Thursday 21 May 2015

Sick.

I'm sick. Not in the  "Spend my lunch money in the local Chicken Shop after school", cool and trendy way. The ill way. (I live by two secondary schools and a high street. You should see it at 4pm...They put years on me. Though I have been called "bruv" by this youth by mine. Blonde, earring, cap to the side and toothpick. Looked like one of them from Blazin Squad. He was offering me a weight loss programme offer and I told him I had previously lost 4 and a half stone to which he replied "SMASHED IT BRUV" and snapped his fingers. I felt ever so youthful that day.) 

I am in bed with my Everton top on. I have had a stomach bug for 2 days. The weight I've lost is phenomenal. Tho I don't advise you start getting the shits off your mate because Zante with the girls is approaching. Today, after sicking up everything I had, wishing I had an extra pair of hands to hold my Mick Hucknall strewn mess back. (Strangely enough Martine McCutcheon was sick into his dreads after a night out in the West End. When I was sick after a night out in the West End I had my assistant manager from The Bookies where I work-ahem to hold back my hair. Soho at night is not as glam as it looks in OK! and heat magazines.) 

I turn into a little victim when I'm ill. I just want Netflix and cuddles. Just someone's chest to lean on while I fart myself into oblivion. So I need someone really, who's got decent wifi a good sense of humour and a bad sense of smell. Granted he has to look like Paul Walker or Ryan Dunn. Not on fire in a car, but coincidentally they are (or were) 2 of my most perfect men. I just want to sit off and chill.

I've made my bedroom proper cute and my beds like a den with the fairy lights on. WHERE'S ME MATES? Come bring goodies! I'll leave the room to fart I promise! 

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