(Spencer) Miles Lloyd and his Fancy New Word.

Everyone is ill! All I can hear from downstairs is coughing and I’m not enjoying it. I don’t want to get ill. I hate being ill. I use to love being ill as a kid though. How come if you’re sick as a child you get all the McDonalds and sweets and fizzy-pop your tiny heart desires? That’s exactly the stuff you shouldn’t be having when you’re ill. Apart from the McDonalds. That’s the sort of stuff you shouldn’t be having anyway. If your sick as an adult you get nothing and everyone moans at you and you’re probably not even allowed into a McDonalds.

How come we aren’t immune to all the illness yet? I mean, it’s fair enough with things like swine flu and AIDS because they were made in labs recently and pushed out onto people. I’m on about all the other things, like colds and the flu. You’d think that somehow we’d evolve to not get that kind of sick anymore. It’s fucked up. We can put man on the moon but we can’t not get a cough. I think we need to take a long, hard look at our society and start fixing the cough problem here before we go venturing off into space anymore. Although I do really want to go into space and look for U.F.O’s, cough or no cough.

Did anyone else notice I said “…long, hard…”? If you did you pass the test and we could be best friends! Unless of course you noticed it and said to yourself “What a woefully awful young man!” Then you can fuck off. Right off. I’ve used the word ‘woefully’ twice today now. That’s pretty good. I learnt a new word yesterday too that I haven’t had the chance to use yet. That word is ‘prose’ and apparently, I have it good. Or so I have been told. Told by someone who did English proper in uni too! But they’re American so it kinda renders it worthless. I mean, they think a fanny is a bum! Those bitches be crazy trippin’!

But yeah. Prose. Good stuff. I must now leave to duct-tape my door shut and keep the germs at bay. If you don;t hear from me in a day I died from tickly-throat. Make sure my all my shit gets sold and I’m buried with the cash.

And make sure my epitaph reads “Here lays the tortured soul of (Spencer) Miles Lloyd. He learnt nothing.”


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