Here is the latest in our series of blogs by Glasgow students.

Phoebe Inglis-Holmes is an honours year multimedia journalism student, aspiring radio presenter, music festival obsessive and green tea connoisseur.

Since I last wrote for Bloody Students, I've had two victories which I'm delighted about. At the Scottish Student Journalism Awards I came second in the 'Column of the Year' category for this very column, and the next day I found out I had received a first in my degree. Screaming, prosecco and tears aside, it's amazing to have my writing recognised. But since then, I've had a few people ask me what magazines I'd like to work in or newspaper jobs I've applied for. Their puzzled faces when I explain I'm actually aiming for a career in radio aren't surprising; I'm good at writing, I enjoy it, I've spent four years gaining a degree in it, so why am I trying elsewhere? At some point in life, everybody resents their job. Doesn't matter whether you spring out of bed every morning, rushing to work because you adore it; there'll always be that one day where it's super sunny outside and you're in the office, wishing you could go frolic with friends. It might just be a split second, or it might be all the time, but there will be days where you look outside and think 'I wish I wasn't doing this'. For me, writing isn't something I think about. I'm sorry if thats boastful, but it's true - I never truly have to think about what to say. An idea comes to me and the words flow out of me freely as the vodka flows on a Sauchiehall street Saturday night. I write epic rants that get me into trouble, reviews of things I see and ramblings about ridiculous thoughts I have at three in the morning. I write when I'm feeling angry, silly, overjoyed, confused - endless emotions. I - somewhat indulgently - write as I please; by me, for me. I turn to paper and pen and thudding fingers on a keyboard in the way some people turn to a best friend, relaying my stories and analysing them as comfortably as if I was having a chatty catch up with a lifelong pal. I often watch myself with vague amusement as I scribble frantically, desperate to capture the emotion that pours out of me that I often didn't even know needed released. If I tried for a job in journalism, with daily instructions of who to talk to and what to write about, I'd run the risk of losing that. I'd be creating the potential for 'Job', the playground meanie, to swoop in and snatch my closest friend away. 'Job' would re-align their allegiance, making spending time with them less and less enjoyable, until it becomes a toxic chore. I don't want to have to think about what words tumble out of me each day, attempting to fulfil someone else's notion of enjoyment. I never want to be sick of expression. I never want to look outside and think 'I wish I wasn't doing this'. That's why I'm going to keep my inner dictionary all to myself - unless I get paid to write a column, of course. *wink*