***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.