Today, I’m going to post about nothing of any real relevance. Which is basically what I do all the time on this website. And keeping in line with the tradition, I’m only doing so in order to escape the fact I have a shit load of work to do.

I used to be big on videogames; the most exciting thing that could happen to me is reading games magazines and the release of some game I wanted for ages. It was the best of times, it was the geekiest of times. I used to clean my room, have a shower, shave, cut my nails and fucking GROOM myself before playing a new game for the first time. Like it was some supermodel that was blind enough to decide to have sex with me… and I didn’t even have to pay!!

Then I came to University where I discovered the wonders of alcohol, amongst other things such as drugs and debt. So now I can’t really afford to get excited about games since I’m too busy failing my degree and being a wild, social butterfly on ecstasy, a friendship finding fiend. So, whilst I’m waiting for games to become so cheap that homeless people will pay me to take them off their hands, I have to resort to watching OTHER people play them on Youtube. Yes, I realise that makes me even more of  a loser than I used to be, considering I actually used to play the bloody things as opposed to watching some stranger doing all the fun bits for me and uploading them to the internets.

I’d love to make this a big post on how much of a geek I am and how the sight of Sonic the Hedgehog turns me on beyond belief (it must be the way he wears nothing but red shoes… mmm…), but no. There is a more serious matter at hand here.

I was playing watching someone else play that new game, “Assassin’s Creed 2″, which is set in Italy and you play as an Italian guy who actually speaks REAL ITALIAN. The developers were thinking outside of the box when they made this, you see. Anyways, as I was watching I couldn’t help thinking how amazing Renaissance Italy seems, everything about it is so classy, romantic and cultured. The language itself is beautiful sounding. And then it got me thinking…
Why can’t my housemate sound like that?

See, I live with a Italian bouncer, who is from Italy and speaks Italian; he’s the works. He eats pizza, occasionally cooks pasta and has Parmesan cheese in the fridge, which he always blames me for stealing. I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to do with Parmesan cheese considering my diet consists of vodka, beer and instant noodles, but I digress; this dude is Italian. You can tell because beyond all the stereotypical things I listed, his last name is something like ‘Giovanni’. Nuff said. But he’s nothing like the Italian people video games have taught me about! He’s not charming, he’s no amazing chef, he doesn’t collect coins and shoot fireballs, doesn’t have a magic carpet and he’s no smooth talker. I can see none of this amazing Venice type stuff when he’s trying to subtly hint that he will use his (illegal!) tazer on me if I don’t wash up my dishes.
The fact I know he’s trying to subtly threaten me with electricity hints that being subtle isn’t his strong point. Is it even possible to be subtle about something like that? It’s like being Zeus or an electric eel and trying to pretend you won’t shock someone. You’re fucking Zeus/electric eel! It’s what you do!*

Anyways, I’m constantly having to listen to him SHOUTING Italian words down his phone. At least I think it’s a phone, I don’t see him doing it. Judging by the volume of his voice, I’m guessing he has two cup threaded to Italy to talk to his mother or something… and the reception is bad, I don’t know. I always thought German was the most unpleasant language to have to listen to, like someone trying to cough up a hissing cat… but this guy really puts Italian to shame. Maybe “Assassin’s Creed 2″ lied to me, because for the most part the characters speak English, but with an Italian accent.
Is it possible to NOT shout in Italian? There’s a frigging wall and ceiling between us and I can hear you, if the phone placed conveniently next to your mouth as you do it has trouble picking up the sound, can I introduce you to my friend “email”? He’s quite patient and you “talk” by doing this thing called “typing”, and you can do that as loud as you want!

So after accepting that the Italian is the language equivalent of a big firework and NOT the smooth, chocolatey goodness with a caramel centre, I wondered if it could get any worse.
Hint: wondering if it could get any worse usually tends to make some higher power PROVE that yes, actually; it can get worse.

Now he’s had a friend move in, who low and behold is also Italian, from Italy and she speaks Italian. So now he can shout ALL THE TIME! YAAAYYY!! It’s quite annoying, because I keep hearing them having shouting matches and exchanging verbal blows, thinking that they’re going to try and kill each other and hide the body on some pizza base and use the blood as sauce on some spaghetti and feed me it, which I’ll probably eat because I can’t really afford food. But then, 5 minutes later I hear them laughing as if nothing happened. Either Italian people descended from angry Goldfish and kept the memory span, or they just like to shout a lot. Or both.

* If my housemate is reading this, in no way, shape or form was I implying you are an electric eel. Please don’t taze me

Ok, what the fuck. Why is it that people in Brighton have to be drug addicts? I’m sitting in the living room of some people I’m supposed to be flyering with, watching as they snort ‘meow’, which looks a bit like cocaine.

Ok, its 3pm the next day.
After a night of drunken attempts at flyering I wake up to a room of people who seemingly have boycotted sleep. Still drinking after I slept in a stranger’s bed for 9 hours. Still a bit drunk, I just took cocaine for the first time. I feel no different except for a strange taste in the back of my throat. DRUGS HAVE NO EFFECT ON ME.
So just now I had more. A LOT more. Stupid Kenny. I snort it off the end off a fork. I’m still fine… For now. No peer pressure, just the seeking of new experiences. Which might end up killing me.

Hahahhahaha. I am now a man.

That’s a joke. Cocaine does not make a man. My heart rate appears to be increasing. They tell me I’ve done about £20 of coke, I feel more guilty for wasting their cash than anything. It has no effect!! A cigarette has a more itense rush. Wait, I think its kicking in. Pulse is stronger. Head light. These people are cool, but the basis of their interaction is drugs. I can imagine myself falling into this, the wrong crowd as they call it, this is probably how you fall into it, I guess. No inhibitions, no boundaries or limits. You know them, you do it. It’s how it happens. I sort of miss the Kenny who doesn’t do anything as a matter of morals, now I don’t have any! I’m up for anything in the name of new experiences and trying stuff. Never ever would I have thought I would be indulging in that white powder I watched Tony Montana die for in ‘Scarface’. It always seemed dangerous and forbidden. A taboo thing.

Once upon a time, weed was terrifying. COCAINE. WHAT THE FUCK. Its illegal, Kenny! That means it’s bad. Its in my throat, maybe that’s why it’s not doing anything? I signed up for flyering, not this. Hmm. An eventful night transitioning to a strange day. 3:30pm, sipping on beer, still sniffing the remnants of coke. As in cocaine, the bottled soft drink at my feet is empty. Vodka bottle still half full.

For me, this is a big deal, for them, a daily occurence. What’s next for Kenny? Pills? Seems scary, but you prbably have to try it now? Just once? Which never means once, does it? That happened with cigarettes. The fact I’m a cheap motherfucker hopefully means these (and other addicts) might get fed up with me being a vulture, outcasting me from their substance inspired social situations, taking me back to the four walls of my safe, stubborn room of books and sleep, clothes and… Erm, stuff? Awaiting deadlines and drunken, kind of civilized nights which end at 3am, waking up the next day to microwavable ready meals and lethargic movements as opposed to getting even more fucked.

They’re all graduates or working, is this the grown up life? I dunno. Ok, for a bit I shall ivestigate/socialise a bit more.

Okay, now I’m going to try MDMA or some shit, it looks like coke, Tanya is cutting it. I snort it, a stinging feeling in my right nostril, my right eye watering. After a few moments I feel nothing. Tanya says its a mix of ecstacy (also a scay drug!) but I’m fine. Hmm. For 2 years of university I watch idlely as people do this shit, now I’m one of them. I can’t see myself doing it regularly until I eventually get a kick out of it so I can see the big deal, but that’s what makes you an addict, a customer, regular consumer, huh? This is a bit strange. A nose full of A class, a mind full of wonderment for the thought whether I’m ‘high’ or whatever is supposed to be happening to me, the slightly attractive blonde girl next to me commenting on my “striking eyes”, feeding me too much vodka, too little lemonade. And she has work soon. Tanya tells me to kick back, relax. Stop analysing, so I’ll stop this writing for a second. I see a shisha/hooka across the room, I recall taking some last night suddenly.

Piecing together the night, falling into the darkness of day. Damn Kenny, you’re deep, aint you? Ok enough typing on a Blackberry keyboard, more living in the moment with people, despite how… ‘different’, they seem from your usual and overly pretentious, intellectual peers. For now.
Alright, keywords from their drug conversations! Nothing other than shit centered around drugs as you shall see:

Comedown. Drug binge. LSD. Addiction. Food. Nose. Crystal. Meth. Addict. Cough mixture. Ketamin. Kitchen. Lines. Ket. Kitchen. Ketamin. Snort. Baggie. Tulip. “Cross joint”. Roach. Bud. Weed. Roll. Pills. Line. MDMA. Gram. Card. Coke. Fucked. Few seconds of normal conversation about flyering. Which ultimateley transitions into…

K. Ketamin. Fucked. Up. Fucked up. I guess the fact I’m constantly sniffing/snorting what I think is the remnants of the coke perhaps stuck in my nose attracts attention to the ever enticing and interesting subect of illegal substances.

Off to the shop to purchase heroin. Not really. Marlboro lights and man sized Kleenex! Returning noe for fuck knows what.

Weed is on the menu now. Wow, these guys don’t stop. No sleep whatsoever, alcohol, coke, MDMA, vodka and coke, vodka and cocaine. Sniff, sniff, gulp, gulp, puff, puff.
“I worship my green!!” Athena moans, commenting on the (low) quality of their dealer’s product.

Hour later, he’s still not here, I’m not sure if I’m eagerly awaiting his arrival or just plain old waiting. stuart gave me a cigarette which fucks me up, he reminds me that I had half a gram of cocaine to no effect, yet tobacco has messed me up. It doesn’t look like I have much left to say at the risk of repeating myself. I have for a while, wondered who this Charlie guy is that they keep talking about and why he’s so popular. Oops, turns out that’s just another name for cocaine. Who knew?

7:30! Who knew you could talk about drugs for so long? Over 3 hours if you want to be precise.
Oh, the weed has arrived. I don’t think I shall take any after how bad the cigarette hit me… but I’m on a roll now.

I believe Rick James said it best: “Cocaine’s a helluva drug!” Although I’m still not sure what he was talking about…

Here I am, as per usual in the library with a deadline close at hand. The difference being here, I’ve come to the library the NIGHT BEFORE my all nighter. So I’ll fit two in! Awesome. Unless I collapse from sleep deprivation tomorrow, which is unlikely considering how I sleep too much these days thanks to my fucked up sleeping patterns. I usually sleep at around 5am these days, so lasting all night should be a piece of pie, surely?! Probably not, the library has a habit of taking away the desire to stay awake or live. I like the prison feeling, there’s less to do here except read… but of course as I mentioned yesterday, the internet provides far too many distractions.

I must get this essay done soon. Alcohol commands me to do so.

Okay, so what’s distracting me now? Well a good one is the supposed meteor showe that was meant to be happening earlier. I left the library around 9pm and wandered up into the back of campus, up a grassy hill and into the darkness of the fields. It was pretty cool, like some Blair Witch shit, but scarier. And the only thing scary about wandering up that hill is the thought of stepping in fox/cow/badger/rabbit/cat shit. It reminded me of the good old days when I had many adventures up there.
Tonight was not one of them. Even though the skies were clear as day – well maybe not as clear as day, as it was 9:30pm which meant it was night – there was no meteor shower amongst the sparkling stars. I could have stayed there all night, but this essay dragged me kicking and screaming back to the library to NOT do work.

So a meteor shower didn’t provide the distraction I was looking for. ONWARDS, TO YOUTUBE. And I have to report the greatest thing I’ve ever seen on Youtube, ever. It’s not actually a video, which says a lot about Youtube I guess, but the advertising.  You know those little banners they put at the bottom of videos? Shit just got serious, y’all.

Isn’t that the greatest thing you’ve ever seen? Perhaps it’s because I’m a Michael Jackson fanboy (he didn’t touch ME) but I think that’s amazing. I wasn’t watching a plain black screen, I just took out the content because I don’t want anyone knowing I was watching animal porn. Oops! No, it’s really because I noticed the ad stand out on the black backdrop (ironic, considering it features Michael Jackson. Racial connotations yay!).
No fancy text, no stupid slogans or vomit inducing rainbows or seizure summoning animation. Just plain, sophisticated style. It’s probably the only thing I’ve ever clicked, partly because I thought it was an amazing ad and partly because it aroused such curiousity in me. Yes, Michael Jackson has finally aroused me.

God damn, that’s some effective and cool advertising. Sure, it’s down to the fact MJ is dead now and his fame has skyrocketed to epic proportions once more, so it doesn’t need any excess stuff to sell itself. But this epitomises MJ’s star power perfectly. He doesn’t need any of that other stuff, he’s just chilling in his throne, the King of Pop.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get back to watching animal porn writing my essay.

Okay, I’ve been dying to post something here, so what subject matter shall enter my head? For the past week I’ve been failing at starting an essay due for Thursday, discovering just how awesome I am at this procrastination shit. Seriously, I’m amazing at it. I should write my own book. I can take an infinite number of naps throughout the day – well, probably not infinite. There’s only so many naps you can have in 24 hours. Facebook is a distraction that is so fucking useless, yet addictive that I wish I could permanently remove myself from it, if I wasn’t such a weak pussy with no will power. And of course, now, posting useless shit here will become a new one to add to the list.

With all this reading I’ve been doing, I’ve started to come to the realisation that I’ve completely floated through University without thinking about things properly, and that I’m trying to get a degree in something I have absoloutley no passion for. Which is English Literature. I also study Media Studies which is a lot more entertaining and fun, and I’m sure if I took that straight I would be flying through school right now like a mad genius who genetically modified his genetic code to shoot lasers out of his eyes and seduce women and dolphins with the blink of an eye.

But they both contain something that I just can’t wrap my head around anymore; interpretation. It just makes no sense to me. After a gap year of trying to make little sense of a big world and how I can have some kind of place in it, I’ve filled my head with all kinds of social, philosophical and psychological bullshit and logistics, making my perception of things quite clearcut… at least in my own head. I kind of like facts, I like things to make sense but I also like figuring things out when they don’t. But all this interpretation shit? FUCK IT.

I don’t mind too much in the media context. I like the media, it’s logical from a business perspective. Everything is designed with an audience/market in mind and everything is there for a reason such as the design and content in a magazine. Directors in movies attempt to manipulate the audiences with camera angles, symbolism and it’s all groovy because it’s easy to arouse emotion and responses in this way, through visuals, music, etc. It’s fun!
But English Literature? Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I’m ’studying’ this shit. Well, I rarely study as alcohol is much more fun, but I’m talking about the rare points in time when I try. What is all this interpretation bullshit? Now I’m thinking about it more and more, I can’t see any sense in looking at words scribed by a deceased writer, trying to find some cryptic or political meaning in them when for all we know, the dude just wanted to write a fucking poem for some chick that he didn’t have the balls to talk to!

It just doesn’t make sense to me. Of course, there’s the writers who are still alive, in which case why don’t we just track the bastard down and interrogate the fucker under a spotlight and get him to settle once and for all what his intentions were behind all those letters and words? There, no need for that text to be in an English Literature course ever again, because all further interpretation and guestimations are officially BULLSHIT.
Perhaps the writer wants people to delve into the deep and rich meaning behind his writing to find some kind of deep and rich meaning? In which case, I wouldn’t hesitate to say such authors are pretentious idiots who are getting ahead of themselves. If you have something to say, I see no reason why some people can’t grow the balls to just SAY IT. Get a diary, fool. Why dress up your personal feelings behind all these irrelevant events and magic, adding strange metaphors in the hopes that someone will buy, read and decode the text? As if it’s some kind of modern day version of an Egyptian Hyroglyphic, except a lot longer, less pretty, interesting, and, oh look, it’s the cure for insomnia all of a sudden.

The other day I had a bit of an epiphany when I was telling some friends I have no idea how to approach English Literature. I explained to them that it’s stupid and involves blowing things way out of proportion and how most people studying it will take something simple such as:
“The young man crossed the road.”
And transform it into some cool allegory. There’s no chance in hell the guy wanted to cross the road, that’s just stupid. Fuck narrative progression or any sense of logical plot; no, this kid crossing the road REALLY MEANS that he was leaving behind his childhood and stepping into adulthood.
As I said this to my friends, I realised that despite how fucking stupid that shit was, this was English Literature. This is the weapon I had not equipped myself for far too long; I wasn’t taking shit and exaggerating it as much as I could! Of course!! For far too long I was taking things literally (in literature. huh) and at face value. A dog was a dog. A Church was a Church. A woman was a woman. When REALLY the dog was a representation of man’s manmade war on anything that isn’t man and bending it to his will. The Church wasn’t a Church, it was a symbol of consumerism and that fried chicken is what Jesus actually died for, when you think about it. What the woman REALLY is – when you think about it with your scientific brain of facts and data – is a type of fleshy robot socially contructed by the male species to do our bidding and spells the abundance of discrimination even within our own homes and families.

I MEAN HOLY CRAP. THIS IS WHAT I’M STUDYING.
I’m ‘learning’ how to make a mountain out of a molehill. Shakespeare is probably rolling around in his grave, thinking “dude, Hamlet was just tripping out on crack the whole time, chill the fuck out, shit happens.”

I sit in lectures and watch old men sit in front of hundreds of students, reading notes of a piece of paper he read the year before about how many meanings the word “uncanny” has. “The uncanny is the unexpected. The uncanny as explained by Ralph Nobodygivesashit describes the uncanny as strange. Someone once said he was hungry and wanted ‘a candy’ but it sounded a lot like ‘uncanny,’ so the uncanny can be related to a sugary treat.” Are you fucking serious. You’re getting paid for this. With money. REAL MONEY. Not Monopoly money which is also too good for you. REAL MONEY WHICH BUYS REAL THINGS. LIKE A FUCKING DICTIONARY SO YOU CAN LOOK UP WHAT THE FUCKING “UNCANNY” IS.

I sit in seminars and stare blankly at my classmates who read the same book as me and got a completely different meaning alltogether out of it. I read a book about a very boring butler who does very boring things in a very boring way. As a narrator, he is very boring and my perception of him is very boring. My classmates unearth that the butler is actually the descendant of Hercules, but is working as a butler to hide his indentity until he can pass on his genes for another century before the new heir to Olympus will rise once again to take his place as King of the Gods and restore Greece to its former glory… OR SO THE PROPHECY SAYS…
He will have very good table manners and etiquette. He will shoot silverware from his sleeves.
He will be named Forkulese.

It’s a bit stupid how in the midst of all this work I have to do because I’m so bloody unproductive, I stay up late at night and ALWAYS feel the need to be opinionated/thoughtful at 3am and try and post something in this here blog. Instead of throwing up letters on the screen until 4am, I’m going to make a stand against myself and just shut the fuck up right now. THERE. SLEEP, KENNY. SLEEP.

Why is it that whenever my hair starts to look like shit, it decides to sort itself out right before I get it cut? As if the prospect of scissors coming near it scares it? If you don’t want to get cut up, do what I tell you, asshole. My hair really needs to grow some balls.

On the way back to Brighton now, this trip to get looked after by the rents cost over £40 it seems. To piss off the Pig Gods for giving me flu and taking my money, I just ate a bacon sandwich. Take that, motherfuckers.

Most of the time, when I’m back home in London, it’s a chance to catch my breath and reflect on events that have gone by, in addition to be massively lazy. Since going to University, trips back here have been infrequent and quite strange and mundane. More often than not, I’ve always found it disgustingly boring here and couldn’t wait to get back to Brighton, where a five mile smile would spread itself across my face once I was back.

Being here for five days now with swine flu has made me realise a few things, other than the fact I’m suffering from insomnia, the apex of my thoughts has led me to this conclusion: I am a PUSSY! I mean, in a year I decided to try living like a nomad, went travelling around India by myself, took my first solo plane journey to LA to get my heart broken, spent almost an entire year of University homeless, befriended a pack of American people and would be able to walk alone into a room full of strangers and walk out with a new network of friends. There was no such thing as ‘impossible’ or anything like that, only exciting challenges and obstacles to overcome.
Now, I’m sitting in bed afraid to go back to big, bad Brighton because Mummy and Daddy won’t be there to wait hand and foot on me and I’ll actually have to leave the house to do things including schoolwork. Sort it out, dude!

I remember my Uncle in India telling me one of the most profound things I’ve ever heard: “It’s easy to go up, hard to come down.” That’s certainly the case here. After a month of all this lying about doing nothing for everything, it’s all become too easy and the thought of actually having to make an effort for anything is daunting and a little scary. Coming back for a week has only made this extremely apparent to me. I’m not opposed to the idea of having a nice bed to lie in as food is put in front of me, but dammit, what happened to the challenge and excitement of life?! The thrill of tomorrow and the potential of today?! You lost it, boy. Go get it back.

I think it’s about time I popped this here bubble and put my feet on solid ground. Get busy living, or get busy dying, right? Also, I think I’ll ignore the fact I spent/wasted most of today updating this very site I’m confessing my lack of  a life to. I just gotta geek out sometimes!!

I’m so gangster, now I can make short posts in this here sidebar. Meaning I can not update my blog from anywhere in the world! It’s exciting times, it really is. Also, although I would happily have sex with my blackberry, the ‘P’ key is feeling quite loose. I like my phones young and TIGHT.

Once upon a time, I was a kid. One evening at my uncle’s house, I sat on some gym equipment in the conservatory as I watched my Dad smoking by the door. A light bulb went off over my head, informing me that one juvenile threat would make Dad’s addiction go away. I figured if I told him I would one day start smoking, it would make him stop. Instead, he threatened to break my neck after exhaling a cloud of toxic shit. Daddy wins.

Or does he?

If I have to trace back my inclination to inhalation of tobacco to a time, I’d say it was earlier this year after going through my first (of many) midlife crises when I started being more impulsive and saying ‘yes’ to things a bit more. That included a spontaneous trip to Oxford with friends, following them into the girl’s bathroom and trying a cigarette in one of the cubicles. Being a lightweight, the buzz was GOOOOOOD. One was enough I think. But then part of my “yes” crusade led me into the hands of some very messed up people, claiming to be “pickup artists.”

LONG STORY.
A lot of it is made up of being in the most chilled out, quiet part of the clubs where all the girls are. Yes, I’m talking about the girl’s bathroom again. No, not really but it holds some truth. Compared to the guy’s, that shit is FANCY. Some even have bloody sofas in them for Christ’s sake!! What else they got in there? A bar? Roller-coaster? I really shouldn’t paint it out to be the most glamorous place in the world, considering the majority of women go there to PISS.

Anyways, enough about urination, where were wee (hahaha)? I’m talking about the smoking area of course, the perfect place for a social whore like myself to run his mouth at people he doesn’t know, but will surely have on his Facebook friend list within a few short days and never speak to again. In that little fenced off circle of cancer, people tend to smoke. Spend too long there and eventually you’ll become one of them, like some delicious, smoky virus. It proved a bit too much for me one time though, as after smoking a WHOLE ROLLIE (like a big boy who can run and jump and everything) to myself, I kind of forgot what that whole ‘balancing’ or ‘gravity’ business was about. A bouncer angrily accused me smoking weed, then looked like he felt a bit sorry for me when he realised it was just tobacco. Ouch.

Then came my Summer of FFFUUUUCCKKK.
A fun filled Summer of stress and excess. To prove that, I kicked started it off by losing my job and consulting half a bottle of vodka over the matter straight afterwards. Smoking naturally followed as my friendly friend of friendship Jamie was always around and rolling and so, a puff would put me at ease and almost on my knees because I’m such a sissy. In all fairness, I only ever gave smoking a mere thought when I was drinking.

Being an alcoholic, this statement doesn’t really count for much.

I spent most, if not all my time around my friend alcohol, and the ones made of flesh and blood were smokers so as time passed, I became quite good at the whole smoking gig. At first I was always worried I was killing myself and would quite frequently look around, expecting my Dad to fall from the sky like an Indian Batman and snap my neck. I got over it pretty quickly.

Now term’s started, I’ve been going into an excessive frenzy of replacing my intake of oxygen with as much smoke as I can. I’ve spent 21 years of having perfectly healthy lungs, and for what?! HEALTH? Fuck health! I want to be unhealthy! DUUHHH INTELLYGENSE ME ARE.
I blame women, personally. I usually use asking for a cigarette as an icebreaker to talk to the foxy girl in the corner, who I would be slightly more attracted to if she was an ACTUAL fox, which might seem weird, but it isn’t. The problem with doing this, is a lot of the time the said girl will actually give me a fucking cigarette. Bitch, are you crazy? You want me to get addicted to this shit? I think you’re cute, fuck your cigarette! Jesus, what a whore.

In hindsight, this would probably be a better response than accepting the death-stick and stupidly choking the whole thing down trying to act like you LOVE IT. Which I do, for a few seconds until I’m ready to stop, what with being a lightweight. But you can’t waste it now, people in third world countries would give their legs for it. I mean, even frigging MONKEYS will take that shit off your hands! Also, I’m not being ignorant and implying people in third world countries and monkeys are the same, other than the fact they both live in trees and have tails to help them swing from branch to branch.

So yes, women are to blame for smoking, cancer and everything else that is wrong in the world. I think I’m onto something here. Which reminds me, my friend – who is a girl, who smokes – used some big word at me today… “scapegoat” I think it was? Mental note, look that up. It might be relevant to this whole evil woman thing.

It’s time to give it up, me thinks; I’m becoming quite annoying amongst the smoking community because of my constant hounding people for cigarettes. I’m assuming that because they always reject my friend requests, although that might be because they’re drowning in envy that I’m a genius who is saving money at the expense of their addiction. I don’t see the big deal, I’m like a feminine version of Mother Teresa who’s helping take part of the cancer attack for them, like some kind of meat shield made of leeches. I’m not doing it because I like it… I’m doing it because I care.

In addition to becoming an annoying, thieving twat, it’s doing me no favours in my life ambition to die from kidney favour. Lung cancer seems to be taking the lead, what with the smoke wielding a samurai sword and hacking away at my vocal cords. It’s great in the sense that I’m starting to laugh like Muttley and breath like Darth Vader, so my skill as an impressionist has gained new heights, and my voice has become deeper in tone, so I can finally trick people into believing I’ve hit puberty. But the insanely bad sore throat and lifetime supply of phlegm followed by what appears to be swine flu has made me rethink the ecstasy of a short nicotine rush.

I’m not even sure if I’m craving one right now, writing about it so extensively or if my mind is fucking with me. In the long term, if I need a 5 second thrill coupled with a deadly disease thrown in, I could always invest in a cheap prostitute. But I won’t, because I’m sticking to my guns and concluding women are the problem here, not tobacco, nicotine or my own lack of self-control. I’m going on a woman ban from now on and sticking to foxes. Their tales are sexy as hell.