Still alive, just ill. Poetry can go fuck itself.
So Julia came over with doughnuts and cigarettes, hallelujah, I’d been doughnutless and fagless since last night. She advised me to go back to bed and then cleaned my living room and kitchen while I slept. Is that a friend or is that a fucking friend? What a gal. I now have one big black hole of mess in the middle of my carpet but all of my surfaces are clear and everything smells of Mr Sheen. (I used to spray Mr Sheen into my mouth when I was younger – I actually count him as my first homosexual experience. I also used to drink Windowlene and eat my sister’s hair mousse. I wonder if any of my health problems can be traced back to these childhood ingestions of massively dangerous chemicals?)
She snuggled up in bed with me to watch the X Factor, but I kept nodding off like the opiate addled cockeyed puppet that I am. Can’t really remember her leaving. Sod this, I’m going back to sleep. After maybe one doughnut.