I read Olalla, by Robert Louis Stevenson. Before reading it, I was not a fan of his at all. I have of course read both Treasure Island and The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, and they were such let downs for me. Olalla, on the other hand, I loved. The plot and the language were much better constructed, and the characters were considerably less annoying.
The day was perfect for reading this kind of text. It was gray and over-cast, but I didn't find it depressing. It was beautiful. The air was fresh and clean.
The one thing that upset me was the sheer amount of cigarette butts all over the ground around me. Smoking is a disgusting habit - I've always felt like this - but what saddened me the most was that it brought up a memory I'd forgotten; I smoked a cigarette on Saturday night while under the influence.
Why do I drink? Nothing good ever comes of it. I always regret things I've done on a big night out. One day soon I'm certain that I'm going to do something terrible and irreversible after consuming alcohol. Will this thought stop me from drinking? I am 100% certain that it will not. Aren't I ridiculous?
Well, I am what I am.
