I've been writing though. Every (almost) day. In a journal. It's scruffy and incoherent and I'd like to say it's pretty darn honest. So honest that I don't let anybody touch it, not even a peek. Which, by the by, is a problem. I don't want my journal to contain so many secrets, it makes things complicated.
Despite all this writing, blogging seems to be exceptionally difficult when you haven't done it in a while. For some reason because I'm writing in a box that has an edit function I feel like I should be writing fantastic prose. That's a fairly silly way to think really, I shouldn't have to edit how I write here anymore than I do on paper. Digressing. Sorry.
Almost a year ago I started going out with a boy that made me really happy and I think I maybe mistook that happiness for general life happiness. Emotions can be awfully confusing to sort out sometimes. I was happy, though. I still am, sometimes. Sometimes I'm not and that's probably why I'm writing.
I'm still at a university that I despise. It's not the institution. For all its flaws and whatnot, it probably could be worse. Throw myself into work and I'm alright. The house I live in is cold and mouldy and overpriced, but I have a roof over my head and food to eat so I'm luckier than most. Emily is one of the best things about this year, we've somehow both lucked out in living together and get on insanely well.
The right thing to say now would probably be that the problem, is me. But it's not. Yes, I'm a jealous person. It's in my nature to be so and after several years of trying I just can't stop it. It's ugly and vicious and hurts me and my relationships, but it is constantly gnawing away at me and I just can't stop it. I lack self confidence and self belief and all those other things that make for a strong, independent woman and I'm completely trapped inside of my own head. But the problem isn't just me. It's other things. Here lies the problem of the internet. Barely anybody reads this, but there's this slight chance that some day it'll get stumbled upon by people that should remain ignorant to the crazy that lives in my head. No wonder my journal is so full.
As a preview into those elusive "other things", I will say this. My generation, as wondrous as so many members of it are, are a disgrace. The vast majority of people I have met here just don't care. Cheating on your girlfriend is fine and alcohol is always a good enough excuse to do whatever the hell you like without worrying about the repercussions of your actions. I just wrote this really big essay about Fitzgerald and so much of the time I feel like I'm living in one of his novels. We're behaving like we're lost, like we have the right to behave in this way because we've had to live through some terrible event. But we're not. We're spoilt and we're childish and we never stop to think. And I get that growing up is supposed to be about experimenting and learning and trying new things, but that's not an excuse for hurting people. Youth isn't about being the biggest cunt possible just because you can get away with it. This is probably where I'm going wrong in being a teenager or supposed "young adult". That I take pride in the fact I actually give a damn about the way I present myself to the world and that I don't actually think there's anything wrong with giving a fuck about another person.
So much more to say, too upset, too angry.
p.s. haven't read this over - trying not to self-edit much more than is necessary.
