It’s 23.22. I’m sunburnt. My hand hurts from writing. My boyfriend is ringing me in about seven minutes. I have been revising for hours, in town, by the lake, in the library. I even went to Tesco. I booked my tickets for Latitude Festival. I handed in my last piece of coursework for the year and I actually put a suprising amount of effort in. I’m going to be Copy Editor on a university creative magazine next year. And of course my much talked about position as Literature Editor of The Stag, my university newsaper.
It’s 23.24. I’m in love with someone who loves me back. I’ve nearly finished my first year at University (something I thought I’d never be able to do). I get on with every member of my family. I have a job (even if I would rather stick my hand in acid than work on Saturday). I have friends, here and at home.
It’s 23.25 and I’m happy.
It’s 23.26 and everything is going to be alright.
It’s 23.27 and after two difficult years I’ve realised I’ve finally become the person I always wanted to be.
It’s 23.28 and I’m officially a sentimental loser.