I have a boyfriend.

Long time no sprecken. Let’s jump right in shall we?

I have a boyfriend.

A boyfriend.



Take a moment to appreciate the groundbreaking significance of this life development. I. Have. A. Boyfriend.

I last posted in January (soz lol) and that post was once again about my single status. And now I have a boyfriend. We’ve been together for about a month. How the fuck, I hear you ponder, did this happen?

Well dear internet friend, I will tell you.

Flashback to March. A monday night. This particular monday night was the closing night for a play I had been in, and I was ecstatic. Not that the play hadn’t been fun, but I was sick of it. I was glad to have my nights and free time back, so this particular monday night was a celebration. In true university dorm spirit, to celebrate we got drunk. We was my floor mates and the guys from the floor above. Long story short, I got properly trashed quite quickly. Trashed to the point where I fell off a chair and forgot about it. Trashed to the point where it could have been literally anybody, and the boy in the room above m just happened to be the one sitting closest.

Trashed to the point where when he asked me if I wanted to have sex with him, I said yes.

Now the sex was fine. The sex was quite fun. But god almighty what a horrendous error of judgement. He’s a good guy and we’re friends now, but I regret that night so much. The worst part is that everyone I live with knows.

So I felt a bit shitty about myself, and the next night was crying on my friends shoulder about feeling like a whore and no one would ever love me and I wad doomed to be alone forever.

Two nights later, I hooked up with my boyfriend.

Fucking hell, maybe I am a whore.

It’s not exactly romantic. We were drunk (recurring motif) and once the flirting had started I bailed. Not going to make the same mistake again. I went downstairs to go to bed, and about ten minutes later he was knocking on my door. Ladies and gentleman, no sex happened that night. Well maybe just a little bit, but I digress. And since that night we’ve been hanging out all the time, going on dates, watching movies, text messaging. And now he’s my boyfriend or something.

Having a boyfriend has been rather unlike what I expected it to be. I don’t know what I expected, to be honest, but I feel exactly the same. Except now there’s this guy hanging around who thinks I’m pretty and laughs at my jokes.

Cool. So that’s what happened. Now to the next bit.



Bits of stuff and ugh

Ugh. Just ugh. This blog. So dusty and under used and unread! One day, many years from now I’m going to skim over those early entries from when I was 17 and be so disappointed.

Here’s some random thoughts.

I am devouring Dereck Landy’s Skullduggery Pleasant books at the moment and loving it. I read them way back in high school and it’s been a very happy reunion. It feels good to be totally absorbed in a book series again. Most of the books I read these days are either books I have to read, books I’m analysing, books about books, or the kind of books that I feel like I should be reading- big wordy canonical books, books to be read just so you ca say that you read them. Yes many of these books are good, but nothing grips me quite as much as a good young adult fantasy mystery with a dark humour, twisty turny plot line, un-cliché detailed characters and an ending that leaves you with your jaw on the ground. These are the books that remind me why I love and adore reading.

Speaking of love, I’m 100% completely over it. One of my new years resolutions was to find a boyfriend/girlfriend and 11 days into the new year I can fairly confidently say that I’ve stopped giving a fuck. It’s pleasing to be at a point in my life where I find a persons actions more attractive then their physique. Where I value being able to hold an interesting conversation with someone over them simply noticing me. It feels like a healthy place to be in.
What is not healthy is the fact that my interest in love and finding love has dipped quite significantly. I find myself irritated by couples and uninterested by romance. Almost all of my romantic stories have taken a sideline and I’ve been putting work into my crime novel instead.

What’s assisted this total lack of interest in love is both a) my third and final foray into the world of online dating and b) my new job.
Ugh. Online dating. I don’t know why I ever bothered with it, let alone why I bothered with it more than once. The most recent attempt was on a different website, and I gave up after a week. Why? The usual reasons- an influx of creeps. Although this time what sealed my decision was this article I read about online dating and the people on there, and the thought that somehow people are ‘entitled’ to love and sex. Specifically the article focused on the ‘nice guy’ bullshit, and the idea that some not nice men have that being a ‘nice guy’ means they’re entitled to sex, and therefore don’t see women as people worthy of friendship or any other association. She’s worth being nice to if she’ll put out. If not, she’s screwing you over.
Sad to say, my few experiences with online dating have followed this exact pattern. The few guys who I manage to maintain conversations with manage to magically stop replying as soon as it becomes clear that I’m not interested in meeting up for sex.
Another article I read was about a comedian who created the most awful female dating profile she could, but still had men messaging her wanting to meet up and entirely okay with how awful she was.

I deleted my dating profile to rescue my impression of the male gender, as I know not all guys are like that. Still, ugh.

But what really did it for me was the first article, and the idea that people aren’t entitled to love. I think ever since I’ve been old enough to understand stories and take messages on board, my understanding was that there was a guaranteed person out there for me- my prince charming, soul mate, other half, whatever. And eventually, at some undetermined point in the future, he or she would come along and that would be that. It was going to happen. That was the unspoken promise from a thousand books and movies and people telling me one day I’d be married and all that crap.

Now I’m twenty years old, I’ve never been in a relationship, I have no prospects of being in a relationship, and it’s finally sunk in that finding love, as nice as it would be, is not something I’m entitled to at all. That a lot of people never meet the right person and, more importantly, that it’s okay not to. I’m so god damn sick of songs and books and stupid well meaning quotations telling me that without love, life isn’t worth living. That’s bullshit. I have friends and family who love me and who I love. I don’t need a ‘significant other’ to love a fulfilled and interesting life. It’s not something I’m entitled to, am guaranteed, or am even sure I want anymore. That’s not a bad thing and I refuse to believe that it is.

A whole bunch of random shit. Welcome to my head.

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.


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.

Creative Life Tip

Always have a hard and soft copy of any idea or important document that might end up being significant. Ideally, have one hard copy and at least two soft copies at all times. And keep past drafts that have been re-worked. You may wish to invest in some binders, a good printer, an external hard drive and some serious organisational and filing skills. It’s an investment worth making, because otherwise you’ll experience the creative nightmare that is a good idea getting away.

There’s no way to say this without it sounding like I’m bragging, so I’m just going to say it. I’m writing a musical. There. Raise your eyebrow of mild disbelief and condescension, I know this idea will probably crash and burn before I get the chance to pitch it, let alone stage it, but for the first time in ages it was a project I was excited about.

My method for song writing is to vaguely think about it while doing other things, then keep thinking about it while going to sleep, then wake up in the middle of the night and scramble for paper and a pen before the idea gets away. This has worked for me for a while, but recently I inherited my brothers old smart phone and the whole system changed. I could save word documents in my phone! Huzzah! The days of frantic scrambling and blinking madly as I turn on the light and hunt for the pen that’s never there were over! I could just roll over, type my idea into my phone, and got back to sleep. No stress, no fuss.

I had the lyrics to about 90% of a first draft musical saved onto my phone. They’ve been accumulating for about a month and a half now, and yesterday I decided to transfer everything on my phone onto my computer. I plugged in and saw there was an update available. Goodie! Install that good sir and we’ll be on our way.

But the update would not install. Nooooo instead it crashed my phone which in a blind panic I disconnected from my computer without even thinking about it. My phone won’t turn on and it keeps buzzing. My tech savvy brother said to plug it in and pray. I’ve tried all the re-set suggestions on google and diddly squat. I didn’t even think about losing my data until five minutes ago when I sat down to work on my musical and had one of those fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck moments that make nothing beautiful and everything hurt.

So now I’m trying desperately to resurrect my phone. Any suggestions are welcome. And remember kiddies- always, always ALWAYS make copies.

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.

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And then I passed out on the toilet floor

I have decided to be more specific with my new years resolution to become a better and happier person, and I’m starting with the decision to stop drinking.

I’ve been writing this blog since I was seventeen and documented the first time I got drunk (my eighteenth birthday). Since that first time I have always intensely disliked it, but for some reason have just kept on drinking. I drank when I was backpacking, I drank at my graduation, I drank at Christmas. I have never been kissed while sober, and the first time I had sex was while too drunk to walk in a straight line.

Drinking had never resulted in anything good for me. I’ve ruined friendships and made a fool of myself. I’ve been sick to the point where I can’t breathe. I’ve done things with people that I don’t necessarily regret but do wish I had more presence of mind to remember. I’ve lost whole days to hangovers, days that could have been used productively instead reduced to lying in bed, watching movies, eating chips and feeling sorry for myself.

My friend calls it ‘social lubricant’, meaning that losing your inhibitions and loosening your tongue makes getting along with people and making friends much easier. And I guess that’s true to a point, but when I’ve been drinking the parts of myself that I like disappear. Self-control, intellect, humour, dignity, rationality and confidence fly out the window. I become an emotional needy mess.

But I kept on doing it. It doesn’t seem to matter how much I drink, I’ve been a lightweight for the past two years of my adult life. I’m not sure why I keep drinking alcohol, despite all the bad things that it’s caused. I guess I forget what it feels like and somehow imagine things will turn out okay. Or maybe it’s just a habit, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. When you’re young and resilient you’re supposed to drink till you vomit. It’s expected, it’s encouraged, it’s what we see and what we are. It’s part of your identity as a young person, being reckless and making mistakes with full knowledge that what you’re doing is a mistake. I don’t know, and I don’t blame anyone but myself for the stupid situations I’ve gotten into.

Last night was it though. The worst night I’ve had in a long time. My friends and I decided to celebrate finishing our exams with a night out on the town. We started drinking late, about nine o’clock, with the intention of leaving at ten or eleven. I was switching between vodka and cheap wine, a rookie error of mixing drinks, and drinking a lot in not a very long period of time. I took a bottle with me on the tram and kept going until we made it into the city. As we walked to that nights destination we were all pretty wasted, and I don’t think at that point I was any worse then the others. We stopped by a public bathroom to pee before going to the club (because toilet lines at clubs are always insane). By now I had finished my own bottle, and my friend offered me the rest of hers- lemonade mixed with copious amounts of vodka.

And here’s where things get hazy, because I remember sitting down while my friends finished up in the bathroom, and then not being able to get up again. And then I must have passed out, because next thing I know the floor is next to my head and I can hear my friends wondering whether or not to call an ambulance.

They helped me sit up, I threw up in the toilet, and then had to be half dragged half carried to the bus stop. I remember being cold and hyperventilating. I remember my friends putting me back in my room and dragging a bin over, and one of my friends staying with me until I fell asleep. I woke up at 6am and threw up again, emptying my stomach of the little that was left in it. Now I have a spectacular hangover and a cloud of guilt hanging over my head because I ruined everyone’s night out.

I’m lucky I have such amazing friends. I’m lucky nothing worse happened. I’ve passed out while drinking before, but never in such a public space and I don’t think I’ve ever been so sick in my life. Consider my lesson learned. I will not be doing it again.

I refuse to be that girl anymore, and so I’ve decided that I’m done. No more. No more boozing, no more drunk nights, no more drinking. It’s just not for me. I’m happier and better without it. The parts of drinking nights that I like, the chatting, the games, the dancing, the dressing up, I can have these without needing to be intoxicated. It’s the booze that I hold responsible for the parts that I don’t like- the throwing up, the loss of memory, and the being a massive dick head to people who do not deserve it.

I’m giving up drinking. As soon as I can stomach the sight and smell of it I’m tipping the rest of my vodka and wine down the sink. I will not get drunk again.

That’s not to say I will never have alcohol again, because there are some that I like objectively as a drink. I love cider, I like cocktails, but these are better as one off drinks anyway, not something to get wasted off. I don’t want to be a drunk anymore. I can’t do it, and I don’t want to.

So, in conclusion, my first new years resolution is to give up recreational drinking.