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Friday, February 20

Last Night

Do you know what pissed me off most last night?

I was having a pretty good week up until then. I'm on a reading week, which means no classes and long lie-ins, and I've generally been enjoying myself, just relaxing and doing fuck all. I know that I've got work to do, but I really don't want to do it. I have no "get up and go", I guess due to the rut in which I find myself.

I'd had a wicked time out on Tuesday, at this karaoke thing and then this little underground bar afterwards. Spent far too much money, as per usual (£60 for fuck's sake), but I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I sang far too many songs, and I sang all of them badly. Meh, so I can't sing. I already knew that one...

Oh, and just call me "The Prophet". A few weeks ago, I wrote in my little notebook and subsequently on here that "I bottle things up, let them grow and swell, and then increase the pressure on the cork holding it all in. Eventually the bottle is just going to explode." I reckon that'd be what happened last night... I know my self far too well, mostly as a consequence of writing about myself here for the past year (or thereabouts).

Yes, I Realise

Discounting the post immediately below, the last three titles I have used were "Bored", "Uncreative" and "Can't Be Arsed". I think this is known in the trade as "depression". Meh.

I want to write. I want to write because I'm angry. I want to write because I'm upset. But mostly, I want to write because I want to write.

I have yet more Class A drug shenanigans happening in my living room this evening. Joy. Deep motherfucking joy.

This time I said something about it.

Which went down like, well, a not-very-good thing. I canít think of a witty comment to fit in there right now.

Once again, I got pretty much shouted down by the majority (i.e. EVERYBODY else) as soon as I raised an objection to the snorting of coke (not the drink) taking place in my front room. Apparently I wasnít able to give a decent enough reason as to why I didnít want it happening there.

Leigh thought I was complaining about Pete taking drugs as a whole, hence his ďItís his own body, let him do what he wants with it comment.Ē Phil claimed that I was voicing no actual reasons for not wanting the drugs in here, all the while whilst interrupting and talking over me when I was trying to give these reasons.

Itís not that I think no-one should take drugs. I have chosen not to, but I donít force these reasons onto anybody else. I donít preach at them, because by ages 20 and 21 itís too late to force anybody to change. Get them whilst theyíre young, as the paedophilesí saying goes.

Itís also not that I believe that we will get caught by the police. I donít. I am absolutely certain that we will not be raided by the police because Pete and Phil are doing less than a gram of coke between them.

My main justification for objecting is that I think it is intrinsically wrong for them to be doing coke in such a place as our communal living room. I may be alone in the household in my anti-drugs stance, and definitely in its vehemence, but I feel that I should at least be asked before the credit cards and rolled-up banknotes are set free from their wallets. If they had asked, I would have told them straight that I didnít want it to happen. Then again, I probably would have been ignored anyway, as per usual.

After I had been shouted down, I sat around for a couple of minutes, then thought ďfuck itĒ and walked out, into my room (handily placed next to the living room). A few minutes later, Pete came in to try and sort things out.

Firstly, he apologised for upsetting me in that manner, but he also wanted to know why I did get so pissed off and upset with the subject of drugs. See above for my justifications.

It then moved on from there to me explaining just how much most of my housemates piss me off. Tonight just brought things to a head. Thereís so many things that piss me off about my housemates that I canít be arsed to write about them all here. Have a read through the post-Christmas archives if youíre overly interested.

Basically, thereís a hell of a lot of things which piss me off about my fellow housemates. Many of them you could quite possibly regard as trivial or banal. The problem is, they add to each other, and eventually there comes a point where I have had enough. Tonight, for example.

I get fed up that I do so much for this house, more than anybody else, and yet I get neither respect nor any sort of concessions or recognition. So, I ask myself, why should I even bother any more?

Case in point: Rent. Since before we moved in, I ended up with the responsibility of getting everyoneís rent in on time and having it ready in the bank account for when the household rent cheque is drawn. Note that by very definition of the above it has become an active role, not a passive one. Every single month, I have to badger and cajole everyone into writing me a cheque. I can ask 5 times a day, for days on end, and still it wonít get done. Basically, I have to pretty much frogmarch them to their rooms, and stand over them whilst they write each cheque in order to get them on time. I then get it in the neck from our landlord when the cheque weíve given him bounces.

Oh, and we get charged administration costs each time a cheque bounces, £50 each time. This month was the third since September, and the second in a row. Usually, I just add the charges to the overall ďmoney-owedĒ amount, so it is divisible by everyone.

This month was different. This month they were already all pissing me off, so I just didnít bother asking for the rent money. Itís due by the 13th at the latest, and by today I had received, erm, one of the five payments that I should have done. Needless to say our cheque bounced, and I got an irritated phone call from our landlord earlier, asking for a new cheque, and including the admin costs.

Only one of the others were in, so I figured Iíd write a note and leave it in the living room for them all to see. I wrote it, and included a quite venomous part in it, explaining why this time I was refusing to contribute to the £50 admin costs, since I no longer took any responsibility for their ďlaziness, incompetence and being disorganisedĒ. I didnít care if that came across as particularly nasty, I really didnít.

Apparently, so Pete says, that offended other people in the house. So fucking what?! They ARE lazy, incompetent and disorganised. I have to chase them up to do even the smallest task, and I have absolutely had enough.

Pete eventually coaxed out of me my long list of reasons why I dislike my housemates so much, but then he tried to turn it round and told me that I should have mentioned these things earlier, rather than letting them build up and then get vented in this big show of anger all at once. Thatís true, I could have done, but what also would have been good would have been if someone had just asked.

Had just asked how I was doing, or asked if they could do anything for me. But I got nothing. In fact, I got pretty much the opposite.

I got an expectance of having to do these jobs and these tasks. I got no respect for doing them. I got no ground conceded to me on any matter because of my hard work and effort. I was the one that had to fucking give in, almost every time.

Case in study: Smoking. We originally began with no smoking in the living room, even though the smokers had a 5 to 2 majority over the nons. We let this slip for the one-off event of our first house-party, since it was a special occasion and yadda-yadda-yadda. Then, after the party, they pretty much just carried on smoking anyway, despite vigorous complaints by me and Leigh (the other non). The majority carried the vote.

At Christmas, Phil gave up smoking, and Matt tried to for a while. This gave us a majority, but still we couldnít make them stop smoking in there. Most mornings it stinks in there, because everyone smokes all evening, and then doesnít open a window before going to bed because itís cold or raining or both.

I have now reached the point of ďWhy even botherĒ. I still complain, and still moan about them smoking, but it has absolutely no effect. Itís as if Iíve just become background noise to them.

And this is why I get so angry. I do so much for them all, and pretty much the only concession I have ever asked them to make is ignored. It even has health benefits for me, and is justified on that ground. My personal bugbear is the smell, to be honest. I canít see passive smoking being the biggest threat to my health in the coming years.

What I hate is only being able to wear a t-shirt or sweatshirt for one day before having to wash it. I hate my hair smelling of smoke every morning when I get in the shower. I hate my room smelling of smoke, both because of its proximity to the living room, and because of the inherent stench emanating from my clothes as I take them off each night.

So, why do I bother? At this precise moment in time, I'm not. And I'm not going to, if I can help it. I am absolutely, completely and utterly fed up with them all. If they canít be arsed to acknowledge me and what I do for them all, then as sure as hell I am not going to play ball with them.

Call me a fucking hermit, call me a loner, call me whatever the fuck you want, I really, really, donít care at this fucking moment in time. I realise that I sound angry, and I realise that I'm ranting, but I really, really, donít fucking well care. Fuck it. Fuck them, and fuck me. Fuck.

Wednesday, February 18


I'm bored, but I'm also tired and disinterested. Therefore I can't be bothered to write anything insightful or interesting here at the moment. I've had a fairly eventful time since the last time I posted here, but I'm just not in the mood to write about it all right now. Meh. I think I'm still hungover as well. Not bad, considering that it's 11pm. I rule.

But with a headache. And a rumbling stomach.

Tuesday, February 17


Why is it that I only seem to have the urge to write when I'm depressed or annoyed or generally not in a good mood? I must be coming across as a really negative and depressed person. I'm not, I swear. I just find it hard to write about anything when I'm not ranting about stuff. Stuff pisses me off, and I release that anger here. Meh, it's cheaper than therapy. And probably more entertaining for a wider audience, rather than just the therapist. Huzzah.

And on that note, I've run out of things to say. I guess that's what happens when you spend a day doing, erm, nothing. Like I've done today, when I should really have been doing work. I rule. But I'm going to fail my degree...

Monday, February 16

Can't Be Arsed

I'm having one of those days. You know the types, when you just can't be arsed to do anything at all. My housemates are pissing me off, I'm pissing me off, and life is pissing me off. But, perhaps above all, Aimee is pissing me off.

She's the girl who was at the boat party and is really loud and annoying and I don't really like her and I can't say anything to her because I see her every so often and she's friends with a few of my other friends and AAAAAAAAGGHHH!!!

Why is she annoying me? Apparently, on Friday night she told me that she was organising this small karaoke party type thing for this Tuesday. Apparently (again), I said that I would go, no worries, and that she should probably ring me and tell me the details again because I'd only forget them. Anyway, I promptly forgot about it, until she rang me today. I almost broke out in a cold sweat when I saw her name on my mobile's screen as it rang. And here I am, constantly moaning about being single. However, trust me, you definitely, definitely wouldn't. Not even with a fucking 1000ft bargepole.

I tried to make a bit of an excuse in that my parents are coming down sometime this week, and I wasn't sure when (which is true, unless you count the fact that I knew for definite that they wouldn't be coming down on the Tuesday). She then told me that she had met my housemate Pete at a house party last night (I told you she moved in the same circles as my other friends) and that he had said he would go to this karaoke night. Damn you Pete, damn you.

My Dad rang up shortly after that to tell me that they wouldn't be coming down anyway, since they were going to be well busy. Bang goes my free really nice meal that I foresaw this week. So, I texted Aimee to let her know that I could make it. At least if Pete goes, we can get lairy and drunk together, and both try to ignore Aimee as much we can. She's so goddamn loud, it annoys us both. Grr.

Why are my housemates annoying me? A number of reasons:
1. Arsenal were playing Chelsea in the FA Cup today, and it was on the TV at lunchtime. I'm a full-on Gooner (hence the URL), and I live with two Chelsea fans. I get so much stick every week about Arsenal, and when they're on the TV I get no end of abuse (I also live with a Spurs fan, you see). A case in point was when we beat Inter Milan 5-1 (5-1 for fuck's sake!) last November. We were all sat round watching it, and when Inter scored first I received an incredibly bitter tirade from them all, with loads of swearing and telling me just how shit Arsenal were. They were literally dancing around the living room.

When Arsenal scored, and then scored again, and again, and again, and finally for a 5th time, I had absolutely no qualms about leaping up, shouting stuff like "Fuck Yes!!!!" really, really loudly at the TV, at them, and just generally into the room. They promptly shut up. At the end of the game they were still being fuckers, saying that it wasn't as good as beating Lazio 4-0 away (as Chelsea had done a few weeks previously) and all that kind of shit.

Anyway, getting back to today's game. They were giving it all that for the first half-hour or so, claiming free-kicks every time Arsenal touched the ball and being all-round cunts. Then Chelsea scored, and they were leaping around the living room, telling me where I could shove it and being well lairy. When Arsenal equalised, I don't think I've ever shouted a single syllable as loud as the first "Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesssss!!!!!!!!!" that I did today. I also don't think I've said the word "fuck" as much in a single 10-second period either.

Then Arsenal scored again, and this time I leapt up and punched the air whilst shouting. They (Matt and Alex) went very quiet. They were practically silent for the rest of the game, because Arsenal were dominating and completely on top. Alex walked out a minute before the final whistle, and as soon as the whistle blew, Matt changed channel to some random crap on T4. Talk about being fucking bad losers. If Arsenal had lost, I have absolutely no doubt that I would have had to sit through all of the post-match analysis and them gloating at me for the rest of the week. I have to admit that I'm not a gloater when it comes to football. I'm just quietly confident and a little bit smug for the rest of the day, I barely even mention the result again if I can help it. I guess it's just the way I am, a nice guy.

2. Not being appreciated by them all. I do so much fucking work for this household, and it just doesn't get recognised. And yet I'm still expected to muck in and help when they're all on a bit of a cleaning mission or whatever. Well, most of them are on a cleaning mission. Matt doesn't do anything because he is the laziest slob ever and will not lift a finger to do anything at all unless you literally shout at him repeatedly to do it. Alex also does very, very little because he believes that he cleans up straight away whatever mess he makes, and shouldn't have to do anything more than that, even if the rest of us are working our asses off cleaning everything, even if we know that we didn't make the mess in the first place.

Do I sound really pedantic and obsessive about this? Well, so be it. So fucking well be it. I've absolutely had it up to here with them, and I'm not interested in doing anything for them again. Ever. The rent was supposed to be paid by everyone by last Friday at the latest, but no-one has even attempted to give me their cheques so that I can pay them into the bank. Mine's already in the account, but no-one else's is. I'm waiting for our landlord to ring me up in midweek, telling me that our communal cheque has bounced, and asking for another plus a bit more to cover the admin costs charged by the bank. When I tell everybody this, I will refuse to pay any part of these admin costs (over ?50, and this is the 3rd time it's happened), because I am no longer going to mother them and chase them up for this sort of thing. If they can't get their asses into gear, then perhaps this is the only way to get the message across.

Finally, why am I pissing me off? Because I'm such a fucking pushover in this house. I'm a nice guy (honestly, I am), and I don't have a problem helping people or doing them a favour. However, they've taken it too far now. I'm so pissed off with them it's not even funny. Like I said above, I do so much for them all, and they don't acknowledge it. Hell, they barely even acknowledge me full stop.

Another thing that annoys me about me: I know when it comes down to confronting them, I'm going to bottle it. I'm going to wimp out and not get my point across. I don't know why I am going to do this, but I know that it will happen. I'm a confident person, but I'm non-confrontational. I will argue though, and I'm fucking good at arguing my point (come on, I'm doing a law degree...), so I might be able to get round the problem that way, but I've got a distinct feeling that I could end up bottling it completely.

It's for reasons like these that I sometimes despise myself. Fucking bottler.

Sunday, February 15

Mmmm, Being Drunk

No, I'm not drunk right now, although I'm guessing that there's still a load of alcohol flowing around my system from last night. I got smashed. Oh boy did I get smashed.

It started with the last class of my week. I wasn't drinking whilst I was there (what do you take me for?!), but I did start pretty soon after. The class didn't finish until 6, and I had to be at Westminster Pier by 8 for this Boat Party organised by the King's Law Society. This meant that I didn't really have time to get back home (40ish minutes away), change, eat and get back to the pier in time, so I had organised a little earlier in the week to go to a mate's house after the class, grab some dinner there and get changed as well.

Cue the beginning of the drinking. We had a beer at his house whilst eating this munch soup that he had made before. Oh, how I wish that I could cook that well. Anyway, we then made it back to the pier, got cold whilst waiting for the boat, and boarded it.

Loads of fit birds, sweet Jesus. My eyes were out on stalks for a hell of a lot of the night. It was a Valentine's Party, and yet I still didn't pull. Meh. To be honest, I really, really wasn't even trying. Couldn't see the point, and it meant more time away from the bar, which is A Bad Thing.

I, needless to say, got quite, quite drunk, and I had an amazing time. I was chatting to this friend / acquaintance of mine, Dannielle, for a little while, although on looking back at it, I reckon I must have done my usual drunken thing of talking at her, rambling all over the place, and talking very loudly. Ahh well, I don't see her that often.

Oh, and I wish that fucking Aimee would stop coming over and talking to me. Not just on Friday night, but forever. She's so fucking annoying! She has this really loud foghorn voice, and never shuts up. Grrr, and I think that she thinks I like her. Yeah, right. The problem is that I don't have the heart to say to her "Look, just fuck off alright?" I'm too nice a guy, you see...

After we left the boat, we headed back towards Kings to go to Phase, the legendary (ahem) Friday night at the King's Student Union. Cheap alcohol and cheesy, cheesy music makes it a must. Well, if you're cool enough to go, that is... I was absolutely smashed when I got there, judging by the accounts of a few of my housemates who I was meeting there. I rule.

I've never danced so much in my life, I swear. No idea why I was particularly in the mood for dancing, unless I was actually very, very drunk. Which I undoubtedly was. And to fucking cheesy music too, what the hell was that about?! Usually I have some taste when it comes to what I dance to. But then again, I don't really dance unless I'm drunk, so that theory kinda goes out the window.

Anyway, I'm getting bored of typing, so I'll leave it at that. Suffice it to say that I slept through most of my hangover, but I was very disappointed to wake up to an empty wallet. I could have sworn that I had at least one note left in there last night. I guess I MUST have been drunk...

I Rule (When Drunk)

LOL, I've just re-read my last post for the first time. I only vaguely remembered making a post on Wednesday night, when I was ridiculously drunk, and I reckon that it's one of the funniest things that I've ever read (if I may say so myself...). You can see just where my fingers had a slightly less-than-perfect aim at the keys I wanted to hit, and it sort of makes sense if you keep glancing at the keyboard as you read. Nevertheless, I rule.

I fucking knew that I was drunk on Wednesday when I got up on Thursday, I tell you. Jesus Christ, a hell of a bastard of a hangover. Add to that the fact that I overslept by an hour and had to rush in a stupid manner to get to my class on time, and I was not having a good day. Definitely not. I must have got through about 2 litres of water in a 2-hour class, and I was still hanging. For some stupid reason (i.e. because I was rushing) I also forgot that I still had random scrawlings all over my left arm. I was in such a rush that I only had about 2 minutes in the shower, as opposed to my usual leisurely 20-minute residence there, and didn't bother to scrub my arm that hard. I put a short-sleeve rugby shirt on, blatantly showing off the partly faded illegible marks covering my entire left forearm. I must have looked like a complete dick. I also had "I am Beer" and "Beer is me" on the back of my left hand, which probably completed the look. Yes, I was very, very drunk on Wednesday night. I rule.

Thursday afternoon was a little better, since I ended up going on a meandering stroll through Central London with a mate of mine (Hi Matt...). No apparent reason for me to be there, since I had an essay to do, as well as some other work. And therein lies my reasoning. I could either do work or not do work. Hmm, hard decision. We stumbled randomly on some filming for a BBC comedy show called 3 Non-Blondes, which was, well, scary. OK, 3 quite large black ladies, running towards you in spoof slow-motion, wearing Baywatch swimsuits would scare anyone. All the flesh and the bouncing and the flesh and the bouncing and the bouncing and the bouncing and the bouncing and the bouncing and the bouncing...

Sorry, got distracted by the replays of the bouncing in my mind for a second there. Oh, the bouncing!

Anyway, where was I? Ahh yes, I was explaining how Thursday was pretty much a washout. That was about all I managed to do on Thursday, because I just couldn't be assed to do the essay when I finally got home. Call me lazy, I don't care...
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