It’s
2.46 am. Riding in the car with boys, had nothing much really about riding in
cars with boys but a tearjerker it was. My head spins, and the ache move about
in it like waves in a storm – each swell larger than the other.
Almost blew another 3-digit figure on an outfit. This time @ Miss Selfridge. What is wrong with you Kat? You didn’t even used to blink at clothes from any Arcadia owned apparel store! *Sigh* I blame the fever. Going gypsy is costing me more than just a tan and wrinkly skin by the time I hit 30. (I think someone once said that if you tan massively, you’ll look like an old testicle by the time you’re 30 – not that I actually know what it looks like, nor do I want to find out, thank you very much).
Ah… as for the effing fever. Well it’s not gone yet. The last time I checked the digital thermometer (you need to be in a nurses uniform to read an analogue), it beeped me a 37.89 Celsius. I wonder how bad that is. Well my head still cries for the ache to go away so I reckon it’s still pretty bad. My poor the throat is massively sore…swallowing has become chore of the day, and that sour cuppa peach tea didn’t do it any good mind. At least I still have my voice. Which reminds me how Adam Jenkins would always try to make me loose my voice. Haha… Oh oh!! Which just reminds me also, England vs Wales is tomorrow! Oh how I miss pointing and laughing at the poor sods dragging their massively drunken arse from Taffy’s after the match. *Sigh*
Once again, Kat feels her life spinning out of control. Or is that her head that’s spinning? Whatever it is, something’s spinning and it ain’t good. Why does that loan all of a sudden seem so much larger an entity to grasp than it is? Does she reach her hand out for help now? Should she ever reach her hand out for help? Would that signify defeat? Or weakness at least? I swear pride will kill the poor baby one day, if she doesn’t kill herself first. She does try I think, but I guess that’s what keeps her going. I wonder if she’ll ever relent. Or does that word exist at all in her stubborn set of vocabulary? The day she relents will be the day she is crushed, defeated. I pray she will not have to see that day. She’s afraid I can tell. Just about now, she needs someone to tell her everything will be fine. If only I could reach her, she wouldn’t have salty tears lulling her to sleep. She looks older each time she looks into that mirror. People tell her she looks matured beyond her age. She knows what it is, it’s not being matured, it’s being tired. She says it’s starting to show, everything, in the tiny lines on her face. Laugh lines that aren’t funny and frowns that beg to be permanently etched on to her face. Does someone out there think this is a mere charade? Or does she make life difficult for herself? Questions she’d rather not hear the answer to.
Just a week ago, she saw a reminder of how artificial the world can be. How ‘friends’ could still tell you they’ve missed you while they slander you without an ounce of remorse, whilst implying they are the epitome of morality. Oh give me a break; if they were the epitome of morality, we’d all be better dead. Dumbfucks. Suddenly every ounce of her trust in people fades away.
Tight
arse she’s got there ainnit? Oh she’s looking this way. Damn, she’s kinda
small on the top though, but I reckon she’d be a good fuck up against the wall
ya think? A fiver says I’ve had her before they ring the bar bell. She seems
naïve enough.
Enough, I need sleep.
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