I have had a pee. And a fag. And a fresh cup of Tetleys. All is right in my world again. No plants were endangered.

Now. To roll another fag. Fuck it aye. We're all going to die and our souls will depart from ourPenal Gland and fuck knows where we'll end up in. Maybe in some pod surrounded by mucous. Just properly sat down, or passed out in bed, with Jaz and he insisted I watched The Matrix. And I did. And it had further filled my head with so much crap. It is bad enough that I think we are descendants of Aliens ala The Mission to Mars anyway. Now I have to contend with the fact that we might all be human and really we are all in mucous-filled pods. I love how he tries to educate me through films. We've watched fucking Snatch so many times it's ridiculous. And Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. I must know the awesomeness of English films and fuck all the Yank rubbish, he says.

But yes. As I was saying... Yeah, fuck it. We're all going to die. So might as well roll a fag and die doing something that seemed worthwhile to me. Any minute now Josh is going to burst through the bedroom door and ask me if he can pinch a few Rizlas. As though he can hear the crisp papers being pulled out slowly out of the little Rizla box-thing. Smoke, don't smoke. Drink, don't drink. All these patronizing twats telling me what to do or not do. And that look of horror as I light up. Fuck it, alright. My child died in the womb for no fucking reason anyway. So sod yous. I will light up. I mean, look at the state of the fucking world. At the rate that it's all going to bits, who wants to be around till 90 anyway. I don't want to be 90 and be humiliated when someone I don't remember being related to is wiping my arse. Then again, I might not even realize my arse was being wiped. Meh. Already I think that we are living longer than we should. Don't people used to pop off at 60 or something? I know of a few over 60s who should die at this stage. Like that old cock in that bus going up to Bushey train station telling me to get the fuck up so that we can sit when I was heavily pregnant. I'd gladly give up my seat to old people. Just not ones should calls me a 'Rude Child'. I'll give you rude, you old cock.

Then again, my Nan's pretty ancient. And she's cool. Oh, well...

Day 4 in the life of the jobless.

Horrible, horrible past four days, I must admit.

I am not enjoying this bloody vacation at all. All I've reaped out it are misery, more boredom and again, motherfucking emptiness.

I showered this afternoon. Finally. So yes, I should pat myself in the back for at least maintaining my personal hygiene. And I brush my teeth on a daily basis. Mainly because I've gone without brushing my teeth for two days and the third day when I woke up to suck on my first fag of the day, it tasted like utter horrendous shit. So yes, I'm simply brushing my teeth just so that I can continue layering my lungs with tar comfortably.

I have not looked at the papers for jobs. I have not gone and sent my resumes to various companies. I'm putting it off till past Easter. Excuses yes, but I don't really give much fuck now. Not yet at least.

It's not as though I enjoy waking up to nothingness. I wake up to Jarrod every morning and spend the next few hours laughing my head off with him. Great start to the day, one must admit. Then after that, he heads to bed and THEN, I'm left to stare ahead thinking about what the fucking hell am I going to do with my day.

Today, my mother was not working so, the day was spent pretty much with me avoiding her. Until eventually it got too much for the both of us that we both took 3 spoonfuls of cough syrup and passed out next to each other in the living room. Irony.

I have managed to slip back into my former anti-social self. I don't talk at home, I don't answer phone calls, I don't reply text messages. There is only so much 'I heard what happened to you. I'm sorry. We'll miss you.' I can take. I did not overdose on some fucking class A drug, for crying out loud. I get it, alright? I miss you guys more, for fuck's sake. I'm here at home staring at a bloody pitbull and thinking round the fucking clock as to how on fucking earth can I get myself out of this bloody HOT AND FUCKING HUMID COUNTRY before it's too bloody late. I have nothing better to do except think of how to act out my fucking revenge on Alan the balding bastard while I take a dump in the morning. I swear, it's interesting how I've skinned him alive time and time again everytime I constipate. Just because I don't answer to your texts, doesn't mean I have gone and swallowed 40 painkillers and DIED. No, I am just fucking tired of crying for no fucking good reason, alright?

And no, I'm not going to call you back soon. I can't even talk without my voice breaking. So yes, fucking let me moan in my little corner for a bit more till I'm ready to get the fuck out of my room. A few more days, I swear. I'll then go get my arse in gear.

And I don't know what I plan to do with my life right now, either. Day 1 I kept thinking 'Fuck I have to go to London.'. Then it hit me OH FUCK I DON'T HAVE A SINGLE CENT ON ME. THANK YOU, PARENTS. So yes, taking refuge under Jarrod's armpits was out of the fucking question. Day2 I was going around the house scaring my mom shitless by staring at her for hours to the point where she's gingerly stroking my head asking me if everything is alright. And she fucking ends every sentence with 'Sweetheart'. No, Ma. For crying out loud, everything is not alright. My world ended, Ma. But yes, thanks for feigning concern. And you don't have to touch me if it means you're doing it like I'm a rabid chihuahua, Ma. Really, it's alright. I'm not a big fan of unnecessary touching if it won't lead to sex, anyway. And since I'm not into incest, you don't really have to stroke me every few minutes. Everything's fucking up right before my very eyes, but it's perfectly alright. I AM FUCKING USED TO ALL THIS SHIT, REMEMBER.

Day3 I picked up a book, read it for an hour, had my mind elsewhere, chucked the book in the dustbin by mistake and I was staring at the rubbish chute going 'Oh fuck no! Nononononono!'. Nevermind that said book was shit anyway. But a book is a book. And goddamnit. Rubbish chute. Whoever invented a hollow shaft where rubbish go down should be thrown against a fucking wall. Later on during day 3, I was lying in bed blasting my headphones on so loud it gave me migraines. Then I went and smoked again. Finished my cigarettes that I bought in the morning by 3 pm. Drank my 4th cup of coffee. Drank cough syrup. Bad cough, I swear to god. Early into the morning of Day 4 it got me thinking, I should possibly go and try out the make-up field. I told my mom about it and JUST because she said 'No daughter of mine will be a make-up artist and go to hell for it.' the more I am going to do it. Fuck it, Ma, seriously. If I'm going to hell, I'd rather it be because I'm doing something I love and not because I ran down a fucking dog for fuck's sake. Plus, we're all going to hell. I'll reserve a sunny spot right next to the steam bath for my friends. Or the guillotine board. Whatever rocks your boat, baby.

Day 4, I was talking to Jarrod about the many blogs I have and I thought... I should be a fucking author. Thoughts of becoming a stripper went out the window. Along with thoughts of becoming a social escort. Or common whore, whatever. I'm a good writer. So yeah, why not. Go and get my fucking blogs turned into books. 'Confessions of the jobless'. I'll be an instant bestseller.

Oh my fucking lord. I don't know!

I have no fucking idea. I STILL think I should be in London right now.

NOW fuckdamnit. NOW.