Chic Happens

This is my online diary. Decided to move from an inner monologue to the internet, at the suggestion of a diary competition. I'll update whenever I can, although I can't promise that anything interesting will have happened. Wish me luck.

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1. 5th May 2015

Funfact: today is the birthday of FRIENDS character, Rachel Green.

Funfact: if it were my birthday today, maybe I would have cared more about anything that happened.

 

Am I the only one who feels so bored, so uncaring about everything about me? Sometimes I feel as if nothing interests me any more. And I don't know why it should. I feel like I'm not attached to anything; as if there's a cord and I'm floating in out of space - it's like I'm in Gravity, and I'm Sandra Bullock, and George Cloony has let go and I'm free-falling - free-floating. There's a panic there, sure, a wide open space of stress trying to climb into my chest. But it's also weightless, as if nothing matters. As if my actions no longer have repercussions, and I'm irrelevant. Weightless. Nonexistent.

That sounds horribly sad though, doesn't it?

It sounds sort of like the beginnings of an internal monologue about a drab life of sadness and self loathing. And while, really, that is the sort of life I tend to occupy, I don't know why it should be the type that I write about. I could make up a fake life, you know. I could tell you secrets that aren't true; spread false rumours like the plague. No one would know if I were being honest or not, and I like the mystery of that. I could tell you about me and my boyfriend; how we kissed under the stars, or that we broke up.

And you'd have no choice but to believe it, because it's all the information you have. You have my word, and nothing more.

But I'll let you in on the truth - just this once - I don't have a boyfriend. I have never even kissed a boy, let alone under the stars, stretched out across a blanket on the West Hill, or on the beach. I have never held the hand of a boy and felt it become warm between us. I've never looked at a boy as they told me how they felt. This doesn't meant that no one has ever displayed interest, because they have. But they're not the type of boy that I like.

And I don't mean that I have a specific type. But I also don't meant that I don't. I mean that I'm picky, and I want the first one to be the right one. Because I know it's the story I'll have to tell some day - even if the only important boyfriend is the last one.

 

As a diary is for telling your day, I thought I would try it. Then I went against that. If I were to write out my day, you would become horribly bored. I was in college - sixth form for sixteen to nineteen year olds. I'm a first year student. Studying four boring subjects I hideously regret choosing.

Today, I just wrote exam questions. I'm not good at them, it appears. And I can't say that I'm surprised. I wasn't made to write essays - humans were not made to answer twenty four markers on the sociological perspectives and their opinions on leisure no longer depending on social position.

As I read that back, I truly do not understand a word of it. My first Sociology exam is in exactly seven days. I'm really going to need to start revising.

 

Do you like the title of my diary? I bought a notebook yesterday, and this is the title on the front cover. I think it's fairly relevant. Plus, it made me laugh and my mum roll her eyes. That's a winner in my books.

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