I'll be 23 in exactly three months and it's a horrid thought. 23. And I haven't achieved anything yet. Possible exceptions are; a circle of close friends, the perfect cauliflower curry, 4 pages of a Nobel prize worthy novel and the knitting of multiple tops and scarves nobody asked for. Nothing to be proud of. Nothing.
You may gather from this that the bad mood is back. Don't tell me to eat chocolate, don't 'wiiiiie', don't talk to me, don't bother; I have to learn to make it through the dark spots alone, after all it's merely what everybody else does.
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