I have the best friends in the world — to Mel, Milk and Jess; to moments, intimacy, laughter and kinship; to love and a genuine interest in me as a person (forgive this narcissistic train of thought).
I’m kinda in a shithole now, and Dave I don’t think you’d quite approve. Okay, I will try to find time to pen a letter once you find time to meet up with me for a much needed catch-up!
Someone please please slap me silly, because I don’t think I can find my way out this time.
Well, it has been one hell of an eventful week and I am so drained. Got into my first car accident with Hannah on Tuesday, and finally went for a night market at St Kilda. Almost went to an alternative bar on Wednesday but Adora couldn’t remember where it was located so we ended up at Borders on Chapel Street. The next day in the car before breakfast with YD Quentin and Sonja asked me how our night was and I told them we ‘read books’ at Borders; but what the heck, as if they would believe me.
Shit, I can’t believe it’s Saturday already. Shamiana and Kingsgate Hotel feels decades ago. I just want to hole up in my room – rest, recuperate and reflect.
I’m still undecided: should I go for the Arts O-Camp or not? Scary thing is going alone, and what if I don’t make any friends!
Note: I cannot join the Australasian Association. Cannot support such frivolity. I am like, frivolous enough so shoot me now.
I’ve stayed home for the past three days. Note: that does not equate increased productivity. I am yet to write postcards&letters and make Stells’ birthday pop-up card.
I feel like I’m spinning around in circles and I want to cry upwards but my eyes – and my heart – is dry.
Today will be my first driving lesson and first day at work for February and I’ll be wearing my trial contact lens for five hours.
I never knew I’d ever say this, but I’m getting sick of filling up my schedule with places-to-go-people-to-meet-things-to-do-books-to-read-letters-to-write because something fundamental is not right and the vertical connection is so weak that I feel like such an effing hypocrite saying the right things knowing the right things even believing the right things but not once, getting off my arse and doing the ‘right’ thing.
I want to standUP and fight for social justice and our apathy about all things injust. We need proximity to the poor and the needy and the lonely before we can even start to give a real damn about real issues. I want need a heart that CARES, and really truly loves from the bottom of the heart.
Sorry for this post. I don’t really feel feel feel like this, it’s just that sometimes my writing gets distorted in the process of translation from thought to type because I can’t quite place a finger on what’s going on inside. And I’m sick of talking about how I ‘feel’ ‘feel’ ‘feel’, about stupid emotions when life doesn’t give a damn about these things. Someone shoot me now — I’m feeling so terribly teenage-y angsty.
I’m eighteen and in need of serious growingUP.
Goodnight. It’s 3:47am.
