Sod today, just sod it.
I am writing again, and back to my miserable little bitch self.
I am running every evening in the biggest shirt I can find, listen to the angstiest music.
I made a young man happy.
I feel ill.
I should take the meds, I know, but I don't want to.
I am knackered.
I am leaving for Scotland on Sunday.
I have horrible hair, and arms, and face, and well I am horrible. And ugly. And annoying.
This is Niki. 17 years old, daughter of a mafia man turned manager and an accountant. Living in a three bed semi and driving a Ford. Sounds boring, it IS boring.
You see all the blades and the drink and the drugs and all the stuff you don't know about is shit. And it happened. Now it is not happening. I must get over it.
I live where I live and I live how I live. Sometimes bad things happen, sometimes good things do. Live for tomorrow, not for yesterday or the crappy past 16 years. Drink Irn Bru and cry watching Casualty.
Because despite amitriptyline and sodium chloride tears, this is Nikita.