Call back in 15. Proof of address needed.

Don't mess with meatballs. Goodbye

No, goodbye.

Some food. Goodbye.

Nothing to share. 

Some food is enough for everyone.

Meatballs is the answer to fucking depression. Fuck grammar. 

Ok I can smell bad breath but no one else is around.

Can you smell dead mouse? I think I can smell dead mouse under my bed. G. was here last night but I forgot to ask him to smell. I mean surely he would tell me if he had smelled dead mouse. But what would he say, your new flat which you struggled so much to get cause they wanted quarantor and they wouldn't believe you have a euro account and they  made you download statement after statement worth of all the statements of the world and walk around d all the fucking Barclays of the world smells of dead mouse? I'd rather die.

So I have this friend, Eban, who used to go out with Blo. When they travelled to Aribona for a month, he said they had sex without a condom. I'm very particular about contraception and I never forgive my friends who do that. Anyway, in his defense he said he could never be prepared cause he never knew when it was going to happen cause every time it seemed to him like the first date, like going on a first date again with the same person. Like starting from scratch all the flirting and stuff, asking the same questions. Well, this is how I feel about myself all the fucking time. When I move from one flat to the next, when I get a new boyfriend. When I change jobs, or towns, or countries. I have to start from scratch again, to get to know myself. What music do I like what I want for breakfast. What's your name? Eibini, oh mine is Eibini too, how old are you, 35, oh me too 35, do you like prawns, not sure give me a day.

So why did you text that boy last night. Cause I felt like it. And why did you feel like it. Cause I wanted to hear from him. And why did you want to hear from him. Cause I wanted him to text me back and acknowledge my existence. And why did you want him to acknowledge your existence, why not acknowledge your existence yourself. Cause mine doesn't count, cause I can never acknowledge my existence, cause other people are only able to confirm I exist. Cause once they do, I feel like a person again, in the world, you know. And I feel worthy of something. Worthy of confirming my existence. I'll never read an introspection article never again.

So my doctor said: freeze your eggs now, and that was 3 months ago. And now, 3 months later, I consider whether I should freeze my eggs. But if he said now and now is 3 months later, does that mean that now I can no longer freeze my eggs? So I'm going to have a cup of tea and a fag and consider what I'm supposed to do now. 

It's the fucking Internet to blames.as soon as I got it I got cold and miserable and slept badly. Bloody hell! And been checking my emails non stop and been doing no work whatsover. Good right. 

I'm in my old tub and I have filled it with hate oil. The shop didn't have any other kind, so I got hair oil. Cause soap makes my vag hurt and its out of the question. B. sent me an email which made me feel alive again. Yeah. I am the most resilient person I know. Fuck you and don't tell me to develop resilience. I've changed three flats in nine months and three jobs in four years. And had to end a really really tricky thing too. So I'm in the tub and I really want to smoke. But my throat is hurting and I've just had a throat tea. I'm finishing my book, I've made it, and I'm closer to who I want to be in years. So fuck you. I'm resilient enough, resilient for the things I want to be resilient for. I remember B. too. How he makes me feel that this is exactly where I need to be, and who with. I only have one picture with him under the tent, it was when he couldn't stay over and my heart broke. But I have the picture and he looks his prettiest holding a beer and smiling with dimples. So I'll comb my vag with argan oil and go and write to him. I didn't finally take the marjoram from manor house. It was too chunky and I didn't have a pot, plus it was a bit dry on the side. I can care for myself and my plants and no one else for a while. And if anyone has to say anything about self promotion then come and say it fuckers. Hope my employers do not read this crap. Cause I'm exactly where I need to be, inwards, onwards and smoking. And staying inwards and onwards, and making decisions and taking to myself and figuring out things on my own. I'll try to continue like this and maybe I won't have to fight with feeling all over the fucking place again. But I hate being careful. Careful, be careful, be careful, yeah, be careful. I'm just careful for myself, so that I don't get run over or out of breath. That's it. Don't get run over or out of breath. I love your asthma. Pay your fine and go home. 

I rented out a studio flat and in the middle of the night the agent arrived and lifted the blinds. And I could see that there was an extra room in my studio flat, only if belonged to someone else. There was a bank bed and a toilet in there, but we'd have to share the main entrance, which sucked. And I specifically asked before renting: what are these blinds. What are these blinds. But no one cares to answer.

Hannah Horvath is the best. She has inspired me to write. To like really write. To say that I miss my girlfriends, all the girly silly things we used to do. Like watch movies and eat pop corn for hours and not caring of getting fat or being lazy, cause you are actually with someone else. But the truth is I did care, I did worry about getting fat or being lazy even when I was with them. Why is it so important to do good things and be productive? To have a goal? To keep going? Can I not be aimless for a while? I just want to lay low, keep it simple and not think about it. But no, I have to be an adult - how to be an adult in ten days - and be productive and generally a good person. I want to be a shitty person. Or I want to be a person that does not have to think what kind of person they are. And saying that already makes me not that person. I know I am blaming my flatmate for the diarrhoea, but actually I have not cleaned the toilet seat once since I have been back. Cause this is a new built, everything seems shiny and therefore clean. But it is not clean, it is not clean and I have to remember that, memo. I will make a note above the toilet - just because it is shiny, it does not mean it's clean. Shouldn't the flatmate clean as well though? I am doing a marathon of girls with G cause I want to watch as much as possible before I move into the new flat. I am thinking of not getting internet there, kind of terrifying as a thought, but I am thinking of not getting internet. If I want to work, I go to work. If I want to rest, I stay at home. I really feel like an internet slave, out of control and running all over the place. Leaving dinner parties to watch netflix and pretending it's too hot. I made an entire group of people move from the sun, the only sunny day in England, into the shade, and then I left to watch netflix. Yeah. Great. But my bed was nice and cool and I didn't have to wear any clothes and everything felt familiar at home. I have bought some new plants - one I actually did not like, but all blogs say it is the most resistant and long lasting, it does not need too much light. So, the question is, should I take the rosemary with me when I leave. It is in a chunky pot and I would have to find an even chunkier container. But, it's the one my parents bought for me and I am sure it will die here. So, there, done, I am taking the rosemary. What about the marjoram? Still having the shits and the GP is busy till Monday.

Idea: find contexts where people would normally repeat something, a word or phrase, and go wild with it, overdo it.

I am so frail I cannot hold anything in my hand anymore. The coins fall off my hand I bend down to pick them up and they fall in between my fingers, I bend down to pick them up and they fall in between my fingers. Nothing stays in place.

Left with nothing again, just myself which amounts to nothing. No stomach to punch, no intestines, no one to blame. An emptiness which hurts more than emptiness and I have to mend everything again, slowly, with care. My mother is long gone, her hugs unnecessary. I dream of a small house with two doors. I will smile only when I am ready and will not exit my room till you are gone. Trying amounts to nothing. All my layers are gone; no sun, no nothing. I wish I were ready for you and I am so scared you will also know I amount to nothing. I can make lists and oulifne priorities, but my stomach is empty and everything pierces through and comes out the other side. I could go to the cinema and then talk about it. But that amounts to nothing. I have to remind myself I am a person, otherwise I will cross the street and something bad may happen.

I have on my forehead these holes. They are hard holes, and each one of them is deep; it contains wood, or something that looks like a tree trunk. They are scars from spots I have scratched. They are now hard holes, I can see the tree trunk inside, I can touch it. I want to take a scalpel and remove it, but I cannot reach. I put my finger inside and I feel the hardness all around, the shape of the trunk, the depth of the hole. I push my finger inside, it is so disgusting and pleasurable, those dirty holes. So vivid, so vivid I have to touch my forehead from time to time to ensure.

P. announces to me that we are doing an opera and that I have the principal role. But I cannot sing, I say. I WILL TEACH YOU, he shouts. But, it's a waste of time, I say, extra-curricula, my arse, IT'S COMPULSORY, he shouts. It's bullshit, I say, but I know I now have to spend hours just learning the shitty lines.

I am having dinner with Mrs L. our of politeness and then look at my watch. It is 8.45pm and my class should have started at 7pm, it should now almost be done. But I am not there to teach it, I am not there, twice in one week. NOW THEY WILL KNOW I AM A FRAUD, I shout.