All I'm missing is the huge knickers and the real job.
Blatently a happy chappy. The whole living next to a Jeremy Kyle-worthy couple and wanting to cry over a photography project which tbf, as long as I get 40%+ means fuck all, is really promoting my chances of being London's cheeriest bunny.
I would love to be asleep right now. But Kevin and Ayesha are watching deal or no deal, special highlights, full blast. I honestly have never watched such drivel. It's opening boxes.
If you want to open boxes, work for royal mail. Or go the extra mile and get paid for it and be a jack in the box.
Feet are mashed from new shoes and the top money saving idea of walking a thousand miles into Putney. Paaaiiinnnnn brah.
I'm tired of buying roses for myself. Where's the arsehole thats meant to buy me for them? Obviously only after being a wanker and making me cry and abusing me and stuff. Domestic violence never hurt anyone.
Don't be so ridiculous.
Big fanks to Milesy Moo. Cunt. I've been an absolute delight to you for the past 2 weeks you inconsiderate shit. And that's on top of being mardy and menstrual. That got directed at other people/things/bacon.
Body clock is officially fucked. Hoorah.
From now on, expectations of others are at an all time low. Rock bottom's never been so deep.