My name is Courtney, my intentions irrelevant. I have no idea who I am or who I want to be. I don’t think I ever really did.
I’m 18, and I was never really bothered with school. Instead I do a creative writing course online, and work at a pizza shop with a best friend and a bunch of guys who like to spend their time making others feel like shit, and make my smoking habit very hard to give up. Which is odd because I hate serving people because ninety percent of them are absolute wankers. I come from a town filled with small-minded lunatics, and a family too much the same. I want to travel, and see beautiful places and meet beautiful people who don’t complain about not enough ham on their meatlovers. I want them to show me that there’s actually some hope for this God forsaken planet.
I have been with my girlfriend for nearly a year, and she is the love of my life. Absolutely. As cliché as it sounds, before she came along I was hopeless. She has completely changed the way I look at other people and myself, as well as life in general. I used to be content with my loneliness and lack of motivation to do anything. But I’m making a change. I’ve quit doing drugs and I’m getting my shit sorted, getting my life back on track. I have Brooke to thank for this. I could write a million and one words on how wonderful she is, but I’ll spare you.
I brush my teeth in the shower, I’m petrified of clowns, I can’t look in mirrors at night time for fear of something jumping out at me and I cry a lot, because I’m a massive sook by nature. I have a snake called Skittles, a dog named Sheldon and a goldfish named Gorilla, and I love them both to no end.
Most of what I say doesn’t make sense, and majority of the thoughts that go through my head make me wonder if I should be locked up. As sombre as I am, I’m almost never sincere. I find it profusely odd how I can create such glorious characters and give them names and stories and fill their minds with thoughts and dreams, all in the space of twenty minutes.. But yet I spend two whole hours trying to put into words what I thought I’d known for eighteen years: Me.
These are all facts, but they’re not really a full description of who I am. I don’t know who I am. All I know is that I’m not who I used to be, and that is most definitely a good thing.