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Eight years young and pottering quite nicely n my own bubble of inconsequentialness, then biff bang pow, I have to take a nearby friends cousin to school while her parents went to Ireland for a funeral.
Boring.
But the end of the week, in love or feeling weird as it’s called at eight. She was a year younger than me but blimey, why am I talking gibberish and everything she says is like a new route to your heart.
Those were he days. Never knew how to turn my emotions into civilised words and she eventually told me to F off. She was seven! (Hayesender knows who I speak of…)
I snogged a gorgeous bird outside O’Henrys after she’d puked up. She said I was a ‘fu cking lovely bloke’ . Then puked on my trainers. I count it as a win.
I never saw any of Rangers games before I was born and I may not see many after I’m dead ( as ghosts only exist after you’re dead and not before you’re born).
That means I have no control over their fortunes so I don’t care anymore now. Yet I do. Conundrum.
Cunnilingus. Are Lingus. Fly away take me to another day.
When I die I don’t want to k ow about it.
Ibteckin I’ve got twenty years to go. Or less or more. O’la more by Dollar. Great song.
It’s all bollocks. The earth will explode one day.
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