earlier hunched over my cat-patterned tray i cried pathetically into my microwaved spaghetti bolignese just because of california and time differences and crackly phone lines and background laughter and the squashed beer cans in the waste bin. i dont know anymore. the slurs and the squints and the misjudged slip of the door handle none of it is your fault. you’re going to bed because you’re “a bit whacked” at 20:24 in the evening. it isnt your fault it isnt anybody’s fault and i’m just a little sick of it being an issue. it shouldn’t be an issue. it’s nothing. it doesn’t matter.
i’m going to post this even though it appears to be attention seeking garbage. i dont even CARE.
good things
martin stockdale’s mole-like prescense and his referring to lady gaga’s wardrobe as “meat attire”, yes.
bill hicks and his speech on george bush, yes.
my aunt phillipa handing me a designer fashion catalogue and asking me if there was “any element of it you fancy?” for my christmas present, yes.
my new welsh english teacher (and her anger towards the word ”very”) who everybody hates except for me, yes yes yes.
your adorable little self-deprecating chuckle when i grumble “fuck you” down the phone, arghh yes.
there has to be more to life than knitwear.
yes there is more to life than knitwear.
knitwear isnt even that great.
i'm here now, in case you're interested :)
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