What a horrible, horrible day.
It started, as days tend to do, at the stroke of midnight. Here we were stumbling out of a bar after I bought THIRTY-GODDAMN-POUNDS worth of alcohol that I didn’t want to buy but people convinced me because it looked tasty and then they didn’t drink it because IT WAS NOT TASTY. Anyway, walked through most of Glasgow to the flat of a friend who was setting me up for the night, and my bag breaks. Whatever, it’s no problem. When we got there, the girl who lives not too far down the road (not too far at all, not really, just another ten minutes, ten small insignificant minutes) demanded that she stay too so of course she got the fold out bed and I got the couch that was four feet long (note: my height is over six feet).
But I’m drunkish. I’ve drank a fair amount of the shit alcohol in order to convince myself it was worth buying and in the process my head is hazy and my speech is slurred but fuck it I’m not drunk I’m drunkish. This makes me sleepy and mildly comfortable with my legs hanging over the armrest, and I’m ready to go to sleep and I say goodnight to the woman taking the luxurious fold out bed and she replies with “can I ask you something?”
Which spurns an hour of useless conversation about nothing I know about and nothing I care about. I eventually drop off at around two-ish.
I have a dream that the walls are crumbling around the couch and everyone’s faces are lit by blue pixels. Children are standing watching me from the hallway in funeral dress, their hands clasped at their fronts. People are behind them dancing and having fun, little blue smiles flying back and forth. I feel like joining them but I’m too tired to stand from the couch.
I wake up too early at eight and wander back across Glasgow with a nice hangover. I head up to uni (yes, I forgot to mention, I’m back at uni) and make my way to my first nine am lecture. I sit outside for ten minutes, wondering why the place is deserted until I see the mother fucking sign that tells me that the fucking class is fucking canceled. Fuck it. An email was sent out last night, but since I didn’t have access to a computer from three pm to that moment I seem to have missed it. Turns out the entire course has been canceled, so now I have Wednesdays free. But! A testament to how rubbish my university is is how I now have to pick another class and the only other class available is on at the exact same goddamn time as a class that’s been moved from a very nice Tuesday and Thursday to Monday and Friday. So now I don’t get Fridays off. Honest to god I’m so fucking sick with how they keep switching round the timetable.
So I head to the only comfy coffee shop in the uni. And it’s closed until further notice. SO. I head up to the completely uncomfy coffee shop and have a fucking horrible coffee. I leave and have a brief run in with Mike which has been the highlight of the day. I go and buy some new clothes which fit me quite nice and look good and would be considered a good thing if it weren’t for the fact that they cost me seventy quid goddamnit. But my new bag’s nice. It’s not broken or anything.
Anyway, I’m feeling depressed and sick and horrible and angry and so fed up that I go to my local bookstore and browse about. They’ve got deals you see, and I end up wandering for half an hour trying to find a third book for the whole buy two and get one free thing. So I pick out three books with the magic sticker (Slaughterhouse 5 by Kurt Vonnegut, Road by Cormac McCarthy and The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov) and Finnegans Wake by James Joyce just for fun. I take it all the way up to the counter and the woman scans them all and gives me this kiddy apple eyed look and says with the sweetest of smiles that sorry these books were labeled wrong and that only one was three for two. But she did happily announce that there was a 20% student discount on and if I had a student card then I’d be able to benefit from this discount, the chirpy bitch. So I showed her my card, bought my books, missed my bus, found another bus and started my way home. It was only then that I checked my receipt. It turns out the chirpy happy smiling cunt of cashier only gave me a discount on one of my books. The cheapest of my books. So instead of the 20% discount of £7 that I should have gotten for spending £35 on books, I get a discount of £1.60.
Ohh I’m so mad I could hit something.
And the day’s not finished. What else can it hold? We can only find out.
Goddamnit.


