This, too ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- But I don't want to leave Nothing for a week. Just worry. The bank fucks me about, and my visa application is in serious jeopardy. The only mail I get is advertising from my bank. Cheeky shits. At least doing nothing is relatively inexpensive. Not like drinking. Back to that on the weekend, though of course it starts as a quick pint on the way home from nowhere. Even a week seems to render me out-of-practice. I wake in something bordering legitimate description as a squat, with the worst headache that I can remember. There's someone bordering legitimate description as Hippiegirl. Her roommate needs to turn down the thumping bass, really. It's seven Sunday morning and I'm fucking dying here. The ceiling is far away, and looks more like a floor. The music becomes somewhat more trance-like. I'm not entirely sure that the bed isn't on the ceiling. Either way I feel fucking weird, and wouldn't be surprised to see a baby crawling above me and spinning its head. It's almost amusing to wonder if she put something in my drink. She was talking quite a lot about how I'd looked like I was on something. Somehow six years younger seems far less right than the opposite. Seriously, her roommate needs to... oh, her roommate's even prettier. We'll let her off. In fact, is she... no, she can't be looking at me like that, that's ridiculous. I'm a wreck. Things stop swimming and the bank keeps fucking me. The university bills my brother for more services yet to be rendered. The smoking man returns, he hasn't died. He's back to staring through my window while he has his umpteenth cigarette. I think he's Italian. Wednesday. Time's running out for my visa. The roommate has dreadlocks and a bite that draws blood. This is probably a highly inapropriate course of action. 5:20 p.m. - 2008-02-01 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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