because there are certain things I don't want anyone to read, even if they are very close to me, or, differently, total strangers. This is my risk. My outward splurge of who i see myself as, who I am, and the things I shrug off every single day. I suppose what I'm saying is, everyone has their demons, and here are some of mine. Enjoy, hate or revel in them, I frankly couldn't give a damn. 

x

Who I really am.

I've been up and down lately, for reasons that I won't list, otherwise i'll be on for pages. Anyway, I got to thinking about what I deserve, as well as who I really am. After talks with friends, I've come to realise a few things, mostly, that I shouldn't ever let someone make me feel small, instead, shrug it off, and don't give someone the satisfaction.

I've changed a lot this year, and I've finally decided who I want to be, as a person. This isn't, unfortunately, a massive, let's-confess-our-true-passions whirl, instead, just a little note to say I'm a better person, in spite of some of the horrible people I've come across lately.

Maybe I am the girl who drinks too much and ends up mouthing off from time to time. The girl who can't walk in her six inch heels but still won't go out without them. The girl who will spend a lot of money on an outfit that will lose any classiness it ever had by 3 am, when I'm drunk and either euphoric, tired or upset, because sometimes you don't need to always plaster a smile on your darkened visage. The girl who drinks industrial strength coffee, loves to write and is passionate about reading. I stay up all night and am no good during early mornings (before my third cuppa!) I bite my nails, and I get obscenely stressed out over stupid things. I hardly ever cry in public, because I don't know how other people would react. I'm a bit of a big spender when it comes to clothes, but I don't think that'll ever change. I've got a group of close friends, but seem to be expanding it, willingly. I'm happily impatient, and a very hard-worker. I hate Mondays and love Made In Chelsea. I never ever stop tweeting. I'm addicted to crime dramas, 90210, Grey's Anatomy and Pretty Little Liars. I touch-text and type, and my parents are always telling me that I'm wasted by just typing nonsense into a vacuum, and my typing skills would actually benefit someone. I can quote Friends, Mean Girls, When Harry Met Sally and  know all the words to Peter Kay's The Tour that Didn't Tour Tour. I go through stages when I just want to be alone and stroppy, I love closing my bedroom door and disappearing for a few hours, or even a day or two. (I swear I don't lock the door for days on end.) I love marmite. I have a short attention span, unless it's something I really am interested in. I have a gawky obsession with The Great Gatsby, and could gladly eat rubbishy foods until I was fifty stone.

I want to make it. Sounds, well, big, doesn't it? MAKE IT. Ambitious, probably. But who cares? I recently thought, why am I not taking Uni seriously? I should have more confidence in myself, as a person, a female, and a Literature and Creative Writing student. After all, why can't I be the one that makes it Big. Why have I got this blasé, half-hearted attitude that my writing isn't up to scratch. For a while after I started my Uni course, people kept saying to me "So, what do you want to do? Be the next J.K. Rowling?" It was as if it was one big joke to some people. I still get that impression. People ask what I study, and when I respond, the divide is infinitely clear. The nice half of the human race, with more than one brain cell to share between them, and a less than narrow mind, replies in an embellished sort of way, intrigued, happy, impressed. I like that. I get a kick out of the fact I do a "proper subject" at University. The other half, well, we've all experienced them, the bored looks, their eyes glaze over. The people that believe we should all go into vocational courses, that leave us with "actual career prospects" and "a steady pay" in our "less than stable" economic climate. I want to jump up and down on the spot, scream in their faces and then thrust a piece of my Best Work into their less than welcoming hands, just to prove I'm not a good-for-nothing, layabout student. Then one day, it just struck me. A eureka moment, as it were. Why can't I be the next J.K. Rowling or Stephen King? Get a piece of my maddest work on the best sellers list, or reviewed in The Times. 

I get screwed over, kicked and brought down, but I'm ready to pick myself up and get a pint of confidence down my neck. (Not just Dutch Courage.) I want to be able to have something to show for my crippling student debts, late nights, early mornings and tonnes of hard work and inspiration. I want to be able to show all of those people who've turned me down, screwed me over or to made me feel about six inches high, that I'm worth a hell of a lot more than they ever gave me credit for. Whether they like it or not, I'm going to be able to say "I told you so!" with the biggest grin sitting on my face.

So, Who am I? 
Hopefully, in ten years, you'll not have to ask.