I always wanted to be a poet until I realised everything I've ever written looked like my mind took a massive shit on the page... An air curdling, post-curry shit.

I'm sitting here eating baby sweetcorn that's six or seven days past the use by date because my girlfriend's gone away and left me to fend for myself for two weeks. It's not that I'm too lazy to cook it's just that cooking for one seems so redundant. Use by dates are for shit anyway, they mean nothing. This little corn says it was grown by someone ( Read more... )

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The 'writers block' question on the front page right now is, "What birthmark do you have?" and whilst I find these things terribly tiresome, I feel somehow compelled to answer it (although not to press the button and trigger the ugly code). Perhaps later, I'll shoot myself in the face too ( Read more... )

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Dear Mr Pritchard ( Read more... )

Today I sliced open my finger on a three blade razor. At first it was cool, my finger looked like it had gills, it was a fish finger, but then the blood came and it was a sore finger.

Finger, finger, finger.

Read between the lines evil razor of doom.

Things I'm looking forward to like a small child with a hard on about christmas:

Elle Milano's first full length LP: Acres Of Dead Space Cadets
Blood Red Shoes's,
Box Of Secrets

And R.E.M.'s
Accelerate (which I'll be buying the special edition of because I'm a big whore for them)

Things I wish I could look forward too include:


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Me and mosquitoes we have this understanding, they don't bite me and I don't kill them but this week I've been bitten three or four times and it's itching like a bitch.

I'm pretty sure there is going to be a mosquito massacre going down those bastards shouldn't have crossed me.