Prologue
When your nineteen troubles are meant to be small and stored away in the back of your mind as you down a shot of shit vodka whilst only being slightly concerned about your underage drinking.
After graduating and moving on to find a job or studying a course of your choice at university, you can occasionally sponge of your parents or relatives for spare money or a room when rent runs out.
Or if you're even luckier they'll send little packages of the green paper in the post so you didn't even have to ask.
When people think teenagers their mind instantly turns to mood swings, shitty make out sessions behind the bike shed, road trips, cigarettes and the rebels who'd offer you a joint at a house party.
They wouldn't think of entirely independent brunette who hadn't bothered with breakfast to save two dollars.
Her horribly outdated wallpaper peeling on the walls, a slightly funky smell coming from the room next door and the boiler creaking as the heater struggled to keep the constantly cool space warm.
I am not the definition of a teenager.
I have to ration my food like a fucking 1916 English citizen.
There's no way I could afford any alcohol so drinking myself into oblivion isn't really an option, no matter how hard it gets. I guess I should be thankful for that, it saves me from becoming a mumbling twitchy homeless woman sleeping on a cardboard box....but that scenario still isn't too far fetched for me.
And I know no one apart from the acquaintances I work with who are constantly trying to incorporate themselves into my life. But I've learnt to not depend on anyone, that way I can't get let down.
I have so many fucking troubles to worry about.
I feel far too old for my age.