08 November, 2003
Fuck being sick. I fucking hate it. It scrambles all thoughts and makes them into a stupid emotional goo.
I spent half the day deleriously (literally almost) happy and the other part of the day bored and pensive and quiet and unable to (oh dear I went to write function and wrong fucking, then fucktion, then funchion... ARGH!)
FUNCTION and being bored to tears and about to scream if I had to read anything else about or by Karl Lagerfeld or whatever his fucking name is. The man looks STRANGE kiddies and he might make beautiful clothes and take nice photographs but he looks like....
wrongness personified.
not that I'm a startling example of beauty and grace today- hey what's up with guys checking you out when you're either hiddeously deformed and ugly and sick and probably smelly? Maybe its like sensing easy prey- hey there's a sick chick I could hunt her down and attempt breeding rather easily.
Couldn't run very far or fast today I can assure you of that.
I want to sleep somewhere else tonight.
I mustn't be too sick then.
(an aside- when I was with steve I found that the cool breath in the night on my neck was incredibly annoying- then when I missed him so badly anyone's cool breath on the back of my neck was lovely- and now I'm in a neutral state and its person specific. This is relevant to nothing and no one I guess. Much like this entire fucking diary)
I have to stop swearing too much.
Who'll adopt me when I keep talking like a sailor.
(ha ha "Sorry, that page (jibberish.html) already exists!")