So, the good: No more stitches, therefore I can eat normally. Assuming there is anything to eat, that is. My dad was getting as bored of this place as I have been and we went drinking, on his money. Six pints later and this is me, lamenting the time lost when I could have done to be talking to people. If someone I know gets a job around here they will have a willing flat mate, and that's more than a pipe dream.
What's bad on the on the hand, is just about everything else. These four walls are giving me cabin fever something chronic. I can't stand another week staring at them., hoping my mum doesn't want another "quiet chat" full of her condescending to me and pretending she knows what's going on despite her being completely and totally fucking clueless. The rather more important problem is cash flow. Cellphone bill and bank statement on the same day are going to make me feel like this. The worst is when people give bullshit advice like "It'll all turn out right" or "I believe in you". Thanks for the sentiment, but I don't see either of those paying any of the bills dragging me further into debt (and before anyone asks, I need my cellphone). I don't see hopes and good dreams getting me a job, because I haven't been asked for a single fucking interview yet. And everyone around me insists on these platitudes because then they feel better and they can climb on their high horse about other people having problems and shit. I know other people have problems. These other people are not me. These other people are not looking at a financial black hole in a couple of months. They're not looking at a future spent on the dole, living with parents until they're forty-five when I finally top myself for being the saddest sack of shit I know. I am. I'm the one with my problems and I'm going to get fucking depressed about them because they are my fucking problems and I do believe it is my gods-damned prerogative to be depressed at the way my life is going and to fuckeration with all of the nay-sayers that think I should be thinking positive. Fuck them. I'm going to be me, I'm going to see that there is a big fucking problem here and I am going to see that it's my problem and I am going to get depressed about it no matter what they want. Because bollocks to it, sometimes it's all I have left.
To give an indication of how depressed I am, I've been watching the women's singles at Wimbledon. Mute on, of course. I am male, after all.
What the hell, I may as well offer my body to the highest bidder
For sale: Male sex-toy. Straight, unless you're Rupert Everett or just as good looking. Willing to do anything, no questions asked. Will fit the decor of most modern dungeons. Highest bidder wins. No reserve.
: Yes K, this is a joke. Gallows humour, remember?