Not Finished. I stepped out of the taxi and slammed the door shut, eyeing a man across the street. He looked somewhat familiar but I couldn't figure out if that was good or bad. My head was messed up, thoughts were swirling around in my mind, bouncing off the walls and echoing back for what it seemed like eternity. I fumbled for the latch on my handbag and pulled out a cigarette. It's amazing how stress is instantly relived when you smoke. I know it's not bad for me, I'd promised Katherine I'd stop and the fact that I still continued to take my 15 a day just made me feel more guilty. I glanced at my reflection in a shop window, I could just about see by the street lamps. My eye makeup was smudged and the rest of my makeup had become history, evidence of a night out. I looked shattered. I had to flick the hair out of my eyes to see where I was going. I couldn't wait to sleep. Bed seemed like the perfect place. I could hardly carry my legs down the next few streets, removing my heels before even attempting to crawl any further. I woke up with my cat on my face, her regular method of getting me up in the mornings. Grabbing my dressing gown, I spent the best part of 10 minutes stumbling about 3 metres into my kitchen. There and then, I swore to myself I would never drink again. If I had a penny for the amount of times I've said that to myself, I wouldn't be living in a crummy old flat with a fat cat called Jemma. This is when I realised how fucked up my #life is.