The thought of Coming Home was, at one point, rather daunting. The student in his final year did not relish the inevitable entry to the ‘real world’, and favoured even less the impending shifts in his rather comfortable life. They are as follows: get a job; pay off the overdraft; pay back the parents; save; move out; and continue to deal with the ever-increasing influx of ‘grown-up’ decisions. My liberty, it was assumed, was about to be apprehended. Graduation day arrived, and, with appropriate ceremonial confusion, passed. This entry is partially a re-entry into the habit of writing (which is a fancy way of saying ‘practise’), and partially something self-exploratory (for I intend to pose to myself the question, ‘so, what the fuck am I doing?’).
So. What the fuck am I doing?
