No Party for Me, I Still Go and Fuck Myself

I didn't go to work today, not because I'm bad, or I'm depressed but because the Leotard Girls had a party last night and kept me awake all fucking night long? On a Tuesday? My day? It was all to entice Hot Baby Roy into their lair of gyrating spandex. He didn't go for it. He wasn't here. I nearly went round in his place to say I'd do but no I couldn't be arsed. It spilled out into the street in the morning and someone called the cops.

I don't know who did and I don't approve on principle but I'm glad they did. I don't have it in me any more to go wielding baseball bats at tramps.

I called in sick and slept til it was too hot and I was stuck to the bedsheets with my sweat (this is supposed to sound sexy - I've just realised it doesn't).

Big Old Plans (or new ones)

Getting off crack is exhausting work and spending a lot of Tuesday down the Lagan Meadows really took it out of me. I've been sick in bed ever since. Fabian Wildman gave me a cough bottle and made a joke about how I'm using it for its intended purpose for once.

Being in bed has given me more time to weigh up my situation. I haven't heard from any of my neighbours since but I'll take that as a good thing, for now.

Battle Cat has been up keeping my feet warm and I've been talking to him about how I'm going to stay off crack and get a job and do cool stuff. I'm not sure what yet but I'll figure it out I'm sure.

The first thing I'm going to do is burn my bedsheets because he's just pissed on them. But for now I'll have a wee snooze (no pun intended).