I can see everything in my room. It is pitch black but I have been awake so long that my eyes have adjusted to everything. I think about getting up and going downstairs to get a drink but then I tell my self that I will never get to sleep if I do this.
I am at my Gran’s and she keeps on cooking me plates and plates of oven chips. Her electric oven doesn’t cook the middle of them and I can’t get any ketchup out of them glass bottle. I stick a knife through the whole and it all comes out over my arms and hands. I am shocked by how much there is because there seems to be a lot more than the bottle can actually hold. I am now covered in ketchup. My Gran shouts at me in a terrifying voice, ‘what do you think you’re doing?!’
I start to cry.
I wake up sweating with a dry throat and a headache. It's sunny. I have a pint of water and a paracetemol for breakfast before taking the dogs into the garden. Mum has already left for work. I put the CVs I printed off at the library yesterday in my bag and get the bus into town.
Dust rises from the seats towards the roof of the bus. I can taste the dust in the back of my throat when I breathe. The bus is empty and I enjoy the short journey into town, without any stops. My headache has cleared now. I feel revitalised. I feel like a yogurt advert.
I have a look around some charity shops and end up buying a blue jumper for £4.
Walking towards a Costa - of which I have a picture in my head of a ‘barista position available’ sign in the window - a girl starts walking towards me. She walks past me and I look at her. She is looking straight back at me and I think she wants to punch me. I imagine her clenched fist pounding hard against the side of my face and me falling to the floor. I feel the shock overwhelming the pain of the punch as I lie there thinking about why she has just hit me. Why has she just hit me? Maybe she knows me or knows something about me that offends her. I think it’s unlikely as I can’t think of anything that I’ve done recently that would offend anyone really. Maybe she is Mozart’s girlfriend/wife. I dismiss this instantly because if she were then she would have no reason to want to hit me anyway, unless Mozart had told her he was in love with m or something. And even then, how would she know what I looked like?
The thought of why this woman would want to hit me – in actually fact she hasn’t said a word to me – lingers in my thoughts as I carry on walking. I assess my self. Perhaps it is the way I am dressed, I think. Maybe this is enough to take a dislike to someone. I decide not to think about it anymore before my thoughts begin to manifest in the form of a stomach ulcer.
I am at my Gran’s and she keeps on cooking me plates and plates of oven chips. Her electric oven doesn’t cook the middle of them and I can’t get any ketchup out of them glass bottle. I stick a knife through the whole and it all comes out over my arms and hands. I am shocked by how much there is because there seems to be a lot more than the bottle can actually hold. I am now covered in ketchup. My Gran shouts at me in a terrifying voice, ‘what do you think you’re doing?!’
I start to cry.
I wake up sweating with a dry throat and a headache. It's sunny. I have a pint of water and a paracetemol for breakfast before taking the dogs into the garden. Mum has already left for work. I put the CVs I printed off at the library yesterday in my bag and get the bus into town.
Dust rises from the seats towards the roof of the bus. I can taste the dust in the back of my throat when I breathe. The bus is empty and I enjoy the short journey into town, without any stops. My headache has cleared now. I feel revitalised. I feel like a yogurt advert.
I have a look around some charity shops and end up buying a blue jumper for £4.
Walking towards a Costa - of which I have a picture in my head of a ‘barista position available’ sign in the window - a girl starts walking towards me. She walks past me and I look at her. She is looking straight back at me and I think she wants to punch me. I imagine her clenched fist pounding hard against the side of my face and me falling to the floor. I feel the shock overwhelming the pain of the punch as I lie there thinking about why she has just hit me. Why has she just hit me? Maybe she knows me or knows something about me that offends her. I think it’s unlikely as I can’t think of anything that I’ve done recently that would offend anyone really. Maybe she is Mozart’s girlfriend/wife. I dismiss this instantly because if she were then she would have no reason to want to hit me anyway, unless Mozart had told her he was in love with m or something. And even then, how would she know what I looked like?
The thought of why this woman would want to hit me – in actually fact she hasn’t said a word to me – lingers in my thoughts as I carry on walking. I assess my self. Perhaps it is the way I am dressed, I think. Maybe this is enough to take a dislike to someone. I decide not to think about it anymore before my thoughts begin to manifest in the form of a stomach ulcer.
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