There's nothing like an acrid, piss-coloured bottle of three-quid wine to round off a long day at work, or so I am telling myself to avoid crying into it (again) as I look out of the window at the fucking snow (snow is rain but about 100% colder, you Hallmark-poem asshole, stop believing the hype). Just kidding (about the crying, I am deathly serious about the snow)!
The reason I'm poorer than ever is because I am saving for things which I consider to be essentials according to that incredibly skewed logic that you've always found so Goddamn charming about me; there is a lamp in our lounge which has been missing a bulb for three fucking months, but instead I am concentrating all of my vital energy into things like looking for the perfect fur coat (in my defense, have you noticed that it is SNOWING LIKE FUCK outside? Seriously, take a look.)I saw a pretty good vintage faux-lynx one on my lunchbreak in Camden today, but if you know of somewhere in London that I can get a cheap fur coat which looks like one of these:
Holla, and I will reward you appropriately; if I know blog readers as well as I do then you're all chicks anyway, so my usual currency has little or no weight here. Maybe I could offer you a pony. You guys like that shit, right?
It's two weeks until Valentines day, so if you're not a smug jerkoff you might want to spend the 13th getting trashed at the Macbeth with me so you can use the Big V to sleep it off. I'm going back to the countryside this week to check out my parents' new kitten (I know, I'm a total pussy). Better go and pack something more respectable than a Cambridge Rapist t-shirt. 'Slates.