There’s a dog in my room. That’s not so weird, but she belongs to one of the guys I live with but he’s away so someone else is looking after her but everyone is in bed and she’s in my room and she wont stop crying. I don’t know what to do. I’ve given her water, a bit of bree and a shit-ton of chocolate* but she wont stop crying. Maybe she wants a fag. Do dogs smoke? I know crabs do (see Something About Crabs or Hamsters. I forget) so why shouldn’t dogs?
I should really be falling asleep right bow as I start a new job tomorrow. I now work in marketing. On Old Street. That’s right; I’ve become everything I promised myself I wouldn’t become because I hate marketing and I had advertising but the money’s pretty good so fuck my morals. Fuck them to hell and then fuck them again! That’s my new motto I think. It has a pretty jazzy ring to it.
That reminds me. I’m also into jazz now. God-damn I actually have become all the things I hated. Except a hippy. At least I’m still not a hippy. Though I am seeing this girl who’s a vegetarian. And I’m wearing a hemp bracelet. And earlier on I listened to a Grateful Dead song. And last weekend I slept in nature. Jesus H. Christ, I think I might be turning into one of those. I might just jump in front of the Northern Line when I get to old street. It’s the roundabout cyclists favour to die on, so why not make it the underground to die on too?
I feel like 265 words isn’t enough. I’ve been lazy as fuck with this whole blogging shit recently and I don’t want to gyp you guys off. Actually, now I think about it, not a single one of you has ever given me a damn penny for this shit so fuck y’all! I’m going to gyp you off.
*This is a joke.
Also, I just relised I shower so I’m not even close to being a hippy. I even bought a set of towels the other day. thank fuck for that. I was just writing my suicide note. I got as far as Fuck every last one of you cu… That was a close call. Too close.