Porridge with cinnamon and hot berry tea. The only way to start the day when the view from your bedroom looks like this.
I've been awake since 5am this morning due to having a screwed up sleep pattern. I think I may try keeping things this way. Going to bed at 10 and rising at 5 does seem a lot healthier than going to bed at 4 and trying in vain to get to uni for 9.
I've been trying my darnedest to get my head around essay topics for uni, its not going very well (instead I am taking photos of my breakfast). I'll just keep checking my e-mails every 20 minutes hoping the lecture will be cancelled due to adverse weather conditions.
When I was about six years old I came to the realisation that someday I would die. I was absolutely crippled with fear. I believed in God and hell. I was sure that God was screening my every thought. He saw that sometimes I thought about what it would be like if I set fire to the curtains or pushed my brother down the stairs. I never did these things, but merely thinking them proved that I was evil. I was sure God would punish me by sending me to hell.
I remember one new year sitting under the stairs crying and crying until I made myself sick because I couldn't get the image of my agonizing, fiery fate out of my head.
Somewhere along the line I learned how to soothe myself by thinking that it isn't happening yet and that when it happens there won't be anything I can do to stop it. So there is no point in worrying about it.
I need to remember how to do that.
Stolen Ikea pencils from a fun day trip to Edinburgh this Summer.
Pen I borrowed from a good friend in standard grade Modern Studies in 2005. He told me he didn't need it back. I told him I'd return it. We decided that I would return it on the last day of fifth year in 2007. I forgot.
It ran out of ink at some point in 2005. I think I'll keep it forever.
Pens we were lent last October during the training for a job in a brand new cinema. We spent 5 hours, 4 times a week for 3 weeks filling in booklets and watching videos on how not to start fires and how to correctly pick up boxes.
These pens belong to the boy who had the studio space next to mine last semester. He would always leave his belongings in my space. They are mine now. Consider this comeuppance.