Me in third person.

She said she was outgoing. She said she learns quickly, and is great with people. What if these qualities suddenly vanish? She isn’t outgoing; she knows that. What if they can tell? The awkward combination of nerves and fake self assurance makes her feel sixteen again, and she wishes she could still hide behind black clothes, eyeliner and piercings. The unfriendly demeanour this created meant she lacked new friends but she was content; things were simple. But those days are long gone, she has to grow up now; get a job, get a flat. She has her own life, and the thought of this intimidates her. She takes a deep breath, straightens her shoulders and attempts to walk confidently into the crowded bar. It’s strange, watching other people on a night out. Composed at the start and incomprehensible at the end; it makes her question her own behaviour. The night went well, despite her lack of communication skills amongst a new crowd. This changed with the first shot of tequila. It was like a switch, a switch she is trying to get rid of. She was suddenly glad that nobody was sober. Time passed in a blur of cider, vodka and various horrible concoctions created in shot glasses. She was suddenly in a taxi, at which point she wished she had gone home. Instead she found herself in a flat, the smoke filling the room sobering her up more quickly than she would have liked. She went over to the window and saw that it was getting light outside; respectable people were on their way to work and Edinburgh was waking up. But did she go home? Of course not. She overstayed her welcome as usual and had to endure an extremely unpleasant walk across the meadows, accompanied by various disapproving looks from strangers. The switch had been turned off and all she could think about was sleep. Until next time alcohol creeps up to take another swipe at her fragile ego.

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