In which I subject my friends to 48 hours of tears.

The tears came, they flowed, I wiped my snotty nose on my sleeve like a toddler and by GOD was it purging.

I’ve written before about how I enjoy a good cry and pondered whether Harry would help lubricate my tear ducts and sure enough, I was a bit of a mess. On both occasions. I crammed in two showings this weekend, hoping that the initial screening might mean I was a little better prepared for the second. Alas, not so much, I was still a snivelling bag of daftness.

Luckily my friends and family are accustomed to this. Housemate says she knows when I’m about to bawl at something, because the cushion that I normally cuddle up with in my default television-watching position, slowly moves further and further upwards until most of my face is covered. A bit like normal people hide behind cushions when they are scared. I squirrel myself behind a cushion when I’m about to blub.

That said – I’m not a massive crier when it comes to arguments, relationships etc. I know girls who can turn on the tears in true manipulative style when it suits them – and that sort of nonsense makes me cross. If I cry when we have an argument, it’s usually because you have genuinely upset me. You should FEAR the tears. That’s right.

So, after a weekend of blubbing, I think I’ve got most of the mourning out of the way, although I may be prone to outbursts of WAAAA over the coming days – I’ll be doing my best to avoid anything overly sentimental.

Instead, I’ll get myself worked up about going to this next week – yay! History and fit men ahoy 😀

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