***This is probably a boring post, sorry.***

I have just completed one of my essays- the second or maybe first I have ever completed sober.  It feels strange.  I still have to do my bibliography (my least favourite thing to do in the world, besides ironing) but… the words are done.  6178 of them, to be precise.  I don’t know that they’re good, I don’t know that they’re worth what I want them to be.  I do know that they’re finished.  And there’s a weird feeling of accomplishment- not that worn out relief that usually accompanies my essay completion.  I don’t feel like I’ve… birthed it.  More like I have kneaded it, like clay, baked it and taken it out.  Imperfect, perfect.  There are a million other things I will have to learn to do without the aid of a drink or seven.  A million things I’ve been missing, or fearing.  So here’s my start: one essay, underpolished, over word-count.




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