ArghI'mstillsickandIsoundridiculousandIhaveblackdyeonmyneckandonmyfeetandmydramateacherthinksI'mbadatdramaandmyEnglishteacherthinksIhaveabadattitudeandalackofwritingskillwhichisreallyquitesillybecauseifmyskillsdepletedatanevenratethosewouldbethetwoIwouldhaveleftwehwehweh.
No-one would make me feel better because we are under the impression that I live in a deliciously cynical state of tangent-ness.
So I will have to withdraw to the world of fiction.
Where is a place where you can
Oh, the Titian's texting me.
I love the Titian.
When he's not being arrogant, ordering you about in your own house or has infected elbows from doing cartwheels.
It's like having one of those friends that's a girl except he says far more acidic things about everyone.
Because he always lets you whinge and tells you you're not sucks.
And he always stands on your garage roof with a Supre bag on his head if that's what you want and doesn't go flying about in small planes like some other persons.
And doesn't complain about you not waking up early enough, not eating breakfast, wasting time for a million days and then getting E, not wanting to join in with strange people, not wanting to dance as a mirror or take any kind of science or maths or write ten thousand page essays.
This is my recommendation.
Oh and he likes your pictures too.
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