it sounds dumb and predictable but when i really think about my future i think i want it to be the white picket fence deal, which is something i'd never admit to anyone in real life. i don't know why i find it so shameful. i guess i'm still stuck in this bullshit mentality that struggle and hardship and wanting to change the world at the cost of your own happiness is much nobler, or something. but i want a small terraced house with a garden and dogs and someone i love and in this daydream i work with children but am also a somewhat successful writer and a closet is turned into a work room with plants and a sofa and globes and my typewriter. and it's not too far to visit my parents and i'm sober except for the rare times when i have a glass of gin and i spend my free time reading, at free exhibits, going to lectures, sleeping in beautiful outside areas, creating things, walking my dog, happy in my own company. i have a sweet old fashioned car and i don't care about what i look like and maybe there is a beach involved. i just want a lifetime of sustained contentment, something i don't remember ever having. or failing that, just a moment. a moment of pure, sustained happiness.

i'm so tired of being constantly disoriented by my own sadness

“The calm, Cool face of the river Asked me for a kiss.”

how to accurately communicate "i only slept with him because i wanted you"

Never was, never is, going to happen

i haven't felt like this in so long. its strange but not unpleasant

2014, the weirdest year of my life. so unfinished. 2015 has started strangely. mostly i just wish that i was at the library, working the front desk, laughing at mills & boon titles with courtney. or singing rhymes with the kids on tuesdays. or falling half in love with one of my colleagues. i don't know. in the space of a year i went from a masters level university student living on my own and studying for a well-paying job to an underemployed drunk living in my childhood attic bedroom. and guess which made me happier?
now i'm unemployed, still living in my attic bedroom, still single, but not drinking, not craving disruption and destruction in the same way that i used to. i think of the summer and it all seems okay, most of the time. i just want to be with my sister, listening to old lo-fi music and drinking 99 cent red wine in porto on the beach. i want to be driving us round different cities and states and countries, staying in cheap hostels, writing bullshit on a borrowed computer and not worrying about where my next paycheck is coming from for once in my life. summer, soon

never enough