Amazon sent me The Journals of Sylvia Plath, a beast of a book, £14. All the pages are different lengths. I said I couldn't be bothered to send it back, and requested a partial refund.
£3 was automatically refunded.
Thanks chump sticks. That will serve me very well indeed, in the pound shop.
Honestly. I don't know why they didn't just send me my missing bits of page in a sandwich bag. it would've been less abusive.
Also, I'm sick. I'm not getting an appropriate amount of sympathy, because everyone else has it. We're all walking around being pretty disgusting, and don't have the energy to feel sorry for each other. Hopefully most people will get over it soon, so that they can give me the comfort I deserve. Because if there's one thing I've discovered, it's that things are usually worse for me. I try telling Ginger Beard this ofter. But he's too small minded to understand.
Has anyone else turned into a snake? My skin is drying out and falling off. Is this normal? Please send your answer on the back of a postcard.
I sat opposite this boy on the train last night. I say boy, because I knew that he completely lacked the capability to grow a beard. He was trying to sleep with his jumper against the window. And I thought, 'Ah bless him, poor little beardless student.' And then he kicked me, the shit. You know what I did? In that stinky, BO riddled carriage. I kicked him back. That's called karma.
Do yourself a favour, make a few good decisions today. Kick people who kick you. Feel sorry for me because I am poorly, go and buy The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, and make yourself a cup of tea to read it with.
Work is for conformists.
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