Reasons to be beautiful

Julie says I'm not allowed to stop writing here. Her words were something like it was lame and hilarious but I'm paraphrasing so she'll probably complain I got that wrong.

I've got an awful lot to say and none of it is particularly interesting. I'm not doing anything exciting. I'm in a sort of catatonic state ignoring all the things I should be doing and being far far too cheerful to strangers. I don't know if I'm feeling like shit or feeling alright or whether I'm in utter denial. Like if I stop for a moment and think too hard I might collapse. I'm feeling awfully distant from things.

Oh I dunno. I guess I'll be happier once I start hearing from things. I'm waiting for six or seven places to tell me if they want me to work for them, I'm waiting on two magazines to reject me and I'm waiting for something to happen. Or someone to happen.

I'm immensely tired.

Basically May is kinda dull. I've an excuse to dismiss every month.

I want summer to bring me hours of writing and reading in the sun so I stop looking like the undead and I need a job. I'm so tired of being skint. But then I've never had anything to save up for. It's novel. I hate uni, it's the biggest waste of my time but at least it wastes it.

I've spent all day wailing along to nineties girl rock in a dress that hitches itself far too high on my hips that are too wide and wishing I was many inches taller and less obsessed with scouring every inch inside my own head because it's awfully dead in there. I've been waiting a long time to grow up but I can't seem to.

But it's not all bad. I'm alive and I'm trying and I don't hate everybody I see. That's got to be a good thing. I'm writing which is another good thing but there's a nagging thing in the back of my mind that tells me that none of it is good enough until some guy reads it and decides it's worth binding between some wispy photography. I'll be pulling at my fingertips until I find myself on a shelf.

I just have no idea how I'm going to get there.