Before I start this post (as if I have actually planned anything to write, ha), I just want to thank you all for your lovely feedback.

 I’m well aware I’m not the first person on the planet to have ever received praise, but that’s what it feels like, sort of. The difference between someone complimenting me on a (heavily edited) photo of my face on Instagram and being told that someone ‘loves’ my blog is monumental. This blog is the closest representation of myself that isn’t, well, me (great observational skills there) and I pour a lot of energy (+ pointless web searches) into it. I am so impressed that a few of you actually manage to filter through the random facts, ridiculously long introductions and pointless bracketed side-notes to the actual meaning behind my words (not that there is much) and still enjoy it.

So, I think, in roughly 121 words, that is a thank you.

*has anyone else noticed how many commas I use in my sentences?

Now all that disgusting emotional stuff is over, let’s get back to the real reason you’re here. To watch me (or rather read) as I embarrass myself.

—cue few days intermission as I genuinely have nothing to write about today (27th)—

So, I’m back (29th) and I thought I actually had notes to write around. I wrote these notes after finishing the introduction and now, reading them over, they either make zero sense or make me wonder how I could ever think the note ‘moving’ would be helpful. Why couldn’t 27th-August-Lily have written more a) comprehensible or b) detailed notes for 29th-August-stressing-because-she-needs-to-write-something-Lily? I mean, I can’t be expected to remember any of this trivial stuff for two whole days.

I can’t believe I am having a rant at myself.

I’m going to use these notes as starting points and see where it goes. I’m wary about this as the last time I decided to ‘see where it goes’, we ended up with the lengthy explanation of how I overcame my ‘need to be different’ and it was all very emotional and raw and I cried and you cried and we cried together.

At least I hope I wasn’t the only one who cried.

Kidding, kidding (genuinely, there were real tears)…

Anyway, moving. Let’s start with that note. I am officially (I think (I’m never very aware of everything going on around me)) moving on Sunday. Well technically all my stuff (and my family) are leaving on Saturday but I decided to stick around an extra day to a) say goodbye to some friends and b) put off moving for one more day. It still feels kind of odd that I’m actually leaving. I think I’ve been expecting someone to jump out from behind the camera and shout “Gotcha!” but that isn’t going to happen, not that I would want it to as it sounds positively breaking-and-entering-esque, and I need to face up to the fact that I’m leaving, maybe forever.

Okay, if you’re not crying now then you need to purchase a heart. Or some onions, either will do.

I was going to go on some spiel about leaving my friends and my fears of not going to the college I want to go to but you don’t need to hear all that.*

*I’m fairly sure you’ve heard it all before, but if not check out this post – Semi-blog-consciousness*

*I had to double check this post and on further investigation, it barely scrapes the surface on all my feelings towards this subject of moving and, in true Lily fashion, leaves much to the imagination.

In other news, I’ve made a promise to myself to get back into playing my guitar and song-writing. It’s not like I’ve got bored or anything but between being away most of the summer and watching endless episodes of Gossip Girl, I haven’t had much of a chance. Writing songs used to be my only method of channeling emotions (mostly 10 year old jealousy) before starting this blog, and going through some of those songs makes me so nostalgic of when I was 7, and each song was about being a super-spy or someone called ‘babe’. I also keep a diary and that, in a way, makes it easier for me to understand kids and people younger than me. Not because I have suddenly gained loads of life experience (or some weird Pied Piper of Hamelin flute) but because it shows me that when you’re that age, little things really matter. Things like falling out with a friend over a paper mache butterfly and losing your favourite pencil.*

 *That pencil had my name and pink butterflies on it. Don’t laugh.

In the films, people always find their diaries (in a scary-looking dusty box in their dark attic) and they hold some amazing secret about their parents or reveal hidden parts of themselves they had locked away and thrown away the key to. But in reality, these diaries (and the hundreds of songs scrawled onto Tracy Beaker writing paper) just make you cringe and remind you of all the stupid things you used to do. Not that I’ve changed. I nearly cried when my pink Sharpie ran out and would 100% still love to be a super-spy.

I feel like I’m about to go off on some awful monologue about something irrelevant so I’m going to stop this post here.

Gotcha!

No, unfortunately for you I wasn’t joking and this post is ending. Right now.