My aspiration is to be a journalist. But as I sit here now thinking that I should at least practise writing some sort of article on where my aspiration derived from or what have you, I struggle. And when I do go off on one about ‘ever since I was yada yada I wanted to be a journali bla bla’ the back space button takes over. It’s difficult really, because I can’t see myself being a successful journalist, and yet I cannot imagine myself doing anything else. The paradox irritates me. And there is more contradiction to come. The fact that I adore London (where most magazine Journalism would take place,)I love everything about it… the business of it, the fuss of it, the buildings, the offices THE SHOPS, I even love how everyone is on their mobile phone, minding their own business, doing there own business. Heck, there might not even be anyone on the end of the line, but no-one cares and no-one knows. I can see myself as one of those busy bodies, on their way to the office and minding their own but I don’t want to leave my home.
My home being a delinquent ghost town, a town that I detest and loathe, but cannot tear myself away from. It is haunted by old people during the day and ruined by alcohol obsessed yobs and the regretful middle aged by night. Everyone is in each other business, you don’t need mobile phones in this town, the grape vine is on top form. There are no shops, no fancy buildings, nothing to do apart from have a few drinks…or ten.
I believe that to follow your dream, you have to neglect your reality. So I have decided to hit Bournemouth city. Yeah, it isn't London, but you have to take little steps, just learning to walk. It’s going to be a struggle at first, living in a cosy bungalow with three perverse old men and sleeping on a sun lounger next to an irritatingly beautiful girl I met on shrooms a few years ago, yeah I loved her then, who don’t you love when you are on those things. But that’s a different story for different time. I met a boy a year ago you see, and he’s made me go a bit coo coo. My mind is fixated on the untrustworthy, reclusive relationship we possessed and the fact he made me the unhappiest girl alive, as well as the most content. Now, a year on, I sometimes still dream he is going to come back to me, and realise; ‘hey she aint all that bad.’ But it’s not going to happen, and as long as I am in this town deemed ‘smack Minster’ or ‘accy coo coo’ as I like to label it, I have come to terms with the fact that I am going to be waiting a very long time.
Yes, I am only twenty, and there are plenty more fish in the sea, and I am to good for him, and he doesn’t deserve me yada yada, but the effect that this idiot boy has had on me is chronic and unbearable, especially after so much time.
And why? We didn’t go out anywhere, the sex was selfish and boring, (the selfishness being on his part and the boringness on mine), he didn’t introduce me to any of his friends, we did nothing apart from sit in our own dirt in his grubby little pit like excuse for a bedroom at his mothers house...where it took him 6 months to finally come to terms with the fact I was his girlfriend, and after an additional two, he ended it by typing to me on a social networking site. Smooth. But we laughed, my days did we laugh. The laughing was good. I miss laughing.
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