(As my dad always says)
It’s the first of August. Where the hell has this year gone. I’ve finished my first year of university, helped found a society, asked to help do research for a book, became a student representative, made my best friend since like, play school, had some wild as nights, and managed to keep my relationship remotely stable no thanks to me falling to pieces every few weeks. Traveled. Got myself into debt. Sold lots of possessions. Fell apart some more. Smiled and laughed lots, fell in love with a city and its galleries.
It is the first of August. I’ve got a hell of a lot to do. I was invited to my first Fashion Blogger event in East London, but the dates clash with my dad’s visit. I hope there’ll be more events for me, and I guess all that means is that I have to keep this blog strong and visible. The society is a messy business, where we’re all full of wonderful ideas but have little knowledge of how to actually make things come together; turning said ideas into those killer events, conferences, screenings. I have a list of emails to send and phone calls to make. I have classes next term that I bullied my way into, and that I’m not really qualified to take — my summer reading pile is huge, and heavy on big words.
It’s the first of August and I have no excuses. I am recovering well, with 24 days left until I may be allowed to walk again. I have no real plans, people to see or places to go, no parties I can make — you cannot accept invitations with crutches and a watchful mother. All the time in the world. Sitting in bed all day means I need less sleep; I have more hours in the day. No excuses not to be a power house. I said it the other night, and I was right: I’m not depressed enough to be bedridden and to get through it totally sane. Last time I wasn’t fussed. Now I just want to be outside. Soon. Anyway.
Hello August, I guess.