2014-10-18 / 9:36 p.m.

Sixteen was close to a decade ago. The vodka tastes the same, the sweet twisted tang of "oh shit" as it pulsates in my stomach. I'm still sat on that same bed, legs crossed, body still a mess of fat and shame, only my hair's changed colour. I'm ginger now, and I left one of the worst things in my September just after my hair had changed. Just like the autumn. I turned red with the trees, and guilt ate at my insides, spilling over in soft slow motion until I was left with this.

Two towers came down and I quit.