Cunt came back again last night around fucking 10. That’s the second time he’s left his g/f and kid at his parents in as many days… I can’t understand why a person with a baby wouldn’t want to be with said baby (let alone his sick g/f) even if he had seen it (and the g/f) regularly for the first 6 months of it’s life. For me hating a person is one thing, losing all possible human respect for them is another. Sweet death take this one into your arms.
Speaking of children, relatively fortunate ones, a primary school teacher has asked me to write a short story for a bunch of 7 year olds. For the last few years I’d been toying around with this story about a flying bed. Thinking I could lazily adapt it, my ideas ran into a series of dead ends until I was forced to veto the fucking flying bastard bed idea. But last night something came to me that could well be an entertaining little tale. I will consider publishing it here after I’ve told it to the kids, some time in the next couple of months. Maybe.
Needless to say I celebrated the passing of the idea, which was akin to passing a turd the size of King Kong’s finger with a wee snifter and lo and behold, I’m sat here with a hangover. But there is something else; I’m feeling generally unwell. For the last couple of days I’ve been feeling exhausted, shattered. As soon as I begin to relax at home my chest feels like is harbouring a London Pigeon, my appetite is sporadic and causing me to make peculiar eating choices.
I ate nothing during the day yesterday apart from a Kit Kat in a meeting, I had no appetite and no desire, despite being fully aware I should eat, to eat. When I returned home I tentatively ate chicken breast and broccoli, bloody good it was too but it only served to resurrect my appetite, then I went into a frenzy of eating. At about the same time the idea for the book was drawing into a coherent story I ate a fucking large bag of Onion Rings, I actually couldn’t stop. The eating was matched by an increase in rate for smoke and wine, even after I’d finished the bag I still had this pathetic appetite for some more, I began to eat a large bag of Salt and Vinegar Chipsticks but after only a few mouthfuls spotted a forgotten-about bag of Bassett’s Sour Worms.
The Chipsticks were instantly spurned in favour of what must be the ultimate sour gummy comestible. Over the last few years Haribo have crept into this market and whilst the Tangfastics and Sour Strawbs are a force to be reckoned with, Bassett’s Sour Worms, with their retro almost graphically challenged packaging, are a fucking sensation. For a start the long fat worms are quite soft to chew and the balance of sour ‘burn’ and fruity flavour is enough to make your eyeballs rotate, they are literally unputdownable. Just before I’d finished the entire fucking bag I’d written the structure of the story in my notebook.
By now it was quite late, I drained the scotch, washed up and went to bed. The minute I lay down I realised that I’d made an huge mistake, taking a vast quantity of sugar before one sleeps isn’t a good idea I surmised in hindsight. For the next hour and a half every time I began to pass from what constitutes ‘awake’ and ‘asleep’ I’d suddenly sit bolt upright in bed, my heart break dancing in my neck, gasping for air. On at least three occasions I’d take the whole bastard freak-out to the bathroom and splash water on my face and wrists in an attempt to subdue the rush. As a result I think I’ve had no more than 4 hours sleep and in addition to feeling ravaged, I’m tired, petulant and moody. Just like I’m having a period.
This morning, before pulling off to begin the journey to work I started my motorcycle up. The exhaust pipe on my Triumph isn’t strictly legal as it breaks noise laws, bearing this in mind, I positioned the pipe so it was no less than 6 feet from Cunts bedroom window and revved the bastard up for a good 3 minutes, ignoring twitching curtains from neighbours across the street, I let rip with gusto.
It was the best I’ve felt since Monday. It’s beautiful day to day.
