Why is it that when I cry I look even more like a fish than usual..?

You know those days when you think “y’know what world, you could actually chuck anything at me right now and I could not feel more shit than I already do”? Yeah? That’s me. Today.

The weekend we can almost skim past really. It involved me, sat in a corner of a house where I knew no-one, sober as a stone, and alone. Oh so very alone. (God I sound like a bad 90s song) In fact the only highlight consisted of a third year costume designer with purple hair and Vivienne Westwood shoes telling me that I have a very classic 50s face, and that she’d love to photograph me. Seriously. How in the name of My Little Pony’s do I get myself into these situations?!

And then today. Oh my life today. The day when 4 became 3. University housing. I swear it was so much less hassle this year when my only worry was the fact that I was gonna be living with 11 (count ’em, 11) other people, all of whom I didn’t know.. Now, I actually thought this had been sorted since before Christmas. Had it? Had it fuck. My current housemate (who was gonna live with me and 2 of the other drama queens next year) has decided drama queens just aren’t exactly her thing. So she’s gonna live in hockey-house (as I’ve pre-named it), with t’other current female housemate. Not such a huge deal?? Um or not. Three person house. Huh. Oh I can see those little £ signs adding up as I type. Bollocks. Basically. Just bollocks. And I get that she says it’s not a personal thing (like she still really really likes us, she just gets overwhelmed by us dramatic freaks) but I can’t help but take it as one. Just slightly. Oh my life, if I had a pound for every story I’ve heard in the last couple of weeks about issus with people and housing for next year, well let me tell you, I would not still be buying 9p super noodles. No I would not.

Oh yes, and then (cause you know, that’s actually not quite bad enough for one day) I called the little brother for a natter, and woke him up. This makes me a bad. A super bad. In fact a whole pile of bitch-as-a-sister. Because I didn’t consider the possibility that he might be asleep at 10.30 in the evening. And the first time I spoke to him in over a month? Yes, I wailed into his ear for a good 20 minutes. Bitch? Mm, yes, that’s me.

And then there’s this whole, “I’m crying so now I’m  going to look like a fish thing” my face has got going on. Seriously, what is that all about?! It’s like it can’t deal with the fact that I permanently have a trout-pout on the go. Nope. I have to look like those weird fish-faced-nose-lacking creature things in one of the many Star Wars movies. Not that I’m saying I don’t have a nose. I definitely have a nose.

It’s weird how good ranting can feel. And crying. Like a serious binge on tears. But then I do that. I just bottle stuff up, in a sort of ‘it’s okay, I can take things in my stride, nothing can faze me really’ way, and then BAM! Attack of the Tears: Part 72 hits and there ain’t really a whole lot I can do to stop ’em. In fact it’s best to just let them run their course. Whilst I attempt to focus and not see everything through hazy, salty liquid. Ahh, nothing like a good old binge crying sesh. I mean really.. What more could you want from a Tuesday night?

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