WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS ADULT LANGUAGE, MENTIONS OF SEX, ALCOHOL AND DRUG USE, AND A GLIMPSE INTO THE DEPRESSING TRUTH OF MY POST GRAD LIFE.

Haven’t done this in awhile… But I’m completely unable to sleep because I can’t get this one damn thought out of my head: This time last year, I was in London. Exactly one year ago, I was struggling to get my bags up the dreaded Manson Place steps, eventually aided by my savior, Zach. I was attending orientation and discovering my delicious banana yogurt, shopping at Sainsbury’s and Waitrose for the first time with my flat mates. I was getting wasted and going to clubs, smoking up flat 20 and having sex on their couches, taking roadies on the tube and getting lost on the night buses. Sure, there was school, but it was barely a blip on my radar when there were pitchers of Long Island Iced Tea to be drank, pints of Strongbow to chug, and packs of Marlboro Lights to smoke. Looking back, we embodied “Skins” better than I had even hoped. I had the fucking time of my life, dancing and partying my ass off in four different countries in four months time. When I came home I tried to relive it, but it felt like a dream by then. And now? Now my only partying is of the pity-persuasion. I now marathon TV shows alone, much like everything else I do. I can’t find a damn job, I have no car or insurance, and I’m living 6 hours from any of my college friends. My London memories seem as though they belong to someone else, because I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten how to have fun. I have yet to meet someone who, upon hearing of my situation, is able to turn it in a positive light. Because there fucking isn’t one.

What, you expected a good conclusion? Fuck that… If my life doesn’t get one, neither does this asinine post.

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