Too much happy. What even.

Maybe I’m tired and delirious, but I actually can’t quite believe how incredibly good my life is at the moment. Like, no one deserves to be this happy. It’s weird because this time last week I was up to my neck in anxiety. I was unemployed, I was sure I was going to fail sociology, I had to move, I was lonely.

And now… and now? Now life couldn’t be better.

I have a job. At last. And I love it. I really love it. I’m not going to say what it is because I don’t want to curse myself, but I really feel good at it and I feel comfortable there and it just fits. It’s only for the summer, but I’m crossing my fingers they’ll keep me on and if not, well, better than nothing!

I got my results and guys, holy shit, I didn’t fail sociology. Far from it. I got straight As for the entire year. 

What the fuck even? 

I feel almost guilty about it because I know I didn’t try as hard as I could have. Like, I tried hard and put the work in, but towards the end I really burned out hard. I skipped a lot of lectures. Pulled more then a handful of all nighters. Drank a lot of coffee. You know the drill. But somehow it all worked out. In fact, to my astonishment I accomplished my only goal for the semester and managed to top my grades from semester one. I have absolutely no idea how. Yikes.

Goal for 2014, beat my grades again. Work harder. Actually put in the effort that I could have made this year, instead of riding on a lot of luck and a little bit of pretending to know what the fuck I’m talking about.

My friends are the most amazing people alive and I am rubbish without them. Full stop.

My family are amazing. Full stop.

In about a week I’ll be heading off to my first ever music festival with two of my amazing friends.

I’m living in the greatest city in the world. I’m young, alive, and healthy. Things felt so crappy for such a long time and now, somehow miraculously, they’re looking up and life feels wonderful.

And I seriously can’t handle it. 

Fuck it. I’m just gonna go with the flow and enjoy it while I can. Take that home skillet. 

They say life gets better. It really does. And I’m sure one day I’ll feel bad again, but right here, right now, in this moment, I couldn’t be happier.

Weighing In

I have talked about this before but it’s a topic I want to bring up again.

The topic being body image.

It’s been on my mind lately for a few reasons. I’ve been examining my relationship with my own body and been reflecting on the past ten, fifteenish years when body image has been an issue for me and why.

I have a few instances in my life of being acutely aware of body image. The first was when I was five or six years old. I was in a ballet class and we were being put into roles for our annual show. My age group could be butterflies or birds. I wanted to be a butterfly, but my teacher told me that I was too big to be a butterfly, so I would have to be a bird. I remember this so clearly, and later remember being scared that I would be too big for my bird costume, and having these nightmares of exploding out of it. My friend, who was one of those girls who is just permanently petite, was a butterfly. It’s the first memory I have of being jealous of another girls body.

When I was maybe ten, my best friend and I were making movies with my brother in the backyard. I was playing a wolf, creeping up on little red riding hood. I was wearing my favourite grey track pants, which I liked because they were the comfiest things I owned.  Later, when we watched the footage back, I vowed never to wear them again, because I was acutely aware that my bum looked massive in the camera frame, those comfortable track pants stretched tight over my huge ass.

I grew to hate photographs. Every time I looked at them I was aware of my arms, my neck, my stomach, my thighs. I hated the way I looked. I looked abnormal and freakish. I lost a lot of favourite items of clothing to this obsession- shirts I decided made my stomach puff out or clung to tightly to my arms, or gave me the very attractive sounding “slug boob”. Pants and skirts that made my hips and thighs and bum look fat.  I wouldn’t wear halter necks because I was scared of people seeing my back fat. Everything had to be baggy and lose. Everything had to be black. I spent my teenage years as a sad black ghost in my baggy pants and giant hoodies and t-shirts, terrified of being seen.

The conclusion I have drawn is that I’ve always felt not necessarily fat, but big. Big and clumsy and awkward and unfit. Even more then hating the way I looked, I hated the way I felt. I dreaded the humiliation of being in a position when I would seem heavy or when everyone else could perform a simple manoeuvrer that I couldn’t. I was afraid that if everyone had to jump over a fence, I’d be the only person who would get stuck, or have to be helped. I feared humiliation and failure, even more then I hated my looks.

Like this one time, when I was twelve. I was on an overnight school trip in Sydney and we were all rushing to make it to this show. I had one backpack to carry. I remember having a screaming fight with my mum who wanted me to take a bag on wheels, and I refused because I wanted to carry my stuff. Anyway, I had to hurry with my one backpack, but It was so hot outside, and I was so unfit that the small amount of weight was slowing me down. I was out of breath, I couldn’t keep up. A teacher had to stop and she carried my bag for me. I can clearly remember the burning humiliation and shame of being the only one who couldn’t carry their own bag and couldn’t keep up with the group. This came a night after the girls in my dorm had sat up and talked the previous night all about their weight, and I had discovered that I was at least ten kilos heavier then the others.

The fear of humiliation isn’t entirely gone. I was recently cast in a play and in one scene, my character is carried onstage by another. I was instantly filled with blind panic and mortification at the thought of someone having to pick me up and me being too heavy for them to carry. It’s irrational, but my first instinct was to propose counter ideas. Maybe he could support me through the door instead? Or I could start the scene already inside? Surely he didn’t have to carry me. Surely there had to be a way to avoid it. In my teens, I blamed myself for being lazy, but the more I think about it, the more it becomes apparent that these negative feelings are part of a vicious cycle.

I wanted to be in shape so that I could stop fearing humiliation and failure. But in order to get into shape, I had to risk humiliation and failure. I had to risk someone seeing me wobble and puffing and red in the face while I tried to jog, or worse, half naked pale and chubby struggling up and down a swimming pool.

So I never did. I put it off. I tried diets but they never ever worked and I always came out feeling worse.

Then, high school ended, and I fell out of touch with almost all of my classmates. My parents bought a mounted bike and I could hide in my room to exercise. Gradually, I started getting into shape. I lost seven kilos. I realised there were things I could now do that I would have dreaded trying before. My confidence went up, and so did my body image. That fear of humiliation and failure still existed, but in a less extreme fashion. It reached a point where I was no longer afraid of people seeing me while I exercised. I could go for runs in public, go to the gym, swim laps at the pool.

I’ve realised that my relationship to my body has always been to do with exercise, not food. Food follows naturally. When my body feels good, I’m more driven to eat well and make the hard work count. I can set achievable goals and accomplishing them feels much more permanent and significant then food goals.

On days when I don’t exercise I feel like crap, I eat crap, and all my confidence and self-esteem goes out the window. I can’t sleep, so I lie awake and feel all the dread of the night and the inevitable self doubt that comes with it.

Exercise is the key for me, to happiness and self-empowerment. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to figure it out. Diet is important, but secondary.

But what I’ve also realised is that body image is like an obsession to everyone. Like, everyone. Is there a single person alive that doesn’t have issues with their bodies? How their body looks and feels?

I have a diverse group of friends and they’re all completely gorgeous.  Tall and short, curvy and skinny. All of them are obsessed with losing weight and dieting. My friend Sarah for example, is tiny. She’s tall and thin, but has a note posted to her fridge that says “stop being a fatty”. It’s so she’ll think twice when she goes to eat food.

My other friend Katherine is tall and athletic. She’s slender and strong. She goes to the gym every day and eats only vegetables for dinner, and is obsessed with losing weight. Her friend Jen is as thin as Sarah, but works out twice a day and eats a small salad in between in order to be thinner still. Carrie is a tiny pocket rocket and goes to the gym for several hours every morning. Emma runs marathons and recently turned vegetarian.

And then there’s me. I try to run every morning and have a rule against buying junk food (I figure if I don’t buy it, I can’t eat it). I’d love nothing more then to lose ten-eleven kilos. I know I’m not overweight, I’m a healthy weight for my height and age. I want to lose it to be thinner, to fulfil this deluded teenage fantasy that somehow, if I was thinner and smaller and if there were less of me, I’d somehow be happier. More beautiful. More successful. Just better.

But the more I think about it, the more I wonder: if I weighed ten kilos less, would I be more comfortable with my fellow actor carrying me on stage in our play? Would I still be afraid of jumping the fence? Would I live in perpetual fear of one day putting all the weight back on again if I slip up or don’t keep losing more?

In other words, would I actually be happy?

I don’t know. I’m not sure. I once would have said “yes!”, but seeing my friends- all of them different and fit and healthy and smart and gorgeous women- all hating their bodies and obsessed with losing weight, it makes me wonder how certain I am that it’s true.

If I lost ten kilos I’d weigh the same as I did when I was twelve. I sure as fuck wasn’t happy when I was twelve. And there’s something weird about weighing equally to my twelve year old self at the age of twenty. Would it make me happy? I really don’t know.

At the moment, I know that exercising makes me happy and sane. I like setting myself goals and achieving them. Maybe that’s what I should focus on, and let the weight just be what it is.

A number.

Running for the hills!

Getting out of bed this morning was a damn struggle.

It’s been a rough week. I’m having to move dorms again today, on top of starting a new job and trying to apply for scholarships, plus it’s christmas and the silly season is being mighty silly. My anxiety levels have picked up a bit and aint that just delightful.

So I woke up at 5.30am and felt like crap. Just sleep till 8 I thought. But I had promised myself I’d go to the gym and run that morning. I’d skipped two days already and had been eating poorly and just wasn’t feeling good about myself. Still, getting up was hard. I arrived at the gym at six, still feeling crummy. It was hard to get going and I thought about bailing early.

Then about halfway through my run, something switched and I started feeling good. This old song I used to listen to in high school to get psyched up came on my playlist and I guess I just hit my stride. or maybe that’s the fabled “runners high”. Either way, running felt really good. Like, really good. The anxiety lifted for a moment and life seemed quite manageable. I ran 3km then beat the shit out of the punching bag in the corner. And now I feel awesome.

There’s not much point to this post except as a personal reminder: in times of feeling shitty, go for a run. It may seem like the last thing you want to do but seriously, just do it. You’ll be glad later.

Goals

Hows it hanging guys and dolls?

Life update: I’ve been working on my goals for 2014, cause my life is like, cuh-razy interesting at the moment.

So goal number one was to not get drunk in 2014. To assist me with that, I decided to join the website “Hello Sunday Morning” which is for people wanting to change their drinking habits somehow. You basically set a goal and blog the experience, and have the support of an online community behind you. So far, Like it, especially since it’s not religious nor is it preaching total sobriety. Just moderation.

So, that’s one goal off and running. I’m two weeks sober and feeling fabulous as someone who’s been living off pasta for a week can possibly feel.

Which leads me to goals two and three.

I’ve been wanting to lose weight ever since I was twelve years old, but for the past eight years laziness has constantly killed these plans and smirked at them from the computer or the couch. Enough. This is the year. The year I finally get my act together and change my lifestyle. Goal #3 is to start exercising regularly. Goal #4 is to eat better.

Jumping in headfirst like I always do has never worked before, so I’m taking it gradually now. I started last week by making myself get out of bed early. I started going for walks as soon as I got up, and today went for a run. At my peak this year I ran 5km and nearly died, so I need to work back up to that and hopefully get to a point where I can exceed it.

As for diet, I’m easing into that gradually. At the moment I’m living off the leftover groceries of my friends who moved out (thus the reason behind the excessive pasta consumption). On Tuesday I’m going grocery shopping and beginning to phase better food into my diet. For christmas I’m hoping for a blender so I can make smoothies and soup. Or if I manage to find a job, that’s the first thing I will buy.

So that’s health taken care of. My next goal is to wear sunscreen more often, on the back of advice from a woman called Samantha who is hands down the most interesting person I’ve ever met. I also want to top my grades from this year, read one book per week, and find a job. At the end of 2014 I want to be able to pay my own rent and move off of university accommodation.

These are my goals for overall self improvement for 2014.

Life in a dorm

This is the first part of a hopefully ongoing series as I adjust to life in my new residence- a university dorm.

Now, up until now I’ve been living at university, but where I was living was more like a house then anyone else. I shared with five other people, we shared a kitchen and two bathrooms. But over the summer I’ve had to move into the dorm on the other side of campus.

The major difference is that this place has both the look and feel of a backpackers. Not bad, but after a while I imagine it will begin to grate. Namely, my major issues at the moment are the guy across the hallway, who’s playing his music so loudly that it may as week be playing in my own room. Also, I can’t find any power outlets, and now have to climb two flights of stairs to reach my floor.

Rather then five housemates, I now live in a corridor with 23 others. This is certainly going to test my determination to not get drunk again. I’ve already confirmed that at least three of my new dorm-mates smoke pot, and those are just the confirmed few. This, admittedly, could be useful, but enough of that.

Moving on.

I miss my old residence already, and am tired down to my bones from the fifteen odd trips it took across campus to move everything I own. In the rain, naturally. Right, I’m going to try and find somewhere to plug in my fridge and laptop. Will keep you posted on the living situation as it unfolds.

Sobriety: The first test

Being sober while living on a university campus isn’t easy. It’s been just under a week since my humiliating Saturday night triggered the decision to not drink anymore, and last night was our end of exams final bar night for the year. My first challenge.

Physically, not drinking was an extraordinary improvement. There was none of the nausea or sticky mouth taste, and best of all, I didn’t need to pee every five minutes. I didn’t feel bloated or out of control. It was wonderful. I was able to keep my emotions in check which I can’t do when drunk.
The real challenge was dealing with the social side of things i.e. the fact that everyone else around me was drinking and drinking heavily. This wasn’t an ordinary night out- this was the last big uni party of the year, the last hurrah before everyone moved out of college the next day. Exams were over and our noise curfew had been lifted, emotions were running high and everyone was looking to see out the year with a bang. Imagine being the only person not drinking in an atmosphere like that. I’m lucky I have such good friends, but it was a bizarre experience to watch everyone else dissolve into bubbling, out of control versions of themselves, trying to speak to them like normal and realising you couldn’t.

The party itself turned out to be everything I hate. Loud, crowded, and full of creeps. Two of my friends had been drinking for a solid six hours before we even left our dorm to head to the bar. I wasn’t in a great mood, due to one of my ‘friends’ acting like a massive creep and two friends of a friend who I somewhat dislike tagging along. Drunk people aren’t that fun to be around, especially when you can’t hear each other and you’re being knocked into on all sides by people hooking up or trying to cop a feel.

Which leads me to the point of the night that made me realise how happy I was to be sober and more to the point, to realise how absolutely fucking over the whole event I was. I’ve been felt up before, in clubs, on crowded dance floors, and always been so completely off my face wasted that I either didn’t care or, and I cringe and hate myself as I admit this, but even liked it. Last night I was dancing with my friend, as as we pushed through the crowd to get off the dance floor to go to the bar, some guy who I do not know, who does not know me, who I’ve never seen before and will never see again, took it upon himself to have a feel of my cunt and my ass. I was wearing a pretty short skirt and am still thanking my lucky stars that he didn’t manage to get his hand up underneath, but never in my life have I ever felt so utterly disgusted and violated.
And I was horrified by the realisation that if I had been drunk when it happened, I wouldn’t have felt that way. I probably wouldn’t have felt anything, just accepted it. Or worse, been pleased by the attention! But it isn’t attention at all. It has nothing at all to do with me. That guy didn’t see me as a human being, just a thing to be touched for his own amusement. Ugh. I feel gross just thinking about it. You may accuse me of over reacting, but everything about that moment felt so completely wrong and pervasive.

And please understand that it’s not even the fact that he touched me that I’m so horrified by. I’m more horrified by the fact that drunk me wouldn’t have cared, whilst sober me was 100% aware of how completely wrong it felt.

At the time, part of me wished I had been drunk so I wouldn’t have cared. Ignorance is bliss, as they say. But I’m glad now, in hindsight. That overwhelming realisation of how wrong it was and how bad I felt proved one thing at least: my self worth is more valuable then any drink could ever be. That same self-worth goes out the window when I’m drunk, and that’s not good. I’m not a more relaxed, less inhibited person when I’m drunk. I’m a mess who can’t feel good about herself who considers perversion as affection, as approval and affirmation that acting slutty and stupid is what I need to do in order to be valued.

It’s a hard lesson to truly appreciate and come to terms with, but a valuable one. And it’s affirmed further my resolve to no longer be a person who drinks. I’m absolutely not saying that this applies to everyone. I know plenty of intense drinkers who can shrug it off without a hangover and keep themselves composed when under the influence, but I am not one of those people. I’m not built like that. I never was and never will be. I tried to be, because especially living where I am, at the age that I am at, it makes life a lot easier. But it just isn’t right for me, and that’s that.

A whole pile of ugh

I feel like I’ve changed a lot over the past two years since graduating, but there are one or two things that haven’t changed.

1) I still complain CONSTANTLY about EVERYTHING and then continue to do nothing about it.

2) I still don’t know what to do with my life

3) I’m still terrified of everything

4) I’m still self-diagnosed as depressed.

The end of the year is fast approaching. This has been a brilliant year, but it’s also been very difficult. I love the end of the year, because I love new years resolutions. This year I resolved to make university work for me and to make new friends, and now, in recollection, I think I’ve done that.
And I’ve decided to get a jump start on New Years Eve and start planning next years resolutions now, and hopefully make a start on them.

Basically, the goal is to be a happier, more positive, and more capable person. How am I going to accomplish that? As follows.

1) It’s time to start being more honest with others, and with myself. I lie a lot, about stupid things. I say what I think I’m supposed to say, instead of what I really mean. When I feel afraid, it’s sometimes difficult to understand exactly why. I want to understand more, and be understood more. I want to say what I actually mean, and if this means slowing down and shutting up then I’ll do it.

2) Stop complaining. It’s like fucking clockwork. I can’t find a job. Uni is hard. I don’t know what to do with my life. Bla bla bla. It’s boring and it needs to stop. I’m not sure how I’m going to kick the self-indulgent whining habit, but I’ll find a way.

3) Do things to be happier, even when its hard. Running and exercising make me feel good, make me more productive, give better sleep and a happier outlook. And yet I will run maybe once a week and then make excuses every other day and feel like crap about it. This needs to stop. Even when it’s difficult, I’m determined to get into the habit of getting up and getting out as many days of the week as possible.

4) I want to make better use of my time. I spend soooooo much time on the internet doing nothing. I say I want to do all these projects and things but then I just never get around to it. This needs to change.

5) I need to get over my aversion to looking nice. This sounds horribly narcissistic, but I’ve decided next year I’m going to focus more on my appearance and start trying to look good every day. I think this will give me more confidence and make me happier. And then maybe I will stop using “I’m ugly” as an excuse for everything.

6) I want to be kinder to myself. If this means making lists of nice things and pinning them next to my bed, or taking a moment out of every day to meditate and just feel happy and confident for no reason, then so fucking be it.

7) I want to spend more time appreciating moments and being present, and not always thinking forward or regretting the past.

So in short:

Be more honest
Stop complaining
Do things that I know will make me happy, even when it’s hard.
Use my time better
Feel better about appearance
Be kind to myself
Be present

I got a job!

Ooooooh fuck.

I don’t know why i do this but whenever good things happen I always fear the worst and feel the need to back pedal. Fast.

That’s what I’m experiencing now, because after a whole year of trying desperately to find a job, I finally found one, and now i’m freaking out.

As of next year I’m going to be teaching guitar to children in return for money. My guitar skills aren’t that great. And I hate kids. And I’m completely unqualified to do this. But looks like I’m still going to be doing it. Fuuuuuuuucking hell. How did I get into this?

Thing is, I do this all the time. I whine about needing work or whatever else and then when opportunities come up, completely freak out. This is a good thing. A very good thing. Ideal even. But even so I totally cannot handle it. Farking fark.

Being okay

So what happened was I decided that if I was going to be a writer I needed to stop talking about it and just do it.

So I looked around, wrote a few emails, and to my surprise for an offer from a company to work for them as a freelance writer. They asked me for a sample of my work, and I sent them a couple of blogs and articles I’ve written. Then they asked me to write them an article about university life.

Perfect. I know a lot about that. I’ve had some interesting experiences and learned a lot. I’d be more then happy to share this knowing with anyone else who wants to know.

I had a week to write the article and send it in. Mind you, I wasn’t being paid for this, yet. This was still part of the application process. In my mind, the make or break point. It was my opportunity to prove myself, to prove that i can write to deadlines, write efficiently and well, use an engaging tone and choose relevant subject matter. It was my chance to finally do what I’ve always said I was going to do, and write something. Something real.

And I just couldn’t do it.

I don’t know what happened. Actually I do. I blame writers block but it’s not that. It’s that, at the end of the day, being very honest with myself, and I’m not saying this to evoke sympathy or be self-pitying, but I’m not a very good writer. I’m okay at it. But I’m also okay at cooking, okay at singing. I’m okay at a lot of things, but far away from being good at anything. I chose writing as a future profession because I like making up stories, but confession time, I’ve never been any good at writing them down. They’re all there in my head, with detailed plots and characters that feel so real to me, but when it comes to committing them to paper, I get impatient. I lack the skills. I lack the clarity of thought.

Anyway, back to the article.

This article was a slap in the face, because try as I might, and believe me, I fucking tried, I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get the words onto the page. They wouldn’t stick. They were sloppy, they were messy. They sounded wrong. They were structured horribly. My tone was awful, fake and  nasty and grating. They read as self-indulgent, arrogant, lazy, and horribly horribly vague.

I hit my deadline and gave up. I just couldn’t do it.

I felt horribly disappointed in myself. I felt like screaming, kicking and punching and grinding my teeth. I felt like a loser, like a failure. I felt like a fake. So much for a being a writer. I had a week to write a 400 word article and I just couldn’t do it. I felt like I’d been lying to everyone, kidding myself into believing this was something I could do. I felt like never attempting to write again.

And just as I hit rock bottom, in a swelling, suffocating cloud of self-indulgent misery…

There’s no not cheesy way to say this. It felt like I got so angry and frustrated and utterly angry with myself, that all that energy just burned out and I was left with nothing left to feel angry with.

And a tiny little voice appeared. And it was very gentle. And it said, “It’s okay.”

It’s okay I couldn’t write the article. And more importantly, most importantly, it’s okay to be kind to myself.

Kindness. What a concept. It felt kind of like a bruise. I haven’t been kind to myself in a very, very long time.

I’m one of those people who flinches away from hugs, who claims to hate being touched. I don’t like compliments. I see the failure and negative in every interaction and situation. If someone says I’ve done well, I always take it as pity.
I’ve never been able to appreciate kindness, because I never, ever, not once in the past ten or so years, have felt like I deserved it.

I tend to take things going wrong as personal failure. I tend to get very angry about these things. Earlier in the year, I briefly saw a councillor but stopped because I decided it was pathetic for someone as well off and lucky as myself to be doing something so self-indulgent and narcissistic as seeing a councillor. But before I stopped going, the guy said something that’s stuck in my mind ever since.

He described this kind of anger, this refusal to accept any kind of positivity towards myself, as a kind of “scathing self assessment”. Scathing. Scathing. It’s the word that sticks, I think. It’s the perfect word. That’s exactly what this feels like. Like a burning hot fire. Like the urge to scrub off my skin whenever anyone touches me gently.

But it wasn’t until I hit rock bottom and just burned out, completely burned through to my core, that the simply solution suddenly seemed, if not possible, that at least it made sense.

It is okay to be kind to myself.

I still twitch away from it. But that’s the truth. Why default to being a failure, to being ugly, to being useless and worthless and awful? Why is it so damn hard to just let this shit go? To feel good about myself? To see failures not as failures, but as setbacks. As lessons to learn from?

Setbacks happen. My inability to write this article was a setback. And setbacks are going to keep on happening and happening, until they don’t. The only way to reach that point is by not giving up.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m sick of feeling overwhelmed and ugly and impossible and like a fraud. I’m tired of flinching. I’m tired of blaming myself for everything, and tired of having to burn out over and over again just to survive.

I don’t know if I’m fully a believer yet, but I’m determined to get there.

It’s okay to be kind to yourself. That’s the truth.

Mining my boring life for character attributes.

On Thursday we won the parades competition, a hands down victory more due to the other contestants being terrible then to ourselves being any good. Whatever. Victory is victory, and if we aren’t drinking to our sorrows we might as well drink to our cheer.
Any excuse to drink, really, will do.
So on Thursday night I got well and truly sozzled. I washed cheap jelly shots down with cheaper wine. From there, a mouth full of offered whiskey, a sip of stolen vodka, a sample of something fizzy and red, and a gently forced shot of absinthe to finish on a high. None were mine, except for the cheap wine, which went down easily enough although the previous months had taught me to associate the taste with vomit.
We danced and drank for hours, staring far too early in the evening and consequently ensuring that everything went downhill from about 11 pm onwards. I danced on a table in my pretty pink dress, kicking bottled out of the way without being able to care. They weren’t my bottles, it wasn’t my table, so dance on lass and regret tomorrow.
The night ended like it began, far too early. The following day my body couldn’t decide whether or not it was hungover. To sleep, or to get up and study. Laundry needs doing, and my library books are due back tomorrow and I need to finish reading them. I ended up watching Titanic while binge eating instant mashed potatoes and looking for jobs on he internet, a halfhearted effort to end my current state of unemployment despite knowing my resume really isn’t up to scratch.
The instant mashed potatoes, much to my dismay, have left me painfully constipated, an uncomfortably end to something of a non-day.
And despite cooking a nice dinner in an effort to dull the ache in my belly, I’ve ended up chasing it with frozen pita bread. Despite my best efforts at being a grown up, it seems I’m not quite there yet.
Tomorrow I intend to swim, tidy my bedroom, attend a marriage equality rally, do laundry and return my books, assuming I get them read later tonight. I’ll probably end up sleeping in, missing the rally, giving the pool a miss, coping a fine for my books and watching another movie in the name of ‘research’.