I don’t have time for tea. I’m still having it though, whatever they say. I don’t have time to write either. But I don’t care anymore, just like they wouldn’t care about the fact my Word decided to screw me bigtime and erase the assignment that I had been working on for five hours, headache included. I’nn not very much in a jolly mood and I haven’t been for weeks, apart from the occasional moment of mad laughter. I chew on my bread, which seems to want to resist my jaws and stick together. Mercyless, I chew on. One bus later, one hour more sleep. Oh, there are the good moments. This weekend, on the tournament-meet. Because what could be better at this point than finding a room full of people who are interested in the same things as you, who care about what you write and are involved in the creation of a world that is not this one. They are the ones that also write their way out of dayly life and encourage you to join them, for in our writing, we seem free. Maps, laughter, pumpkinsoup and childrens drawings, bad puns, recollections of memories that aren’t our own, that aren’t even real, but nonetheless just as valuable. It was only a weekend ago and I allready miss them like crazy. It’s incredible how much I love writing in our story, but not unexplainable. Of course, real life is not nearly as stimulating, beautiful and does not nearly contain as much social contact. I shrug and sigh. I never was the extremely social type, but I maintain what one would call bus-relationships these days. That means that most of my social contact involves sitting in a bus, chatting with the person next to you. Mainly Marieke, which is very nice. I miss classes with her, I really do. There is a certain lack of sillyness around. Of course there’s Miriam, who makes up for a lot… but I don’t think it will ever be the same. I suppose it’s not supposed to be, because of the growing-up-and-getting-responsible-part. Ah.. Growing up can just bugger off…