After probably one of my favourite summers: working in a place with the most amazing staff and driving around with friends for months on end, I'm now a few weeks back into uni. I was pretty nervous leaving the incredible countryside in Wales, feeling like the best version of me at that time and heading for Reading - knowing I'd have to adapt to that sarcastic and critical humour from the boys. It's been a bit of a bumpy transition for me, personally, but it's good.
So far I've celebrated a few birthdays, had my wallet stolen (the bastards spent £500 with my cards and cash!), accidentally flashed my boobs at friends and eaten slightly dodgy chicken.
I asked Milly the other day about whether she ever worries that she wasted any of her youth by missing out on experiences. We both laughed about the desire we had to try and run away. She told me she once packed her bags and hid in the house, so when they realised she would have the satisfaction of scaring her parents but then be able to just pop out and calm them down. She has the same fears as I do.
For me I just worry that there are never enough stories to tell about being younger. I was unfortunately, or fortunately however you look at it, incredibly happy as a child. I don't have those crazy stories that weren't funny at the time but are now, because everything was alright. There was nothing to rebel from. When I first passed my driving test, I considered driving with my music on loudly through town as the most exhilarating experience that I could bear. (Mind you I did once hide my sandwiches under my bed for weeks and that was definitely not funny when mum found out.)
Now I'm 20 and I don't know what I want, still. Well actually that's a lie. I realised a while ago that all I wanted was to be extraordinary. But I fear I may be too lazy for such a life to be realistic, and I don't know how to put that word into practise. Hmmm...
