It has come to my attention that I like to read/write about things rather than do them.
RJN. 21. Berwick. Taking time off uni to make an arse out of myself. Who knows when i'll go back? Lacks direction. Thinks too much. Breathes too heavily. Works two jobs. WRITING/ART/MUSIC/LIFE. Slightly neurotic. Hates hot weather. Loves beer and the intricate. If you know me then all this is pretty damn superfluous, hey?
Maybe I've got it all wrong, maybe there is something there, some kind of glue that bonds friendships. But there's also a lot of papier-mâché effigies who float from one inner circle to another with no true sense of thought in their minds, too busy trying to scramble up the social ladder. They listen to the music you like, they dance the way you dance, they hint a smile and straddle an affected girth. Before you even utter a word, they already think they know you and judge you, clenching their sticks as they approach you like a piñata. And then it hits you - you don't belong here.
