Sinking to a Spam sandwich low
08.04.06, 12:47 pm

I�m so damn predictable sometimes that I even amuse myself. After writing the last entry Rich came online, and we got talking like we always do. For some reason we got talking about massages, and I said something about how I was determined to get myself a proper one at some point this year, and in a nutshell he�s giving me one when he gets back after Easter. It�s such a bad idea it�s making me laugh just writing about it; I�m actually laughing out loud at my screen. It�s okay though, because even if it is a bad idea it�s reminded me of the fact that Rich finds me attractive, and I need that kind of shit right now. I remember a while back, during our whole boring sex saga, and him once saying, �I just find you sexy�, and me asking, �How though? I don�t understand� and him saying, �Well no, you wouldn�t�. The fact that Rich finds me sexy is such a welcome esteem boost; it sounds incredibly stupid and lame but I can�t help it. Rich is so ultimately masculine� this six foot tall tank of raging testosterone, always has been, and for him to want me means that I must be doing something right at least.

My current existence can be summed up in this one comment that my sister said to me around lunchtime: �What�s in your sandwich? SPAM?! Hol, you�re sat eating a Spam sandwich in front of The Jeremy Kyle Show. What can we do to rescue this day?� As always, I�m counting down the days until I can go back to Sheffield, even though almost all of the kids won�t be there. I�m just so bored; I hate having nothing to do. Actually, I think it�s more hating having nothing to do and no one to talk to about how very bored I am. When I�m bored at home I�ll just go bug Becky, who�ll either come sit and watch Deal or No Deal with me or take my downstairs to make a cup of tea. I drink too much tea for it to be healthy.

Sometimes, when I�m in the half-dream state that I�m in at the moment (insomnia issues that are too ridiculous and anxiety gig-infested to go into), I half-expect the keyboard to do some kind of predictive text thing like my mobile does.

I�ve now had three arguments with my dad, and he�s no doubt completely sick to the back teeth of me. In the middle of the worst one I ended up shouting, �God, I don�t know why I pissing bother coming back here, you always end up friggin� stressing me out�, which� smooth, Holly, real smooth. Totally helped our relationship no end. I�m not sure why we�re not really getting on at all; it�s not normally this bad. It�s probably my fault; I�m not exactly a ray of sunshine at the moment. Whenever we argue I also feel like a complete child as well, like I�m just throwing a strop and that I�m like this with everyone. Except I�m not� I never argue with my friends ever; I�m never even grumpy with them because it makes me feel really bad. Anyway, I should probably learn to bite my tongue or something.

Also, it�s not all bad, as we did go out for a meal the other night to celebrate my sister�s 24th birthday, and everything ran smoothly. I rammed myself full of prawn toast and crispy duck pancakes and continually prayed that I wouldn�t end up throwing up for six hours straight the next morning. Eating with me can sometimes be the most pedantic of tasks ever due to the MSG thing: I have to check the labels for stuff like sauces and stir-ins and seasoning, and generally get on everyone�s tits. Everyone�s always really lovely about it though and checks for me too, probably because the sight of me looking as white as a sheet and necking paracetamol, before stumbling off and taking up the bathroom for half an hour is really quite unappealing. But no, meal went well, and I definitely embraced my inner pie.

My aforementioned boredom is currently being curbed by my No. 1 activity to do when I�m at home: cleaning. Yesterday I cleaned the bathroom, but managed to get Cif (does anyone remember when it was called Jif? Before they renamed it so that Europeans could pronounce the name more easily or something) into the big cut I have on my hand due to packing my razor clumsily. Hope I don�t die of slow poisoning or grow an extra thumb out of the wound or something. God, I bet I get an extra thumb.

Also killed the boredom going into Manc with my sister for some wonderful Primark shopping yesterday. Town was absolutely rammed full of chavs; I swear Manchester is nursing some kind of giant nest.

Dear chavs,

I hate you all and wish that you�d just crawl back under your huge communal rock. I also wish that you could hear me thinking, �Fucking chavs� every time I walk past one of you on the street. Special thanks go to the chav who sat hocking on the back seat of the bus�that was truly lovely. Why do you all wear white tracksuits and own monobrows? I hope some kind of incredibly infectious chav disease emerges soon and wipes you all out.

Love Holly

My dad wants me to watch the Grand National with him at one o�clock, but I think not. Instead I�m going to do some actual work, seeing as I did bugger all yesterday, which means embracing the Long QT once more. I�m now on 623 words, and with each word count I perform another tiny piece of my soul DIES. Man, I hope something fun happens today.

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