Rock the fucking casbah

My life SUCKS. And I'm not saying that in a comical way, like "ah, I suck, never mind", but I actually seriously suck, and thus my life does too. Bad things happen to good people, but more bad things happen to bad people. I really bore myself, though thankfully for everyone else, I am quite forgettable. Ach, I am so lonely and I can't decided whether it's better or worse knowing that he is not giving me a second thought. Can we just pretend I didn't do those things? Thanks.

On Friday I went for a pint after work with R, who made me laugh lots, as well as being really nice to me. I am trying not to be cynical around everyone (or at least, not TOO cynical) but when people start talking about relationships or love or stuff I just want to shake them and shout "It's all lies! They'll say all of this and then they'll change their mind!" but that would make me the girl in Legally Blonde. When I got off the bus I announced as loudly as I could, in my best West Country accent (I have been slating the West for comedy effect, though seriously, I could give you a list of reasons why the whole region is shite), that I would find her a cock shaped carrot. I love saying "cock" in public. There's a real ring to it. I also like saying "cunt" a lot, but that's because I'm crude.

Hmm, anyway, then I went to Holborn and got some un-asked-for faux-sympathy from N's housemate. Fuck it. I saw this guy from my sixth form who was like "hey, you should go and work in the film industry in Beijing, I'll sort it out for you" and I was like hell yeah. I went over to the Knights Templar (a pub I swore I would never go in again after what happened the last time I was there), drank some wine, saw my old next-door-neighbour, almost got trapped in a toilet cubicle, felt meh. We headed off to Soho and got a bad phone call (not really my place to write about this though), and went to the club. Some randoms came to sit with us (who S has since described as "astonishingly ugly") and there were some arguments and all the normal stuff, but D beat a 34 year old man in an argument, so I think we win.

Having announced to everyone on the N98 that between us we had every STD possible (doing my bit to enforce the stereotype that gora girls are slags), we got off the bus on the Edgware Road where the crime spree began!! I had no idea that I was actually friends with the Artful Dodger. But I am, and we amassed: halloumi, hummous, bread, lemonade, mars drink, jaffa cakes, and (the piece de resistance) breakaway bars! Ace. Finally we get to Harlesden, and we're seriously on the right road and I get threatened with arrest. Yay me!

After a couple of hours sleep, none of it good for the normal reasons plus some new ones, I went to meet my parents, who were in London for the day. We went to the Lambeth Country Fair, which was AMAZING. There was a dog show and an owl display and carniverous plants and a man with a proper bee hive and sheep being shorn. But the best was the animals- alpalcas and giant two-foot rabbits and a goose who couldn't swim or fly and some fucking shit hot geese- and the best, pygmy goats. I am in love. I want a pygmy goat, they are possibly the coolest thing I have ever seen. I would have two, so they wouldn't be lonely, and they would be well tame. Sweet lord, they were the cutest things ever, no lie (or "don' liay" to quote everyone's favourite north London rudeboy). I am contemplating volunteering at Vauxhall City Farm just to hang out with these goats, though a number of reasons would stop me- not least that fuckface used to work at the farm. But seriously, those goats would break your heart.

What else happened on Saturday? I hung out with my parents and it felt really nice, like they were my friends. However, I couldn't stop thinking about the conversation the night before, and I felt so guilty. I don't deserve this. Blah. We went to the Tate Modern and I started retching on the Millenium Bridge. I can't deal with that bridge at all and I don't know why, as I can walk across other bridges, even other footbridges. It was high tide and my mum was like "oh, look how high the water is!" and my legs just went. Then in the evening I decided not to go out as I am too poor and couldn't face the journey to Harlesden, so I stayed in and drank two bottles of wine, listened to The Clash a lot, tried to fix my sunburn, watched Mean Girls, and tried to ignore the feeling of unending sadness.

On Sunday other stuff happened but I can't be bothered to write about it. I've been writing this entry bit by bit, but I can't face writing any more. Last night consisted of me forcefeeding myself a bottle of white wine even though it was making me retch, because otherwise I wouldn't get to sleep. And now I feel sick, as too much white wine plus all the beers I had plus not eating plus a sense that I have been destroyed is not good.