When you are away my heart comes undone

The cold that threatened to ruin yesterday hit me hard this morning. I was spending my pennies on comfort food and tissues. I contemplate heading to Boots and doing the "please help me, little boxes of pills" that I seem to do every other month. But it's raining. That's why my hat is tucked awkwardly in my bag. It's why I'm shivering, huddled outside the Union trying to decide where to go to kill my time. Lovely Lass is away home by now, our timetables don't match quite so well this semester. I have a page of a story that I'd planned to finish yesterday but I wrote about the sleeping boy instead and doodled strawberries so I'll have nothing to present at the Writer's Group but that's ok. I haven't written much lately. I've got a fair few things rolling around my head but no drive to write them. I've been reading instead. Devouring pages of text. There's so many books waiting to be read and I don't have enough time or money to get through them all.

My head has been in the clouds lately. I've not been thinking anything through. I like life that way. I like trundling along and hoping for a surprise. I don't want to make the first move, don't want to make any decision. I care, don't get me wrong. I always care. It's been a long, long time since I gave up caring and I like to think I've grown up a little. I can deal with things better. I'm still floored when people see through me. When they say something, usually offhand, and it niggles away and makes me think far too much. I'm happy to an extent. I know what I'm lacking. I want somebody to curl up sleepy and cosy with. When two bodies fit just right beside each other and you can talk about anything and it doesn't matter. I want to fall asleep in somebody's arms and feel safe for once. There's only been a handful of times when I could make that claim.

But whether I want a relationship is debatable. I love being somebody's girl. I love that thrill when you tell somebody you're off to meet your boyfriend. I love the butterflies in my stomach when I walk down the road to meet him and I wonder what the day will be like. But I've been my own girl for close on 2 years now (which was mostly self-inflicted so I can't complain too much) and sometimes I wonder if I could give myself up to somebody else again. I need control. Maybe I'm just tired of men declaring love. I mean at nineteen years old what is love exactly? When you can't stop thinking about him, and he intrudes on all your thoughts and you just have to be near him? When you lie awake at nights and wonder what he's doing and if he's thinking of you and is it too late to call him? I don't think I've ever fallen in love. Not with anybody I could have a relationship with. My relationships are defined by boys who showed an interest in me and I'd say yes because I figured why not. I'm still unsure about David Number 2, considering he was a boring psycho and a good friend of mine at the time was madly in love with him. Suddenly he was telling me he was in love and people were going on about how we were in love and I realised I was incredibly bored and left him for somebody new. I mean, what the hell was I thinking? The men who consume me are always the ones I can't have and I try not to dwell on them but they fascinate me more than the boys who throw themselves at me.

I feel awful. It's not the alcohol because God knows I didn't drink enough of that even if I was less than steady on my feet. My face aches from the cold that I hope goes away soon. My feet buzz from walking too far around the campus today. Luckily the teeny little cut on my hand is mostly healed so long as I don't stretch it or write too fast. I'm rambling again. Honestly I'm surprised anybody bothers reading this. I know I don't after I get it out. This is merely an extension of my mind and sometimes I forget this is public and people who know me read it. And when they mention things I've written later on I get freaked. It's so intimate reading somebody else's thoughts. I wrote in my journal the other day that imagining you reading what I'd written there was like imagining you watching me slip my dress over my head. I concluded that my blog on the other hand was a mere flash of my tits, so quick you barely notice. I remember feeling I'd written something profound and insightful but then I always think that until I look at it a week later and laugh at my pretentiousness.

I'm so bored. It's like my mind switched off weeks ago and nobody wants to wake me up. Is this less abstract enough for you? I barely even rambled on about the past that I dwell in far too much. This is my present. And fuck me am I ever sick of it.

Nevermind. No doubt time will catch up me unawares and deadlines will scream in my ears and I'll be too flustered to give a damn about anything real.