I may have to start using this again

for the goodness of my mental health.

Last night

Really managed to slap me in the face.

There are so many things I need to say, and do, and need. And I'm getting none of it.
Which really should call for a more dramatic plan of action, which is a problem in itself because like everything in my life, I don't know where I want to be or what I want to happen.

I think the main problem I have with other people is myself. I'm very cynical and negative about everything really, and I tend to assess peoples personalities from the sidelines as soon as I've come into contact with them. I realise how petty that is, I know better than anyone it's by no means a healthy form of socialization, but I can't help it, it's became automated and I do it without realising more often than not.

I'm painfully aware of the least obvious things around me and blissfully unaware of what really needs to be approached. I focus too much on silly little things I choose to believe other people besides me care about, they don't though, they have more important things to concern themselves with, and so do i. Or so i should anyway, that being the problem because concentrating on tiny little, often pathetic details of my life has left me at a loss with the important aspects, like living.

I hate stumbling across this

reading things I've wrote and hearing things I've said always makes me feel so pretentious.


Hence why I haven't updated this in absolute missions, probably anyway.
I'm sure I had a life when I first got this, GOD KNOWS WHERE THAT WENT.


I have a job now, and prospects. If I want them.

my god

am i the poster girl for some suburban sickness? better keep a healthy distance.

ill as fuck

feel like i've beek sucking off tree trunks and razors, can barely speak without sounding like i need excorcised. i was meant to be going out tonight as well, so trust it to come now, horrible swine flu-esque cunt. looks like i'm ganna be sat in with the wonders that are lemsip and amanda palmer! not at all bad then.

i can't help but wonder

is samuel francis keane reading this pitiful excuse for a blog?
if he is, hello sam keane. you have a wonderful name.

fml

i hate slags. fat fucking heifers, do i really need to see a set of fleshy spaniels ears greet me when i'm eating my fucking breakfast? ironically, the majority of them have tits like cornflakes anyway, enough to put you off crunchy nut for a fucking lifetime. almost.

if there's a specific clique of people i detest the most it's the slags. the orange harlots with their plastic hair and the 4 inch thick slap that takes them 3 hours to apply. is there any need for their existence? truly, what do they bring to the world aside from earache and herpes? the screeching shit that seeps from their mouths like shit in a sewage system on a minute to minute basis, is there any need? is there REALLY any fucking need?

they're even plaguing my television now, they're on jeremy kyle constantly whinging on about maintenance and dna tests. they're at my college, plaguing my lessons with their shit craic and dismal unintelligence. and that trail of orange dust they shed and leave behind constantly? surely that can't be good for my hayfever? cunts.

it's also painful knowing the majority of males i know would rather shag a fat mething mong with double E's and a push up bra in place of braincells and a sense of humour, than a decent looking NATURAL female with the ability to string more than one sentence together that doesn't involve the words, "aye, a sucked him off for a quid".

the more laughable thing is they all reckon they're lush as fuck :/
fucking hell ladies, theres only so much 5 litres of dream matt mousse can do, y'kna?

for real though, i don't want to know about how many cocks you've had in you at one given moment, i don't want to know when you're on your rag, how heavy your flow is, how many sti's you've given your boyfriend and vice versa, i don't want to know how tiny his cock is or how big your fanny is. i simply don't want to know, i'd like to indulge in imagining you don't exist and are simply a figment of my colourful imagination. just shut the fuck up, close your legs for a bit, give your shotgun wound time to heal and spare me the highly grotesque mental imagery.

last night

and this morning was probably, in retrospect, the oddest night/day of my life and likely the most spontaneuous, get in.


fucking paying for it now like, i feel as though i have some xxxl spiked fetus growing inside my headdd, hurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh.

yes

well, fucking hell

it really is the worst thing going spending the vast majority of your time hating everyone around you and picking out everyones flaws and then suddenly realising you're the most boring person on the planet and you have absolutely nee fucking right to judge anyone on how dismal their lives are, because in retrospect its probably, infact definately class in comparison to yours.

it's ten times worse when your sentences are ten times longer than the great wall of china as well, something else to hate myself for.

i really need to sort my life out, drop the shitcunts, being a dickhead and my own worst enemy. i'm such a sorry tosser.

i hate jeremy kyle.

what a horribly pretentious man, and a total hypocrite as well. i think he forgets that he left his wife when he ran up 5 figure gambling debts, smutty cunt. the people on his show as well? fucking hell. it actually goes past laughable sometimes and it starts to petrify me when i realise that i live within a thousand mile radius of people who are probably the most derranged people in existance.

there's more inbreds on that program than there is in deliverance and both hills have eyes films combined like, errrr. who the fuck would want to publicize their dirty laundry like that man? the worst one i watched was a couple of weeks ago and there was this couple of reet fucking downies git arguing owa this poor bairn and the 80 possible fathers and the lass was git "well it's definately not yours, cos you didn't even come in is and we used condoms" and "well i know its yours cos you maked jokes about how it was going up inside me and then said i shouldn't worry because you have dodgey sperm", WAT.

it's fucking sick like, it actually troubles me that theres people like this in existance, and more so that they've been allowed to breed.

i wish facebook would fuck off

full of reet smarmy little cunts of late, and any amount of closet cases, the really, really aggravating type though. The type that'll sit and jip the "dykes" and the "puffs" that've actually come to terms with their preferance in genitalia, but sit at home with a face full of make up and wank over Chris Crocker and the Jonas brothers. Errrrrr what, we're ny on 18 man. you should've established by now wether you like cock in your arse. It's not like they even make the effort to hide it, the nails down a blackboard -esque, clearly put on camp accents and the garage door jazz hands gave it away about 3 years ago.

Erg, all the Doyles from school that you try to avoid and their twelve million farmville requests as well, and the incessant invites asking you to join "BLOKES WHO HIT LASSES ARE TOSSERS" groups. I wish Myspace hadn't died, it was much more personal than Facebook, and more reserved for those with more than 3 braincells to rub together, or so i found at least.

Blogging about social networking sites, lawl. Where did my life go?

fucker

I've must've spent at least the past 6 hours doing voluntary work for art and literature, i swear to fucking Allah if i don't get A's this year someones going to get curb stomped.