It’s been quite annoying not having access to money this whole term. I missed out on a lot retail therapy and… what’s that thing called again? Oh, right, eating. That’s the one. Special offers have slapped me across the face and flown by, but I finally got it a few weeks ago. At long last I had that delicious £1000 lying in my bank, ready to use after spending 37 hours in the library in my traditional attempt to get an essay done.
37 hours of failing university seemed to take a lot out of me, because I instantly forgot my pin and the machine ate it after the third (wrong) attempt. FUCK. I started to get quite paranoid after a while, as I had to order a replacement three times before I actually got it.

I was at the bank so often getting new cards that they either thought I started working there, was a new contemporary piece of furniture or I was planning to rob the place. Little did they know I was just burning all my cards so I had an excuse to stalk Alice, the blonde girl who works there and doesn’t seem to do much but hide when I come in. Weird. She smells pretty.
But really, that card business was a piss take.

1. I get a replacement sent back home to London. Mother recieves it to wrong address in Brighton. Yay.
2. I change my address to one in Brighton as Mother is incompetent. So is the postal service; card never comes.
3. I go to another bank and ask them for a new card (I lose a lot of cards). After 3 weeks they say it was never ordered. Yay.
4. I order cards from each one more time.

And they finally fucking get to me! Yes! About time.
I’m not sure why the hell it’s taken so long for the cards to get to me. Paranoia started to get to me as I begun to think those 2 filthy Italians I live with were stealing them as they came in the post to pay their debts back to the Mafia. Either that or there was some kind of huge conspiracy in the mail services trying to stop me getting my loan so that eventually, Alice would acknowledge me as her stalker and call the police who would put me in jail where I would be put in the same cell as a very big, strong homosexual man who had been reading my blog and taken a liking to me and planned this whole thing out just so he could rape me. Here’s the twist: he’s the head of the bank AND mail services!!!

Yeah, whatever. Either way I got my card, with lots of cash at my disposal at long last. Today however, I got another letter… only this one had been taped shut at the back. Maybe someone had been going through my bloody mail! It must have been the Italians! I mean, one of them has gone home for Christmas but I’m sure he had the time and money to fly back for one morning to go through my mail.
So I opened it to take a look at what super secret documents were stuffed inside…

HAHAHAHAHAHA! Better luck next time, motherfucker!
I mean, it could just be a ploy by the guy on the phone who I spoke to about activating my card. He seemed pretty desperate to sell this stuff to me and probably thought it would be clever to make it look like someone was going through my mail so I would give into it.

Either way, I’m going to post some anthrax and black widow spiders to myself, and maybe make it smell like pepperoni in case those Italian fuckers are the ones opening my shit.

A while ago I mentioned I couldn’t bring myself over to the idea of carrying around a camera like most people seem to do these days, and stop and take photos of myself in everyday situations, putting on my best fake smile to make it look like I actually enjoy walking around in the rain, or riding the bus. Facebook tells me that I’ve been tagged in over 1000 pictures though, which means I’ve made the right kind of photo-taking friends who are going to graduate to become paparazzi. I’m lucky like that, because I’m crap at taking photos myself; I was uploading some from my phone which I’ve had for around a year and it totalled to around 20 photos. So around 1.6 photos a month. Yes, I am the ultimate photo whore.

But then I realised that it’s actually FUN to go around taking pictures of stuff. I started to see how entertaining it is to go around intentionally looking for ridiculous and stupid shit, then trying to put a story along with it by making it a bigger deal than it actually is. Basically, imitating the work of the media today. I still can’t get my head around the idea of going to a club and wearing the same expression from an angle and ending up with the same photo a hundred times but with a different dickhead in the background trying to be funny. You could be doing better things with your hands, like punching yourself in the face or masterbating. Hell, you have two hands, you can do both at the same time!

But yes, now I had seen the light and would be even more overly-analytical, inquisitive and slightly cynical about the world around me by providing photographic evidence of my insanity! 2 days ago, it started snowing pretty heavily in Brighton, so I decided to get out my camera and run around taking photos of the town turned white. Which is proof as to how fucked up and unpredictable the weather is in England. If by some miracle it’s not raining, people feel the need to run out and take a million photos of the snow or sunshine. I personally never leave the house when the sun is out, because I’ve forgotten what it is. I refuse to believe it exists here anymore, and that it’s really just some kind of trick to get us out the house so the rain can get us.
So, I decided to go to my University campus where the snow would be extra deep. What I saw was sliding down hills and HUGE snowmen and attacking foreign students with snowballs and then bricks if they thought we were initiating a fun-filled snowball fight.

So yes, knowing my luck the minute I start developing a fetish for taking photos of snow struck landscapes, wildlife and my friends in the shower, the snow decides to fucking eat my camera. Suddenly, it being so plentiful and deep wasn’t a good thing. I looked around for ages, but couldn’t find it anywhere and it’s much easier to be paranoid and blame others for your own shortcomings, so between me and you… I think it was either the Chinese or Indian guys that my friend and I kind of know. I don’t want to seem like I’m pointing fingers because they’re from Asia, but I think they definitely took it because they’re Asian. I’m starting to think that India and China sent out special agents to for some reason, steal my camera, causing me to hate the once joy-bringing snow, ensuring a coalition between the two countries. At first, this sounded a bit irrational, maybe even crazy. But it makes more sense than admitting I’m a clumsy dumbass.

So yeah, after all the walking around town, taking photos of the beach covered in a blanket of snow, the photgraphic proof of me stopping a bank robbery whilst stuck in a sleeping bag and wearing a Burger King crown and the videos of us sledging and sliding down steep hills on a metal sheet, I really only have one photo relevant to my whole experience in the snow:

Yes, cutting the fingers off my only pair of gloves suddenly didn’t seem so — oh shit, stupid pun — COOL anymore. And the shit photo quality of my phone does not make me any less angry angry at this jackass snow that refuses to melt.

Fuck this shit and bring the Summer on so I can whine about how hot it is.

Hohoho, see what I did there with the title? Well you will soon, it’s quite relevant.

So, today I thought it might be worth doing some of that weird shit called “schoolwork”. You know, because I’m always interested in trying new things like that. So I went to get my pen out of my bag to see if I can still remember how to spell and write properly, when I felt a big pile of plastic wrappers at the bottom of it. As I’m broke, I get hungry quite often because food is not really a necessity anymore, but a very tasty luxury. What I pulled out was these:

You see, this term I’ve missed out on a lot of classes because staying in my bed is better than education, although I’ve been having trouble persuading girls this is the case. I should probably get a refund on that hypnotism course and buy a gun or Rohypnol instead. They’re more convincing.
So yeah, I started getting tutors on my back and the library saying I owe them £30 for not returning their books. Apparently, you actually have to give the books BACK at some point after taking them out! Crazy, huh?! Worst fucking bookshop ever, I think I’ll be sticking to Amazon from now on. And they must be getting wise to my excuses, because aliens can only abduct and rape your girlfriend and put her in a state of severe depression so many times before people get a bit suspicious.

Come to think of it, I’m sure they were fine with the idea of rapist aliens from outer space (title of my next porno, by the way, keep a lookout for it), but the thought of me having a girlfriend is what set the alarms ringing. I doubt even a Scientologist suffering from ADHD (aka Tom Cruise) can suspend that much disbelief.

Luckily, I actually did catch swine flu and was off to the good doctor to give me a note to excuse me from struggling out of a vodka coma in the morning and evade school. Outside the medical centre was a big box decorated quite festively. By ‘festively’ I really mean they just threw one piece of stringy glittery shit on it, but as I haven’t celebrated Christmas in a long time, that’s pretty decent by my standards. It also had some kind of enticing, alluring Christmas message, but I forget. Probably something that said “free”, because I recall getting quite excited and there’s only three words that get me excited: “alcohol,” “free” and “bestiality”. Put them all in the same sentence and I’d make quick work of all those condoms.

I looked in the box and felt kind of dissapointed. I’m not sure what I was expecting outside a medical clinic. A syringe? Plasters? A cheeseburger? You know, something I could actually USE? But hey, free is free, right? I’m a sucker for anything cheap (just look at me ex-wife) and nothing spells the birth of the son of God like wrapping a piece of rubber around your penis and engaging in pre-marital sex, so who am I to say no to such holy relics? You never know, I might get lucky and bump into a girl blind, deaf and stupid enough to actually test them out with, but I think necrophilia is illegal, so probably not. Either way, I dug my hands in and pulled a pile out and into my bag, and as I looked up a girl was watching me with a look that read, “Yeah, right.”
She was probably playing hard to get, and I hope her test results come back positive.

So yes, parents better be locking up their daughters (and pets), because now I’m equipped with more condoms then I know what to do with and a brand new mattress that doesn’t impale you with springs and absorb all the blood! But wait, what’s this on the back of the packet?

The fuck? This shit as an EXPIRY DATE?!
There’s even a frigging hourglass next to it, no pressure, guys. I mean, I know it’s good for another three years, but getting a black belt in Karate and being able to efficiently beat up girls into having sex with me won’t happen for another five, at least! And as far as other options go, I’m fairly sure I won’t have enough money saved up for another my first prostitute by then, what with all the university debt to follow. Jeez, in the words of my ex-wife, “what an anti-climax.”

It’s not all bad news though.

Not only were they free, but these ones are actually chocolate flavoured. As I have no money and usually have to resort to eating my furniture, I’m sure these will make a tasty, long-lasting treat!  Like latex chewing gum. Mmm. I’m already throwing up in my mouth, making it a great way to stay in shape.
Or to be less of a latex-licking homosexual, I could make balloon animals out of them, like a sexually deprived clown. The thought that clowns get more ass than me is deeply depressing.

So, now I have three years to get laid over 20 times. As I typed that, I didn’t see any flying pigs outside of the window (it’s 6:30 am, they’re probably still sleeping), so I’ll assume it’s possible. I’ll start outside the opticians where the chicks can’t see and the Weight Watchers meetings where they can’t run. I’m sure they’ll love the chocolate flavoured ones.

You know, because they’re fat.