Tuesday, 21 June 2011
I've not had this little verbal communication with someone born in my own decade since I was a salmonella ridden 16 year old par boiled vegetable, comatose in a hospital in Spain ejecting green liquid from every single hole in my body like a waterlogged flute.
At least then I didn't have a choice.
I'm on an IT course. I look forward to meals.
I can't even chuck myself out of the fucking Travelodge because the windows don't open. But there's a reason, because if they did, the realisation of the sterility of the place, you're own existence and the amount of businessmen who have cried, masturbated, cried then purchased a disposable razor from the downstairs vending machine while simultaneously trying to eye up the half attractive reception girl who only really cares about the £4 an hour she's getting to buy a round of drinks drinks on Saturday at Liquids who half smiled at your unattractive fat head out of pity, would drive suicide rates pan global.
In the boardroom they can't hear you scream (except they can as there's me and 5 menopausal women and 100 other empty chairs)