Catching my breath

Monday has come round, met with a combination of relief and despair. After the last few days, it feels like it's bound to disappoint. Maybe I'm being cynical, but more so, realistic. 

Thursday was our usual evening, spent at the pub quiz, where we usually avert our gaze from those teams who wrongly assume that because we are the youngest competitors, we must cheat our way into the league. To our shock this week, after going for what must be months, we won. Most of the teams clapped and cheered for us, Agatha Quiztee, the winners at last, if only for one week. Some stared resentfully in our direction as we celebrated with raised glasses and big grins. 

Friday began, and it was hell. Waiting frantically for results of my final degree grade was torture. Results were supposed to be released 12pm, on the dot. Little did we know, that meant everyone. Every single individual graduating from Northumbria university in 2015 got their final degree classification posted online on the same day. Later, obviously, this proved that the planning had failed dramatically, as five and a half hours later, I was one of the first to receive my classification, with others left to wait for an email instead that would arrive by 7pm. However, I couldn't complain. Three years of intensely hard work, tears, anger, stress, headaches and laughter, I got a 2.1 classification for English Literature and Creative Writing. All I could've hoped for. I was ecstatic. 

And what a way to end a weekend, than a Saturday spent in York, shopping, eating and drinking cocktails with my boyfriend. I feel like I'm just taking it all in now. With just over two weeks until I graduate, and no real career path in sight. I'm trying to be optimistic, trying to enjoy the lead up, trying to catch my breath and take it all in. 

Collateral.

Gripping with my hands, for something more or less helpful. The pain keeps moving. A dull, achey, intolerable kind of pain. It's friday. It's raining. And at risk of sounding melodramatic, EVERYTHING HURTS. From my tongue, to my toes, my  kneecaps to my eye lashes, I'm an aching, stumbling, wreck of a person. A former shell of myself. Today marks six days since I got back from Menorca to rainy, cold Newcastle. Since then, if I haven't been sleeping or eating, drinking or moaning, I've spent every minute with my boyfriend, Lukas. Who, I may add, I missed unbelievably when I was away. 

However, today is supposed to be good. It's Friday. Excitement fills the air and fuels the parties. And then there's me. I am currently showered and dressed and have crawled back into bed as a way of channeling pain. This is definitely a holiday comedown. No more sun. A severe lack of Vitamin D, or actually light whatsoever. I'm burried under a tartan blanket and hoping, -no, praying, someone brings me coffee and a sausage sandwich to my bed. I don't know what a Friday feeling is meant to feel like, but aching bones and heavy eyelids aren't exactly a great sign. I'm craving autumn. Let me bury under wooly knitted jumpers and wear boots and my parka again. Cosy. 

Forgotten raindrops.

 

This is the view from my bedroom window at present. It's raining. It has been for about four hours now. I might add, that in the small world that is Chester-Le-Street, it pretty much rains non-stop. The greying clouds have set in, however, spirits aren't dampened. Its Friday after all, and "we won't melt if it rains" is something my mam always says. I'm uninspired, lazy and apathetic today. Worrisome, stress and out of sorts. I don't feel ill, I just feel, well, not quite myself (or on-point, yes... go on, laugh you lot!) With a family holiday around the corner and Final Year on the horizon, I'm supposed to be all chip and cheerful and optimistic. This isn't me. I feel all empty and bored. I need to set my sights high and my act together. I need a reading list sorted, my iPod updated (which may be one of the most gruelling tasks ever pre-holiday) and a desperate plea for inspiration where my ECP is concerned. This is rubbish writing, basically. Side note: A massive, lovely happy birthday greeting to my favourite girl and wonderful writer, Gracie. Enjoy today. You bloody well deserve this.

So, with Little By Little playing on a loop, the rain falling like teardrops staining my double-glazed portal to the outside world, and the irritable feeling of being unsettled, I sign off. Have a lovely weekend, wherever you are. Monday, my strict healthy eating starts, my early morning awakenings and the feeling of constructive tasks commences. Oh well, good intentions are a start, aren't they?

Indescribable.

Half nine on a Friday night in December and I'm in bed, tipsy and teary eyed. Yes, there's something wrong with this image. I never really blog properly after a drink, but tonight it seems necessary. I'm in a bad mood, because of countless things. Oh, and by the looks of things, wine makes me depressed. Which, obviously, isn't great. 

Suddenly everything seems to have caused my shoulders to collapse. The pressure seems too much to take right now. With I'm a celebrity blurring in the background, I'm all too aware how alone I'm feeling. I can count on one hand how many people have attempted to contact me today, or even the rest of this week, and it's making me miserable. As someone who is very centred around friends and social goings on, when my social life shatters around my ankles, I feel very glum indeed. No texts, phonecalls, tweets, Facebook messages, snapchats or physical interactions. Seems like the people I'm not even closest to are the ones ready to cheer me up, while the people who are physically (and chronologically) closer to me are AWOL. it's making me unnecessarily sad. Disagreements and arguments I just don't want to get involved in. Stress I just don't need right now, with my first real second year exam looming in just a week's time. I feel like there are certain people I need and want in my life and they are nowhere to be seen. There's someone I really need right now, and you just don't even seem to acknowledge this. I'm sick of negativity, and misery and stressful situations. 

I'm too young to feel so upset. Fast forward to Friday 13th at 11.30 and that's when my cares go completely out of the window. Happy times will be welcomed and the festive season will be truly out in full force. Yes. That's what I need. 

"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. 

Bank Holiday banter.

No matter what you're drinking, raise your glass.

It's well known, I consider drinking one of my hobbies. Yes. Seriously. My little 5"2 self always fancies having a couple of drinks. Translation: getting absolutely, painfully, stupidly, hysterically, blind drunk. It's not advisable, but hey, I've got a reason this time. If you haven't guessed, or known already, it is officially BHW or in English, Bank Holiday Weekend. One of my favourite times of year. There's been far too many bank holidays for my liver to handle or my body to cope with this year, but I have to give credit where it's due. Silly as it sounds, but my local watering holes have actually served other purposes, minus exchanging my crumpled notes for poisonous, amazing liquids.


Yes, I spend a great deal of my time between one or two pubs in particular. Anyone who knows me is now thinking of the names in their heads. I'm a local. A regular. The bouncers know my name. It's serious. But for me, it's a lot more than that. Since turning the legal age of 18, but especially the big 1-9, these places have been significant for me. If those walls could talk, the stories they'd whisper would probably ruin my life, but that's another story. These places have witnessed friendships broken and made, relationships starting and ferociously ending and drunken antics in full-swing. They've seen me at my best, looking sober, happy, and other times, in tears, in pieces. They've heard some home truths and some of the biggest lies I've ever told. They've glimpsed at stolen kisses, raging fights and full-blown arguments, and not judged. There's been tequila and sambuca and jagerbombs and lots and lots of vodka flowing. The discovery of Desperados, "two for £5, thank you very much." Pints of absolutely anything, pitchers of whatever we could lay our hands on, absolutely anything that provides for partying fuel. Our poisons, our refreshments, our liquid energy. The good times, the bad times, and the downright unspeakable times. I've had some brilliant laughs there, occasional heartache and made far too many legal mistakes.

Despite this, I truly think there probably isn't a time that I'm happier than when I'm all glammed up, heels in tow, crisp £20 notes stowed-away in my purse, fresh from the cashpoint just ten minutes previously. A drink in my hand, meeting my friends at the bar. A catch-up, a social gathering, a few laughs, or a total binge. Whatever the occasion, we're there. This weekend, will be bank holiday. I've never missed going out on a bank hol since I turned eighteen, and I'm not about to now, even if I have to be up early on Monday morning. (reason: I'm going to Leeds.) I'm excited, and happy, and actually starting to think my life is surrounded by positivity.

I'm not saying I only have a good time when I'm drunk, because that's really daft. I'm just saying, alcohol may be the foundation of some of my greatest friendships ever. For example, as I'm writing this, my friend Sarah and I are contemplating sobriety until Sunday. We wonder, via text, whether we can stay teetotal for necessity, rather than preference. So I'm ready to go crazy, have the time of my life and languish in knowing that this Sunday will be the last of the year. I'm slightly saddened by this. Bank Holidays bring everyone at home together. We usually all flock back from uni, everyone urgently attempts to get time off work, and all other non-alcohol-fuelled plans are abandoned. This is a time to celebrate everything that's good in our lives, and forget, even just for one night, what isn't going so well. In my book it is, anyway.

So, cheers everyone! I hope you all have an amazing weekend. I hope you're all happy and drunk and smiling on Sunday. I know I will be. Surrounded by some of my favourite people, there's nothing better. I'll know then, with a drink in my grasp, that at least for then, V-O-D-K-A really does spell happiness.  Not for what it is, but for what it represents.