I'm writing this as a high-strung 18 year old on break after finishing her first semester (!!!) because it's cheaper than therapy, and also a lot less awkward than sitting down trying to explain some of this shit to your parents and having them turn it into a lecture. (Yes mum, I understand I fucked up, there's no need to remind me for the twentieth time.)

I also decided on writing this because as my friend Alex always says my life is like a B-rated soap opera and it's time to capitalise off of the shit life has thrown at me. Or make lemonade out of the lemons it's chucked, if it's better put that way. It'll be an amalgamation of real experiences and real people, both good and bad. Honestly, facing some of these people after this gets out is going to be a bit of a challenge.

I haven't written in a while and boy, it's showing. I guess that's the ironic thing about school, isn't it? We spend 6 years analysing texts, searching deep into the author's soul to write about their exact epiphany regarding the colour of the characters' curtains and what it represents and how impactful that choice was to their overall concept within the novel. And yet, I'm struggling to put my feelings into words.

This has been a pattern lately; the idea of struggling, I mean. I feel as though high-school was a hell and I hated every minute of it until I was spat out of those hallways and now I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing. With anything; academics, friends, relationships, just life in general. Not like my anxiety is doing me any favours, on top of that.

So let's start from the beginning I guess.

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