So as a fitting end for what began as my annis horribilis (awful university, depression, living in South-East London) and ended in triumph (new university, internship and living in the East End with my eerily perfect boyfriend of nearly three years), I got pretty fucking wasted on new year's eve and I am totally unrepentant. Okay, maybe a little repentant, because I always feel molto guilty every time I fall over, request "Totally Wired" by The Fall several thousand times and just generally make a cunt of myself at a party, but I think on the one day of the year when other people are so gone that they can't really see you fall it's kind of permissable, no? In retrospect, wearing five-inch platform heels to a fucked-up, drugged-up house party in the middle of Arsefuck, Dorset was a touch naive, but what else are you meant to wear to dance to Northern Soul? The cruelest irony was that despite being one of the only people not snorting coke until 6am I was still left with a bloody nose nonetheless thanks to the persistent ill-health which has characterised this Christmas for me. Thanks, baby Jesus!
Tomorrow it's back to work in London and I am not looking forward to living alone for the next week, arguably making me what could be referred to as "a colossal pussy". On the plus side, at least this gives me a week to myself to ponder pressing matters like whether or not I should give into temptation and wear lace tights (are they unexpectedly slutty? Do they make a person's legs look fat and/or curiously pale?), and why I am consistently drawn to stringy-looking, bony-faced male models who are aged between 17 and, um, 17 (it's because I keep getting more haggard but they still stay the same. Get out of my Dries, and into my car, etc).
("You'll need to take Poorboy with you. He's just got out of prison but he's a nice guy, really. Although he does sell some pretty heavy drugs." "Poorboy"? Am I living in Trainspotting now? Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.)