OH GOD THE BOREDOM OH GOD HERE IT COMES, YES I CAN FEEL IT, IT’S COLD BLACKNESS CURLING AROUND MY VERY HEART, NOTHING LEFT BUT TO SUCCUMB TO IT’S ICY GRIP, MY SOUL EMPTYING OF ALL HOPE WITH NOTHING LEFT BUT THE DULL ACHE OF INANE AND POINTLESS ACTIONS TO LOOK FORWARD TO…
Sooo my PS3 is broken.
Obviously that’s not a disaster, obviously there are far worse things that can happen to someone – rape, AIDS, Katie Price, but I was kind of relying on my fun box (I don’t really call it that) (I do) to keep me occupied while I’m confined to my sick room. I’ve got the flu – I don’t think it’s pig…could be cat. Or hamster. Anyway it means I can’t really do anything except hold myself, all bits of myself, and rub them better till the pain stops. YES. WANKING. I am so insanely bored, if I had the strength I would burn everything I own just to have something to watch. My mum keeps bringing me hot squash. Fuck off mum. She’s actually loving this, her boy trapped in four walls and forced to sit next to her while she drools over house programmes, and frequently talks about ‘the ex’. I shouldn’t be a dick, I feel bad for her – she’s so upset all the freaking time.
I probably wouldn’t be such a dick if my PS3 was still alive AAAARRRGGHHHHH
So here’s your update: I texted the brunette. The brunette – maybe if I see her again I’ll call her that, “Can’t come out, seeing the brunette”. Is that a really cuntish thing to do? I texted her with a joke we’d been talking about when we kissed and she left it till the next day lunchtime to reply. Jack says that gap means she either really likes me and so is trying extra hard to make it look that she doesn’t really like me, or she just doesn’t like me. “I assume it’s the latter mate, nevermind”. Fuck off Jack. She texted (this is so pathetic by the way, transcribing my inbox) “Haha. I’m so tired I can’t remember my name, think of a new one for me”, so I waited till approx 5.18pm to text back saying “fuckface”. Next morning (yawn, lame) she texted back saying “charming! Wait till you hear my one for you”. So I did. I waited and waited and didn’t text back – I then realised that I was probably supposed to prompt her so wrote “come on then fuckface, call me something nasty”.
She hasn’t texted back. I think I pushed it a bit too far. At the time I thought it was perfect, a bit forward but who gives a shit, let her have it. I was confident and happy with my decision but as the minutes turned to hours and my illness gradually crept up behind me in the darkt hen climbed onto my head and shat all over it, I am not ashamed to say I felt completely gutted. Still it’s only been a day. Maybe I’ll text her to see if she’s around – I can just dose up on lemsip and stagger out, but then I do look like a Andre Agassi during the meth days with a bad case of skin rash (spots) on my chin, and my eyes are basically surrounded by massive purple circles. No maybe I won’t do that, maybe I will just kneel on the floor and hug my decayed fun box, wailing at the ceiling till mum comes in with hot Ribena and drags me downstairs to watch cash in the FUCKING ATTIC.
