There's a Home

I've had rather a busy week: cake-making, essay-completions, partying and sight-seeing in Brighton, and drinking cheap wine and playing drinking games to The Mighty Boosh. My friends are fucking awesome.

I'm a bit hung-over and stuffed with food so all the blood has gone to my tummy and liver and there's none left for my brain! Poor little brain! That should excuse the lack of social commentary and psychoanalysis in this post.

There's a spider living in my kitchen. His name is Boris and he wears boots (and there we were thinking it was only fairies). He scares me and we are not friends.

'All that we hope is that when we go
our skin
and our blood
and our bones
don't get in your way, making you ill the way they did when we lived.
There is a place, a place in hell
reserved for me and my friends,
and if ever I wanted to cry then I will
because I can.'