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There is nothing more to it than that.
I’ve got back from holiday; gone back to work and realised my life is shit.
I feel like a fat kid, who was spoon-fed cake every day for two months and then all of a sudden the spoon-feeding stopped and the cake disappeared.
I miss being on holiday. I miss the people there. I miss my best friend, who has selfishly returned to university. I miss the sunshine. I miss the ocean. I miss being chatted up every two seconds. I miss staying up all night and sleeping on the beach in the day. I miss considering ice-cream to be an adequate meal. I miss the high serotonin levels caused by the beautiful sunshine.
All I do is work, and then come home, sit here on my laptop, writing blogs and monologues, and then I go to bed. I’m bored. My job is boring. There is nothing to do at home. All my friends have gone back to university and the rest have gone back to York. I’m stuck here, a slave to the man, for two more weeks.
And then what? I’ll go back to York, so that’s good right?
Well, it will be winter, which means fashion goes out of the window. No longer can I go out half-naked, wearing strappy shoes. All I feel like doing is curling up under a blanket with a hot chocolate and an old novel. But can I do that? No. Because psychotic lecturers expect me to turn up to lectures, even when it’s below 20 degrees.
Insane isn’t it?
I hate winter.
Which translates to, ‘I hate England because the only season we ever seem to have here is winter’. Can someone please remind me, when I graduate, to pack up and go to live in a lovely sunny country? Then I’ll be happy. Maybe.
And what is worse? I’m starting to write like Tom Eagles. Well at least I am still at university and have hopes for life, unlike some.
Although, I do have to admit that I am looking forward to having a whole new batch of Freshers to torture. At least that is going to be brilliant fun. And I suppose seeing all my lovely friends again. And the geese that I grew to love.
But for now, I will sit here mumbling illegible self-loathing comments to anyone who will, or who won’t, listen.
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