poly_chromatic | 026 ⇨ text

Okay, that's been the third weekend in a row that I've spent with a book and one comfort food of choice, and I'm not even depressed. I don't think I am, anyway.

All that talk about homelands and what people used to do when they were home, well - I used to go out, almost every weekend. Don't get me wrong, grades were never a problem, school was never a problem, not counting my 'exhuberant appearance', as some of the kinder teachers would say it, but I had fun. And then I had to grow up real fast.

I'm not going to wallow or focus on the details of that, because the core reason for it is something I will never, ever be able to regret. But I have come to think that a person is responsible for how sad or how happy they are, responsible for picking themselves up if they're down and doing something - and I'm good at that. I am so very good at it. So. I'm putting my foot down on all this young adult angst. Last week, I fell into the worst cliché - cats. I found myself hugging all the cats that came my way, and I say that's enough of that.

This weekend, I am going to burn this city dancing. So you connoisseurs out there better tell me there's more than pubs for a girl to get her fun at, or I'll have to see about organizing the very first City rave.