Early one morning...

Somebody take me outside and shoot me.

I'm pretty pissed. If there are spelling mistakes in this, or if I use a completely different language in parts, that's why.

I know I've dwelled a lot in my last few posts on the women in my life (cue derisive snort from my cynical (and more accurate) half), but I've just got to point out here and now that I am officially a complete dickhead when it comes to women. I haven't even the vaguest clue what I'm doing. Not a sausage.

I've just spent the last few hours with my bezzie mate, Jon, and his bird, Helen. Therein lies the problem. What do you do when you know that, sad bastard that you are, you've fallen, if not hopelessly, then hopefully, in love with your best mate's girlfriend? How do you live with the fact that you're a monster dickhead, on top of your other failings, some of which aren't visible to you, but are, in fact, apparent to total strangers in pubs?

It's time for toast. Toast and reflection. Possibly with the aid of candles and a small bottle of champagne Nige gave me the other night for being "a good skin". Whatever.

I thought I'd totally avoided angst by getting through high school without recourse to murder, suicide or other traumatic life-stuff, guess I fucked that diagnosis up too.

Sod this for a game of soldiers.

Where's that champagne?

Anyone who feels that they are qualified to tell me unequivocally what an arsehole I am, should feel free to do so now, when I'm expecting it and therefore it will cause as little pain and shock as possible.

I don't know what makes me feel sadder, the content of this post, or the fact that I felt compelled to post it in the first place.

Resolutions

After reading my last few posts again, I've decided that it's probably better that I don't think out loud too much. As of now, I shall keep all my embarassingly teenage thoughts out of this journal. I will speak only of manly things, like cars and computers and beer. I may lapse into generic wibbling from time to time, as and when I find it hard to think of a manly statement to make. Hope you don't mind.

I'm currently chugging at a mug of something called "Rocket Fuel". See, that's how manly I am. I drink only drinks with powerful, masculine names, like "Rocket Fuel" and "Purple Grape Juice"...erm. It's rather pleasant actually. It's coffee with guarana in it, so it makes your head a bit bonkers. I'm guessing I should probably not drink too much of it at any one time, seeing as I'm a fairly jittery sort of person anyway.

I'm not sure whether this comes under the heading of manly comment or not, but I've recently begun to think that there might be a poltergeist or some other kind of etheric beastie in my flat. I was washing up yesterday and one of the mugs on my mug tree started swinging by itself, quite violently, I don't think it could have been a breeze, and in any case the window wasn't open. I keep catching things out of the corner of my eye too. It's a little worrisome. There used to be old miners cottages where my flat is now, so there's ample scope for paranormal wossname. I don't really mind. It's just a little creepy. If someone just came right out and said, "Hey dude! We're living here too, ok?" I'd probably be cool with that. I thought of doing the LBRP to sort it out once and for all, but I don't really want to disturb anything. If there is something else here, it deserves to be here more than I do. Besides, having my own ghostie would be kind of neat (are we still allowed to use that word, or am I rapidly becoming a throwback?). I think I've ventured back out of manlyness very quickly there so I'll just add: "Tits! Beer! Carpentry!", and hope that sorts everything out.