“None of that “dear diary” bullsh*t just me, my laptop, a bag of chocolate (that isn’t helping my get healthy plan) and my stories.”
Well that plan went out of the window pretty fast…
I am not going to lie, I went to bed last night feeling a little bit Sh*t. So I thought well lets get up a bit early this morning, make a smoothie feel healthy, seize the day.
I slept through all my alarms and consequently only just made the bus having run to it with no shoes on and my bed hair tied into a bun. So this day is off to a gloriously amazing start… I was thinking however how am I going to go about this blog and I decided that its sort of going to be my diary. None of that “dear diary” bullsh*t just me, my laptop, a bag of chocolate (that isn’t helping my get healthy plan) and my stories.
Hmmm so question. Why do I feel hurt when a guy I like starts having a thing with my friends even though I haven’t even given him any signs that I like him?
Ahhhhh, I wish I had the confidence I did in like reception and year one where I could blurt out my ‘feelings’ to someone and feel okay with it. But no instead I get hurt, and I don’t think its because this guy in question – lets call him tomato (idk why) – likes someone else or is having a thing with one of my friends. I think I am hurt because I don’t have the confidence to go after guys like tomato, whilst most girls I know would be willing to ask for a random guys social, be willing to pop up on their stories I am much more willing to suppress my feelings. But thats when I guess I get hurt?
I hurt myself? ahhhh Cr*p this is way too deep for 8:58 on a Wednesday morning. Lets suppress this by listening to a podcast. (recommendation: Sh*gged, Married, annoyed by Rosie and Chris Ramsey)
Maybe I think too deep into these things, but at the end of the day a podcast and a bag of chocolates will always be a good was to move on from my own dissatisfaction at myself.
So ignore those workout notifications on your phone (and any of my spelling mistakes) and have great day.
Oh FFS not again... 