“The girl misses a bus and it’s like the whole world has ended” – yeah, well, fuck off

Today I am feeling some proper abject misery. I won’t take this moment to say why as I think it’s abundantly clear, and I don’t want to whinge. Actually, I do want to whinge, but it’s all a bit too pathetic really. So I won’t (this is a lie, I have been doing exactly this in the kitchen just now, and #1, bless her, is being very sweet, but there is only so much Virgin Radio I can take before I shout “why don’t you just fuck off and die, Bryan Adams?”). So yeah. Blah. #1 is going out tonight in a sports car to some swanky restaurant with one of her ex boyfriends. I am so far not dressed, and am wearing the worlds most skanky shirt. It’s this bright yellow, really ancient, silk shirt, and the reaction it usually provokes is thus: “you’re not actually going to wear that outside, are you?” No, I’m not. I don’t plan on going outside except to smoke on the back step. Can you go to Sainsbury’s for me and get me some soya milk?

I tried to write an entry yesterday but I had writers block. Hah! That sounds pretentious for a blog that no one reads. Writers block my arse. I kept writing sentences and then inverting them. It bored even me, so consider me compassionate for not putting it in here. I feel like quite a fraud because some people think I am a bit interesting, when the truth is just the opposite. Meh. Anyway…

One rather spectacular thing about this weekend was that I managed not to say anything wildly inappropriate or deliberately antagonistic. This is quite an achievement as last Sunday I fucked up quite badly, and the social ineptness continued onto Monday when I probably would have started a fight with a lamp post. Sometimes I think that I become more of an arsehole when I’m drunk, but Sunday I wasn’t drunk, so I guess it must just come naturally. Wolf is the same. He’s given up drinking because he says he acts like a cunt all the time, why spend money and get an even bigger beer belly if you can do it for free? However, talking to M on Friday, it was pointed out that I am a complete twat when I’m drunk. I can’t really argue with that. But in any case, this weekend I have not been a social retard, nor have I instigated campaigns of hatred. So I guess it can be classified as a rip-roaring success.

On Friday I managed to forget both my age and my name. I was in the shop buying some beers, and making a really half-hearted attempt at haggling. The woman behind the counter was having none of it and in the end she ID’d me. Well, she tried. She asked me how old I was, and I kind of snorted, because 1) I honestly couldn’t remember how old I was, although I knew it was between 20 and 23, and 2) Whatever, it’s too old to be ID’d. Anyway, it turned out she was a big gay and she started telling me what nice skin I had and where was I going tonight, and I said bye. Then later on, we were sitting in Fitzroy Square, and someone asked me what my name was. It may or may not be an excuse, but I have had many different names, and sometimes I forget what name I am using with which people. That makes me sound completely schizophrenic but it’s not like that at all really. In any case, Friday night was mainly dominated by an overwhelming sense of nausea, although only one person was sick. It was turquoise vomit though, if that helps. We sat out in Fitzroy Square for a while and of course were joined by a gang of youths, whose mental capacity seemed such that they couldn’t shoplift a brain cell if they tried. M was very funny and kept telling them to shoo and I studiously ignored them and tried to fathom what the northern people were saying. We went back inside and D made us listen to probably the vilest music in the world. I normally find misogyny funny, if only because it winds up feminists, but this was probably a little too much. I bruised my spine, as per usual, and lay on the floor, before weighing up the pros and cons of going home or sleeping on the floor. In the end, the thought of my bed won, which was quite ironic as when I got home, #4 was also getting in and was even more wasted than me, so it being 5.30am, we decided to smoke some spliffs in the living room (living on the edge, we are, smoking in the house and all that… I guess it goes without saying that #2 is away all weekend) and then we both fell asleep on the sofas. Not before, however, I had come up with what I thought was quite an intelligent insight into mathematics, although I could have just been stoned. I seem to talk about maths and physics quite a lot when I’m stoned. When I was about 16 or so, I remember coming back from some club and spending literally hours trying to apply chaos theory to the question: “How many ecstasy tablets would fit inside a Renault Espace?” Needless to say, we never got a solution because a) we were too stoned, b) we had a rather rudimentary understanding of chaos theory, c) those who hadn’t left school at 16 with no GCSE’s were arts students, and most importantly d) there are too many variables, such as passengers, seats up or down, sunroof open or shut, etc.

I spent most of Saturday asleep, although I did make it to Brixton to buy a bookcase and to go to the continental deli (as I pointed out the other day, I should probably choke myself to death on my fair-trade organic tea bags) where I fought the urge to buy yet more rice (“But they have paella rice!” “Shut up, self”). I came home and only hammered my thumb twice while assembling the bookcase, then managed to pour boiling water over my hand. I should concentrate more when making a cup of tea. Anyway, I am very pleased with my bookcase although not all my books fit on it, and I am very tempted to get another one, not least because then I would have the perfect excuse to buy more books, and anyway, it was only fifteen squid, and thus a bargain (I know it’s only a bargain if you need it, but I can convince myself that I need anything (I am such a child of capitalism), which is why glittery black eyeliner is ALWAYS a bargain).

Last night I went to the Troubadours on Old Brompton Road with A, the girl from music college. This guy, V, from RCM (our college, wooo!) was the one putting it on. I hadn’t seen him since I was 17 or so, and it was awesome to see him. We used to speak all the time, and once he drove down from Hull to Cambridge to go for a pint with me, but I am notoriously shite at keeping in touch with anyone. At RCM there was a little group of us, mainly banded together by the fact that our heads were not firmly lodged up our own arseholes, and that we were generally regarded as being common as muck (“Oh my god, so you go to state school? Do you know any… you know… black people??”), as well as being not quite as ruthless as the rest, having never contemplating selling our own grandmothers to get ahead. There was me, A, V, this Chinese girl called J, a goth girl who used to tell us about her exploits the night before (which often included anal sex on the bonnet of a car) and a couple of others. They were good times, and if it wasn’t for them, I would have gone completely nuts, what with the absolute bitchiness of some of the other people. Anyway, much fun was had by all last night, and the Paul Stacey Band were good and V’s dj’ing was cool. He’d booked a suite in the Hilton Olympia and told us to come along, but A had a rehearsal early in the morning (she is directing what will be a rather excellent play, which everyone should go to) and I didn’t want to go by myself, as fair enough, I know V, but I didn’t know any of the other people, but in the end it took me fucking ages to get home as I had to walk back from halfway to Norwood. But it was a good night anyway, so I was very ‘appy, as an Italian Formula 1 driver might say.

Developments between #1 and #4 have come to a grinding halt as #4 brought Efftits back last night. She’s this girl he met a few weeks ago but said he didn’t fancy enough to see again. Clearly her ample, errr, assets were sufficient to change his mind. #1 is a bit pissed off about it but I personally think it’s a good thing that the pair of them aren’t going to have sex now. But I can’t quite figure out whether it’s because I’m genuinely concerned that it might be a bad thing (which I’m not 100% about) or whether I just want to be #1’s favourite housemate.

Writing this has not helped to cheer me up. I’m going to have to try something else. Booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. I really miss N.