Light the fire and walk away.

It's strange how one tiny thing can really change your perspective on people, and the bigger picture those people make.

When I was off university because of the snow, our short fictions lecturer declared presentations galore. So people drifted into the usual sort of groups, only two guys were left alone. Those two also happen to be fabulous friends. Two of us were absent that day, and so assigned to their group. I only found out about all of this a week later, and we arranged a meeting to figure out what we were actually going to present.

Our group consisted of myself, Ben - who I've believed to be one of the funniest people in our class, Alex who I always figured was Ben's sidekick and Lewis who I've worked with a couple of times. It was like the most unlikely group in the entire world, but it worked. We spent a couple of hours trying to decide on what to do for the subject of character, and after so much deliberation we came up with a total piss take of Twilight with relevant character profiles woven in for revision. So I re-wrote the four books, and we practised a few times, and promised to have our lines learned for this past Monday. So, Monday came. I was just on the train arriving in Derby and Alex phoned. Ben, our Jacob Black, had broken his ankle at American football training. Honestly, I thought it was all a joke to get us panicked up. But on arrival at uni, Alex wasn't lying at all. So the three of us spent our practice time trying to figure out what the hell we were going to do. We couldn't draft in another Jacob, knowing no one would quite do it the justice Ben did it. We couldn't write Jacob out of it, I mean, he's a hugeeee part of the whole thing. So we had no other option. Lewis was adamant about going to their house and begging Ben to come in and do it, so off we went, Alex drove us all the way to their house, only to find, Ben had gone home.

By this point, the three of us were in total despair. Our presentation that we'd been so confident and excited about was ruined. We headed back to uni, Radio 1 rubbing more salt in the wound by playing us one of Oasis' more depressing songs. We sat in total silence. That was before heading straight for the SU and drinking on empty stomachs. Wonderfully giddy, we headed up to short fictions. Moy forced us to work with what we had, after we told her we didn't want anyone else to be Jacob. We played on the sob story and tried, only to recieve rather uncalled for comments from the rest of the class. Cheers, guys.

But, my point is, I think my cut throat attitude to university is slowly dissolving. Back in September I was going to head in there all guns blazing, taking no shit off anyone, and getting my head down. But now, after being thrown in the deep end, I've found out the class dynamics, I know who's really friends with who and what goes on underneath those friendly exteriors everyone attempts to keep up. I'm talking to more people. Granted, I don't consider any of them my bff's or anything like that, it's just nice. It's nice to have a foot in the door that I can remove any time I wish. I can talk to people and have a laugh with them. I can get subtle revenge on those who've ripped my work to shreds and dented my confidence.

Shocker, Laura might actually be getting attached to her classmates.

I can't write.

Just seen a guy in my classes status on Facebook. He can't either. That makes me feel a tiny bit better.

This week has been such a waste. I sit in my bedroom, all these ideas whirling around in my head. Give me a pen and paper or a keyboard and a blank document and it comes out like trash. Maybe I'm trying to hard. Thinking too much. Being far too self concious. The words usually flow out of me. Now I'm confused by tenses, first person or third person, trying to make things sound profound, terrified of tripping on cliches. I'm trying too hard to impress people that don't need impressing. I know deep down who's important and who isn't, yet I'm stuck with those non-important ones, dictating what I ought to do with my words. That's just it. They're my words, my ideas, my characters. I care too much.

I'm sorry that I don't call London St Pancras, 'St Pancras'. That I write in a Sheffield accent. That you don't know where my story's set. That you don't understand what's happening. For using the odd cliche. For wording things in ways you couldn't ever understand. For having crazy ideas. For not changing character names. I'm not splitting Meredith and Jeremy up. I'm sorry my murderers aren't sinister enough. I'm sorry I don't reckon much to Raymond Carver. That the situations are complex. That the characters have more about them. That I write about things I haven't experienced first hand. That I'm jumping out of my comfort zone. That I don't really care all that much for poetry. That I write about more than my mundane nineteen year old life. I'm so fucking sorry that you're so small minded, you don't want to even try and understand.

yesterday is gone, we can't go back again.

I miss it all.

I miss trips to Asda at four in the morning. Always having someone to come home to. Having a second home. Feeling part of something, wanted, loved and needed. The 'when are you home?' texts. Living off pizza and chips. Going out on a Monday night, because it's 'out out' on a Wednesday. Light hearted arguments about where we'd go. Cinema trips. Spending too much money. Persuading those two that we ought to 'get on it'. Playing pool at The Mile. Fresh, early morning air. Putting up posters. Watching films in the hall way. The sofa off the street. Play fights. Drunken chats in the kitchen. Late night heart to hearts. Spilling WKD all over the floor. The cleaners moving everything. The over powering smell of Lynx. The smokers area in the courtyard. Little 'see you Monday' notes before going home for the weekend. Meeting new people. Drunken rants and cleaning up. Charcoal Grill after every night out. Mistakes. Kissing guy friends and it not being awkward. Kissing guy friends and it being extremely awkward. Lying in bed waiting for the heater to warm up. Power showers. Football in the hall at 3am. Hating on the flat across. Actually wanting to be friends with the flat across. Making up stories. Chats in my bedroom. Procrastinating. Ignoring homework. Phone calls and last minute everything. Trips across to Sainsburys just before midnight. The money machine. Screaming the lyrics. Holding hands. Chatting to bouncers and the guys in the takeaway. Medicine corner. Turning up to lectures incredibly exhausted, last night's stamp still on my hand. Pretending I've done homework and convinently forgetting it, when really I was drunk the night before. That feeling of complete suffocation. Depending on them. Confessions and declarations of 'I fucking love you'. Stealing road signs. 'How was the gig last night?' Playing music unbearably loud. Rock Band and Guitar Hero. 'Xbox Bummers'. Breakdowns. Double disaronno and coke. Jaegerbomb, jaegerbomb. Using jaegermister as cough medicine. Testing to see who has the comfiest bed. Sitting at the back of the lecture theatre reading Kerrang! instead of making notes. Using jaeger shots as cough medicine. Freshers flu. Eating too much. The smell. The Christmas tree fiasco. Trying to hide the stolen road sign in the roof. Stealing the sign in the first place. Taxi to Asda. Bowling. Gala Bingo. Inside jokes that went on forever. The first night to the very last. I miss it all.

Damn, those tarrot cards were right.

I'm a mess in a dress,

I'm so 'blah' at the moment.

Depressed best friend. Other friends who don't know what they want. Course friends who say one thing and do another. People in general. Trains being delayed. Cold weather. So much fog, you can barely see. Dull lectures. Never feeling quite good enough. Writer's block. Nothing sounding how I wanted it to. Feeling inadequate. Left in the lurch. Vile little sister. Vile little sister's boyfriend. Suffocating. Same old routine.

One of my more distant friends from school got the job she's always wanted. She got an interview for RyanAir and they gave her the job. In January, she's going to travel all around Europe. Hearing about things like that give me real hope. I only read Kerrang for the gig reviews. That's what I want to do. I don't think I'll ever get a book published.

Writing doesn't consume me, it isn't my entire life. I don't live and breathe it. I rarely do my homework. I write whatever's in my head at that time, type it up, tweak it slightly and hand it round my focus group. Sometimes, it's liked by all four of them, sometimes, it's ripped to pieces. I don't take it too seriously. It's the only thing I've ever consistently done and consistently been slightly good at. I over hear people in class talking about entering competitions and sending pieces off to be published. Then, I hear the majority talking about the next anime convention, and I don't feel like I'm fucking up entirely. I'm part of a majority that hasn't let a university course swallow them up. I have to think about other things.

Although it's terrifying to think that come graduation in 2012, all of this will have been for nothing.

We're going to Florida. Orlando again. We hope. Mum says it'll be our last holiday. Lanzarote was supposed to be, but really, it was a nightmare I'd like to never re-live. My sister is throwing a spanner in the perfect works, as usual. She daren't leave her boyfriend's side for two whole weeks. It's irritating. In 2007, those two weeks we spent in Orlando were probably the best fourteen days of my tiny existance. To be handed the chance to go back and be as happy as I was then, is fabulous. I wish she'd stop being such a selfish idiot. Mum won't go without her, so if she doesn't go, none of us do.

I need to get drunk. On Thursday night, I'm running home from my three hour lecture on Greek mythology and throwing on whatever outfit I see first and heading to the Empire Bar with my friends. I've not been really drunk for a long, long time, so I plan to drink myself into oblivion.

I need this. I need to forget. I need to feel numb for a while.

It's selfish, but I don't care anymore.

It seems I've been buried alive.

I hate that post-fabulous-gig-depression. I loathe it with a burning passion. So, we saw Avenged Sevenfold on Wednesday. And I've got to say (for the millionth time) one of, if not the, best band I've ever seen live. I loved every second. Even when the dickwad behind me kept leaning on me and sticking his dick in my arse. Okay, so maybe I didn't love that bit, since he was drooling and looked like he'd been taking something, but once the cute emo guy in the purple hoodie pushed him away from us, I loved it again. It also got me thinking a little.

So, M Shadows had a tribute to Jimmy. He explained to those that didn't know (I highly doubt there was anyone there that didn't know) that Jimmy had died and that he was in the room right that second and that they were going to continue his legacy by carrying on making music. He thanked everyone for making it all possible and Mike Portnoy and then they played So Far Away. At this point I'm in a state of awe and trying to stay upright. It's only been in the few days after that I've had chance to think about it.

If you know anything about me, you'll know live music is my form of personal therapy. A disgusting amount of my money goes into buying tickets, alcohol whilst I'm there, tshirts and then the cd's. I stick all my ticket stubs to my wall to remind me of the amazing nights I've had. Of course, they've not all been amazing, some were disappointing, but the majority were fantastic. Wednesday night was one of those that stayed with me on Thursday. I went into an agonising lecture with a dreamy look on my face and everything Simon was saying about Greek mythology went in one ear and right out the other. Then Friday, I got the depression.

The words from the tribute have been spinning around in my head. Now, maybe this is me being a drama queen, but they really hit home. My best friend hasn't been that for a while now. I've lost her. Not in the same way they lost Jimmy, but she's gone.

Myself and Liz had a huge chat last Saturday night. We'd had too many cocktails, but we always have a big serious chat in the takeaway after a night out. So, there we were, dressed like a zombie and a fairy, sitting in Chubby's discussing Rachel over a cheeseburger and chips. We've come to the conclusion that my best friend isn't the same person anymore. She's drawn into herself, put up walls ten feet high that none of us can scale. She won't tell us what's wrong, so we can't help her. Even if we try to coax it out of her, we don't get the answer we're looking for. It's painful to think about, sometimes. I make it clear to her that we're here for her, no matter what. We'll try to understand. She just doesn't want it. Beau is in her class at university and has told me she's the same there. Last Saturday, whilst we were partying it up in Embrace, Rachel stayed at home and had a 'party' with her parents and her sister. It speaks volumes to me that she'd rather stay at home than come out with the friends she doesn't see that often as it is.

It was the biggest kick in the teeth when Beau told me she doesn't consider any of us her best friends. I was annoyed at first. So, the past eight years I felt like maybe I wasted my time. I stuck with her through so much rubbish, and she did the same for me. I don't know what's wrong. Liz thinks maybe she's depressed. I can't understand what she has to be depressed about. But maybe that's all it is, I don't understand and she doesn't think I'll understand, ever.

I've lost her, and it fucking hurts.

i drank a pint of coca cola,

i'm not sleeping anytime soon.

i'm not really sure what i should be saying. i'm a whole bunch of things right now. excited. for next wednesday i'm seeing avenged sevenfold and stone sour. just the fact i'm getting to hear corey taylor sing live is making me all dreamy and excitable. nervous. i'm handing in my minor assignment for scriptwriting on monday. i'm not sure any of it is any good. i hate not feeling some kind of confidence about my writing. i have no faith in this minor whatsoever. the major might be better, it's worth more, so hopefully i'll get at least the d minus i need to pass. lonely. i tried an experiment the other week. i was waiting to see which one of my friends would text me first, but i caved and texted them all about a halloween bar crawl. i'm so freaking weak and dependent on them, it's disgusting.

i have a new job. it's at wynsors world of shoes. i get to stand in the stock room for three hours on wednesday evenings, putting security tags on shoes and threading them together. it's less hours and less money than the club was, but it's so much better. everyone was so, so nice to me. there's no internal bitching, everyone just seems to genuinely get along and like each other. it's nice. i'm still applying for a second job at weekends, just to earn a little more money.

my best friend doesn't feel like my best friend anymore. we're so disconnected. a few months back we were close. now, we're not. i feel closer to beau and liz than rachel. it upsets me. the more we pull, the more she pushes us away. it's like there's a wall dividing us, and i hate it. things never used to be this way. she doesn't want to come out with us anymore. wherever we go, whatever we do, she declines. beau spends every day with her at uni, and apparently she's exactly the same there. it's horrible. she told beau she doesn't have a best friend. well, thanks a lot. i've just been there through everything over the past eight years, but clearly that doesn't matter. i'm not sure what to do about her anymore. i can't handle this hot and cold attitude. all of us have fallen apart, despite mine and beau's attempts at holding us together. it's cemented my decision. i'm heading back to derby in january. i can't handle this much longer.

i'm over him. good and proper. i don't wish to type his name. he's still my friend. i'm still holding him close, because he knows things about me that not even my mum does. but it's done. part of me is glad it never got further than a one sided kiss, and a few almost moments after that. i didn't want to become one of his disposable girls. sticking with one for a few months, before crumbling and moving onto the next.

i can listen to florence again without thinking of him.

i have a lot to be happy about. there are people in the world with far bigger problems than mine. people who don't have roofs over their heads or enough food to have three meals a day. but of course, the selfish part of me feels like the tiny problems are the end of the world. my scriptwriting lecturers are douche bags and my best friend isn't that anymore, someone catch my world before it shatters into a thousand pieces.

dying is all we're doing here.

i'm okay. i think.

i have far too much going on in my head. sometimes i want to extract them and keep them in a pensive. harry potter style. i know a pensive is for re-living memories, but surely it could store my thoughts too? maybe i should ask jk rowling. my thoughts are a messed up jigsaw. one of those million piece ones. one with lots of sky, pieces of the same colour and shape. a lot of my thoughts are like that. about the same thing, but slightly different.

i'm tired of being lied to. boys lying to me. i ought to be precise with this. i'm sick of hearing sober slurs. 'i really fucking like you, babe.' no you don't. 'i'll text you.' no you won't. i waited days to text this boy. i actually really liked him. probably the second drunken meeting of a guy i've actually liked. i tend to attract the intoxicated and the hideous. not this time. he was attractive and sweet. until i insisted i needed to go home rather than back to his friends house. so i debated on whether i should text him or not. then i did. and a week later, i got nothing back. i've always been so cautious with guys. i'm the heartbreaker, god forbid, i'm ever the heartbroken. i tell these guys i have a boyfriend who lives in some far off place (usually lowestoft, thinking of one of my old flatmates) but i'll kiss them and dance with them and let them buy me drinks and take their numbers and promise to text them. i guess now i know how it feels to be one of those boys i do that to.

i want to quit my job. working men's club. bleugh. i'm filled with dread at the thought of friday rolling around. i'd rather have the middle of the week than the weekend. i've been there almost two months. but i can't handle it. the hours are pretty much my bedtime. i'm dead on my feet most of the time. i'm paranoid whilst i'm there, constantly looking over my shoulder and on edge. the boss is a total bitch. i can't do anything right in her eyes. i was only hired because my grandad dedicated most of his life to that place. he was on the well respected commitee. if i wasn't given the job, she'd have probably gotten shit from the remaining members. i'm sick of it. the pervy drunken men talking about me, eyes glued to my chest. i don't put my boobs out there, i never wear anything low cut or revealing, yet i am still made to feel uncomfortable while i'm collecting. this past weekend, i've realised i don't like any of the bar staff. i'm complained at, bitched at, and made to feel like absolute shit. i broke down on sunday about it. i'm already searching for something better. i don't want to just up and leave, i need a valid reason, and another job would be as good as anything.

university's alright. i'm low on inspiration, but i'll probably get a creative burst at some point. always do. i'm just trying not to stumble in late after sitting in traffic on the bus or having to endure the delayed train. i'm talking to new people. things might be different, but i'm scared to speak too soon and jinx it. i'm trying my damnest to not cut out my only ticket back to derby next year, but she's making it so difficult. things are okay. my friends are being my usual life support, listening to my crap and letting me drunkenly slur on their shoulders on saturday nights. i love them.

maybe it's because i'm ill. nine days now. i've got another eight days of penicillin tablets and barely being able to eat. maybe once this is over, my head will be less fuzzy.