Well I should’ve thought it through before opening the champagne. I was too busy wrapped up in that euphoric moment, the blood, the black, the blue, the pathetic nauseating, whining little face all sad and worried because a nasty man had planted a fucking ham in his socket.
I accepted that he’d not be working for a while, but despite mentioning it, even with regard to my experience, I foolishly curtailed the thought that he may well be too afraid to leave the fucking flat. Being the hateful bag of fetid guts he is (you can’t have enough adjectives really can you) he’s no friends so he imposes himself on poor bastards in bars (I’ve been on the receiving end of this I hasten to add, it’s disgusting.)
Well he won’t be doing that for a while will he. He’ll be on full paranoia mode for at least 6 months. To make matters worse he’s decided to aid his recovery with what he calls ‘music,’ and performing imaginary amped-up gigs to no one (this includes ‘1,2,1,2 thank you’ THE FUCKING STUPID COCKLESS FREAK. THERE. IS. NO. ONE. THERE.)
I’m at my wits end.