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[08 Oct 2004|09:58am] |
Twenty people last night, and a sick Andy. Desolate. Pub was pretty empty. I drank three pints of Guiness which has somehow managed to give me a fucking headache this morning. Don't feel particularly great. But not too bad either.
A shower will probably help.
Groan.
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[08 Oct 2004|10:11am] |
Work soon. I'm hoping it'll be over quickly....i've not intention of battering my head with any further nightmare today. I'm going to see if gallons of hot water will sort me out.
Back soon.
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[08 Oct 2004|10:13am] |
Had a dream last night. Can't remember it. And so my dream posts are a bit subordinate to Anive's descriptions. It involves a house that got torn down at some point in this world's history, and Wyclef Jean.
What?
Water under the floorboards?
Damned right.
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[08 Oct 2004|10:32am] |
Parents are away until Sunday. That's an acre less stress then. As if been relieved of my job searching corpses for precious stones.
They'll return, but before then. Serentity.
Oh, shower's helped. I feel much better. At least until twelve when work starts.
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[08 Oct 2004|04:54pm] |
My anger at work has now sadly dissipated, so I can no longer give you an eye smashing paragraph on how awful it truly was. And it was.
Awful.
AWFUL.
Not too many people, but LATE MINI GRILLS. I was still clearing the cunting things at ten to two, coupled with the floor, the putting away, the bins..and you've got a very pissed off, still hungover Phyllis.
I was no cheerier towards life than at my worst points. If I needed any further encouragement to think about getting the hell out, this was it.
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[08 Oct 2004|06:53pm] |
Lucy's just been here, cajoling me into a night's drinking. Again. Oh, for god's sake...I really don't want to go out early.
I guess i'll make an exception....the New Inn is a different pub at least, and I don't have to drink fast. May get something to smoke, kind of need it after the fucking horrors of work. And I ate a lot, so THAT deserves some smoking too.
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[08 Oct 2004|07:32pm] |
R.E.M are spending their ninetieth year in the charts, Micheal Stipe still singing and looking on stage like a suit wearing matchstick, clasping a microphone as if it was an ice cream he was constantly trying to wrestle from a man taller than him.
Still, it's a cheer enough tune, although bereft of the kind of cheeky off beat brilliance they were once capable of. Not enough songs about wheat, crisps, or snakes, I think.
Now we have a boy band, standing like six particularly stationary mannequins, legs apart as if they're trying to usher hedgehogs between them in an attempt to see them safely across busy roads. Cunts. I used to know the names of these bands of shambling bastards. I no longer tell the difference.
Jon Snow has finished the news. I bet he's going to go and read a paper in a canteen and have a chocolate cappuchino.
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[08 Oct 2004|07:37pm] |
Top of the pops is sickening enough for me to leave now. In fact, not only is it as sickening as a recording of "We are the world" sung entirely by people vomiting in melody, but it ups the horror by this week featuring a man with a face like a burning skip, him being Robbie Williams. This man, lauded as being England's greatest music star, actually has a voice like a crying zombie, and lyrics that would not look out of place amongst the most base and illiterate of graffiti in a public toilet.
The man is a CUNT. Expect a more fiery tirade from Anive, soon.
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