Sunday evening. Beautiful evening. My curtains are drawn. I'm fed and watered and clean and baby-oiled up. My bed is fresh and my room is sort of tidy. I have homework, but it can wait. Having eaten the last of my four-day old birthday cake, I'm thinking I'd quite like to climb into bed and watch Garden State on the laptop.
Good haul this year. Not just presents-wise, but life-wise. I'm wise. Well, wiser than I was. The seventeen-to-eighteen stretch was a long and eventful one. A trying year. Clearly, I'm still alive and kicking and maybe a little bit more addled. But certainly alive. And there's a lot to be said for still being able to laugh after all of this. Laugh more than I've ever laughed. Finally finding my niche. Not quite there yet. But getting there. Which is the story of my life: getting there.
Somehow, without ever meaning to, I end up making the best of those terrible situations and coming out the far end of 'em with a lot more confidence and a lot more friends. I want to be specific but I probably shouldn't. You know who you are anywez.
I hope this next year will be just as amazing. But it will, of course it will. It's all new and an adventure and I am surrounded on all sides by the most amazing people in the world. That's pretty amazing already. And a recipe for further amazingness.
Is it terrible that I sometimes really don't like talking to my brother on the phone even though he lives thousands of miles that way and I see him once in a blue moon? Probably. Apologies.
Awful dream last night. Really awful. I was very nearly hoarse waking up from all the shouting I'd done in that nightmare. If you knew me well enough though, you'd know that that was probably a good sign, that dream.
Pink champagne is disgusting. Sorry, but it is. Lovely celebrating though. About ninety of us traipsed down the road on the way to Clegg's and essentially got an invite to a gang bang. In the form of wolf whistles and bawdy calls of, I dunno, approval? The elderly of today. Turns my stomach. We did look lovely though. I really liked my dress. Three drinks for a tenner, in fairness, as well. Could you go wrong? I was quite the drunken mess last night, however.
Bits of last night are coming back to me in sporadic bursts. For example, earlier I got a weird pang remembering being in the toilets with Amy. I was upset as it had occurred to me that somehow the word might get out that I was a spastic, to which Amy genuinely replied, 'Emma, he reads your blog: he already knows you're a spastic'. Which is true. I may as well own up to the fact that this is just mindless drivel and, in being so, the story of my fucking life.
I bought six cans of Bavaria and three cans of Linden Village in the offy yesterday evening and the wench behind the counter didn't even ask me for ID. And, God bless him, nor did Dave in Clegg's. What is the point?
I like to allude to certain things sometimes, but mostly I prefer being blatant. But, right now, it's probably safer to say nothing at all. Extremely difficult, but safer.
I want a hug. I really want a hug. A cup of tea and a hug and bed and cuddles all night long. Please. Hangovers make me feel very fucking vulnerable.
I am going to go watch Garden State now. What a lovely birthday present! (: