New Millenium Man

So I've been thinking about this on and off recently, and I've come up with a brief criteria for what makes a new millenium man (or woman). So far I have come up with the following ten:

- You have bought something on ebay and then sold it again without ever having used/wanted it
- You have lied on wikipedia while drunk
- You have emailed someone who is in the same room as you (not including while at work of course)
- You have given something a bad rating online in the hope that it will teach the author a much needed lesson despite the fact that you quite liked whatever it was you were rating
- You have used an internet phone to demonstrate to someone something that you both already knew, just to prove it works
- You have many more friends on Facebook than you do in real life
- While watching TV you wikipedia anything you don't believe and tell everyone you are with the truth behind the show
- You have gone to a website that you know will infuriate you just so that you can swear at all its users in the forum
- You have found random pictures of yourself on a strangers websites
- You have been turned down for a job because your potential employer found out so much awful shit about you online

I only qualify for less than half which makes me still a bit old school. Fuck yeah.

Oh and look - I'm moving:

What goes up, must come down

So it's been like a month since I last posted, and a fuck load more than a months worth of living has gone on since then. Woo-motherfucking-hoo! There has been a whole shit load of smiles being passed around recently...

Although there was also a Friday the 13th and a whole incident with the Police so things have been a bit fucked too...
But whatever else may have happened, at least I took the best ever picture of Nick. He apparently felt much worse than he looked at this time. Ha ha.

And I got a real job! Fuck yeah!

Allergic to work

I have a job starting tomorrow. Woo! Back in the rat race it is for me. Which makes me think – how come I don’t get sick when I’m not working? I don’t mean pulling a sickie sick, I mean actually ill? Because it seems to me that after about 2 weeks in every job I get I get sick for a few days. And I mean sick sick. I think it may be to do with the Underground and how dirty the air is in the trains, but I somehow doubt that’s actually true. Well we’ll see how that works out this time anyway.

Oh and here’s a picture of some jelly babies enjoying a Jacuzzi in a chocolate pie.

Signs

There are signs everywhere. Most of them are informative, but others meanings are a bit veiled.
Like these. Why are they there? What are they a reflection of? Not windows that's for damn sure. Their meaning is a mystery that I have pondered all my life, every time I go into my back garden on a sunny day for a ... cigarette...

This sign at Richmond Station is a bit easier to miss but a little more clear in its meaning. No parking at any time in bus lanes - unless you are Batman.

This sign was virtually unmissable though. It clearly indicates that Dave is Jewish. He was forced to wear it for three months by these Nazi's who convinced him they were in charge. I thought it was over the top, but he apparently quite liked it.

Oh what a night

So it was the much beloved Emma Chandlers birthday on Friday and despite having a great time, I can barely remember it. Funnily the photos that I appear to have taken of it barely seem to remember it either...so I'm going to 'improvise' the story they tell"Hello and welcome to the Chancellors birthday bash. I am your host Boggly Eyed Man, and this is my sidekick VeryShortButStandingOnAChair Girl. We hope you have very nice time this evening" Said Boggly Eyed Man
"Yes I hope you do. Now bugger off, me and Boggly Eyed Man have to get it on, and I can't do that whilst standing on a chair now can I?" said VeryShortButStandingOnAChair Girl
"But wait, what do they call you when you're not standing on a chair VeryShortButStandingOnAChair Girl?" I naively asked
"Lisa" She replied
So I gave Lisa a hug and all was well. I soon convinced her that Boggly Eyed Man wasn't the guy for her and she repented her previous love and wandered off in look of booze and the Chancellor.
Meanwhile someone had glued Joe's tongue to his chin, and after trying to pull it off I had accidentally stuck my hand to my chin also. We were in dire straights but eventually we convinced the DJ to let us use his decks as a kind of make-shift saw and cut my hand free, and Joe's tongue ... off
Which he clearly wasn't too pleased about. Still it meant that I could spend a couple quiet minutes talking about myself in an animated fashion. Which was nice. Joe left after a while to find a deaf lady who would complete him now he was mute, so I continued my tirade of self approval to Scott.
Who it turns out wasn't that interested. I let him sleep though as it was just nice to have someone to talk to who hadn't been paying attention to the whole turntable blood bath that I had convinced Joe to take part in. Saul on the other hand had seen the whole thing and couldn't stop smiling about it.
"Dude, that was awesome. I never knew you could spin a record so fast. And when Joe's tongue just went flying into the crowd that was the grossest thing ever. Dave said he saw it fly into someones drink. That is fucked up man, just imagine eating a tongue by accident!"
"Actually" Lydia chirped up "Human tongue is quite delicious. Scott cooked me some while we were in South Africa. Didn't you darling? Scott? Scott? Wake up!" But alas, I had bored the poor man into a coma. At least now I could steal his beer.
"Hey fella" said Glenn at the crucial moment of my booze theft "You'll never believe what just happened".
"A tongue landed in your drink" Saul said and laughed heartily
"How the fuck did you know that?" He asked Saul but he was laughing so much by now that he was hiccuping and no good to anyone.
"Can I...err see it" I asked quietly thinking that perhaps it would be best if I gave Joe his tongue back. For his birthday or Christmas or something.
"Nah mate sorry, it's always been a Devine family tradition that we eat all tongues we find. It's for good luck with the....
"Was it nice?" Lydia swiftly interrupted, looking to prove a point that she hadn't really made
"No" said Glenn. "It was fucking disgusting". Lydia was sad as not only was she wrong, but also as Scott's hand seemed to be dissolving slightly in his sleep.
"And a bit halluuuuciiiiinaaaaageeeeniiiic.... I thiiiiiiink...." Said Glenn as he started massaging the table. "I feel alllllllllllllll blluuuuuuurrrrrryyyyyy"
"HALLUCINGENS" Scott said as he snapped awake. "What the fuck happened to my hand?", he said as he quickly hid it under the table. Lydia looked pleased as a plum that her man was finally awake again. And that we were leaving. Little did she know that I had glued his other hand to his ear while he was sleeping. For safe keeping and that.
And that was the end of our wonderful evening. I went home and was apparently very drunk and happy, as is demonstrated by this photo taken by Kathy.
Of course in the morning I wasn't so drunk or happy. In fact I was so hungover that I needed to wear sunglasses. Indoors.
But at least the nice bacon people had decided that today was indeed the day to screw all the rules and fill my belly with pork goodness with a ridiculous offer.

The end.
PS Happy Birthday Emma!

Happy Happy Sad

If you could read tea leafs you would see that this means I'm happy. And perhaps slightly evil...

If you look very carefully, you can see a smiley face randomly made from hair on my bathroom floor

This building reminds me of Freddy's tattoo

Something old, something new, something fucked...

This is me after my first ever actual (illegal in a warehouse) rave.

This is me just before my first ever ("Fuck it, I need a..") pint on my own

This was funny at 4:30am on Jims birthday

A guy comes over from America to visit London and see the sights. He arrives on a Friday night, so it doesn’t take him long to realise that to experience British culture he really needs to experience British beverages. So he goes to a bar and has a couple London Prides, chases them down with a couple scotch whiskeys. He carries on and drinks a couple Guinness’, a couple ales and a couple bitters. He even has a few ciders.

Unaware of our drinking customs, when closing time comes it hits him as a total surprise and he stumbles out into the street not sure what to do next. He tries to go into a couple clubs but is refused due to his massively drunk state. After a while he realises that his biggest worry isn’t where he is going to go next, but where he is going to pee. He looks and looks and can’t find a public urinal, or even someplace quiet and secluded. He finally gives up and just stops and pees against the wall he is nearest to.

“Ahhhhhhhh” he says as he starts to go. He is interrupted almost immediately however by a firm tap on the shoulder.

“Excuse me sir, what do you think you are doing” a rather large policeman says to him. The American tries his hardest and stops what he is doing and zips up his flies. He explains the best he can in his state that he is on holiday and he has been caught short and that he is really sorry etc etc.

Suprisingly the policeman takes pity on the man and tells him that he too has been caught short on holiday and a friendly policeman took pity on him too. So he tells the American to follow him, takes him round the corner, unlocks a gate and lets the yanky in. “Go ahead son, pee here all you like”.

The American is astounded, he has been led to a beautiful garden filled with perfectly cut grass and an array of every beautiful flower under the sun. He pees and pees and pees, covering everything in sight, and when he is finally done he turns and asks the policeman “What is this place? Paradise?”

The policeman replies with a smile “Nah mate, it’s the French embassy”

I'm busy

So this is gonna be some week. I gotta finish this issue of Magnus, work out what needs to be done next with Magnus, make space for Kathy to move in for a bit, help her move, work out what stuff to throw away, sell stuff on ebay, save a friendship, work out stuff about moving out, finish my first part of my book, work on my momma’s book and write a blog entry. Well at least this is one off the list. I’m so motherfucking efficient.

Sometimes it's hard to get started

When I think about writing these days, I feel a bit sick. I’m not sure why that is. Maybe it’s my version of writers block, maybe it’s because the last thing I wrote was about my dad, maybe it’s because I was out drinking last night. Who fucking knows. Who fucking cares.

Well I do obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t be writing through the nausea.

So what to write about… hmmm… well the sun is shining and it’s a new year. I feel worried and afraid of what the future holds but also confident that it will be pretty good. Well vaguely confident.

I know, how about a joke… Two chickens walk into a bar and the barman says “FUCK OFF! NO FUCKING CHICKENS ALLOWED! THIS IS THE LAST TIME I’M FUCKING TELLING YOU!”

And the chickens said “What do we care? We’re chickens and therefore lack the ability to lift and drink from glasses so cannot join in the general merriment of your establishment anyway”

The barman was in a rage by then so he was like “THAT’S FUCKING IT! CHICKEN PIES FOR LUNCH” and he grabbed his cleaver and went after them.

The chickens just sat there and said “You will not have chicken pies for lunch as it is already dinner time”

But he killed them anyway.

Moral of the story: If you’re a chicken, don’t talk back to the man with the cleaver. Or perhaps it should be if you find talking chickens in your pub, don’t kill them as they are motherfucking rare.

Either way I don’t feel so nauseous anymore. Woo!

A Retraction

So most of you must have heard by now that my trip to Yankyville wasn’t nearly as depressing as it should have been. Turns out a social worker bitch is either incompetent or just mean and wanted my Dad turned off as he is a ‘drain on the community’. To be fair if you had met my dad you would know that is praise compared to what most people think of him, but still it wasn’t an opinion that his doctors shared so we didn’t have to switch him off. Phew.

While I’m retracting things, I got some post from the tax office telling me that I wouldn’t have to fill out a return next year. Thank fuck for that.

So in other news it was Christmas yesterday and my mega generous brother got me a 360! Woo motherfucking hoo!

Merry Christmas everyone. I hope all is well.

PS It occurred to me the other night that with all the physical activity that Wii users will go through, we might be about to enter a new rebalanced era of super strong nerds. Something to think about during the holiday season.

My 100th post is about ... you

When I was growing up, I didn’t really have a family, not like other people anyway. I don’t mean I was an orphan or any really tragic shit like that, I just mean… I was alone. An alcoholic father coupled with an over bearing mother and an older brother who was getting more fucked up by our situation that I was, but who was still trying to keep me in line was my lot. TV was my parents. It taught me love and life and right and wrong. But it never said my name, and it rarely listened.

So when I was 16 and I realised that this group of misfits I had been seeing a lot of actually meant something to me, it was a freaky fucking hallelujah moment. I mean, maybe you guys pick on me a little, because I seem like a victim. Maybe you laugh at me when you should be laughing with me, because you don’t get that I use myself as a joke. Maybe you don’t listen to me because you think I’m being ridiculous. Maybe you dismiss me because you don’t believe in me.

But when you see me you seem glad
And you give me a hug or shake my hand.
You buy me a beer or two when I’m broke.
You laugh even when you don’t get the joke.
You love the people I love, if I ask you to.
You smile at me, when I’m smiling at you.
You want me to get better when I’m sick.
You don’t stop talking to me when I’m being a prick.
You put my trousers over my shoes when I can’t move.
You aren’t freaked out when I tell you too much truth.
You listen to me even when I’m being boring.
You find me tea and aspirin when I’m hungover in the morning.
You call me even though I don’t call you.
You don’t abandon me when you meet someone new.
You don’t look away when you see me cry.
You’ll be at my funeral when I die.

That wasn’t supposed to rhyme, but you guys put poetry in my heart. Thanks.

Last Chance

I’ve just got home and I have to write this right now. I have to get it out of me before I puke it out. I need this moment to mean something because it just doesn’t mean enough to me.

My dad is dying. He has been dying for about 3 months now. He didn’t turn up to work for a couple days and one of his work friends stopped by to see how he was doing. It always amazes me that he has any friends considering what a bastard he is, but anyway, his friend found him in bed unable to move, so called an ambulance. The first I heard was a few days later, and it was that he was having his foot amputated because of his diabetes. I felt no sympathy or surprise at this as he had been a diabetic for a long time and he still drinks a lotta beer and eats a lot of ice cream. He has already lost a fair few toes to that half assed disease.

I ignored the email that told me - I didn’t think there was much I could do. But then a month or so ago, I got another one telling me that he was fucked. I mean really fucked. His organs were failing, he had water in his lungs and there was a lot of other shit I can’t remember. He was so fucked that they still hadn’t taken his foot as he wouldn’t have survived it. I went home from work the second I read that email after I left my boss a note. Kathy came and met and comforted me for a while, but it was only when my boss called to check if I was ok that I broke down. He was meant to have only a 15 percent chance of survival at that point, but that wasn’t even taking all of his ailments into account. It really cut me down. I’ve cried too much this year already.

Speaking of which, it just so happened that it was at exactly the time that I was having my final fight with Fred and Dee that I found this out. I had been waiting until I was entirely calm to email them and try to fix or end things and this news just made me not give so much of a fuck anymore so I just said what I had to say and boom it was over with them. Now that’s a fucking shame, but it is unrelated.

Anyway, my sister had asked me if I had anything to say to him, as it may be my last chance as he had an op in the morning. Fuck was that hard to come up with. Those last words. That summary of his life and what it meant to me. So I told her then held my breath until morning.

He survived and got moved to the long term ICU, which is where they put patients they don’t expect to get better. So we waited. And looked for a will. And waited.

And then he got better! All of a sudden he was a bit more coherent, and he was recovering from some of the many things killing him. I had made my peace with it, so when this news came it blew my motherfucking mind. Woo!

But then he got worse again. Awful in fact. Dying. My sister is all alone out there and the doctors make her make all the decisions, but there was one which she couldn’t make alone. Should we sign a Do Not Resuscitate order?

Thinking about this killed me. Well it should have, but in all honesty, I feel so removed from the man that I just didn’t want to make the decision. I mean who am I to decide the length of his life?

I’m his son. And that’s why the decision has got worse as he has. We’re past DNRs now. We have to decide if we should pull the plug. He’s in so much pain and there is so little of his mind left that its not a question really.

So back to today and this moment. Back to why it should be important. Today is the day that I have to phone my brother so that we can arrange a date to go half way round the world to help my sister kill my father. Today’s the day I have to agree to watch him die. I have no last words for him, no conversation that I wish we had. I just don’t think my sister should go through this alone, and I’m fairly sure my brother needs to have a few more moments with that old man.

So I have to watch my dad die.

I really don’t think that he deserves to have his kids around him weeping when he passes, but I also know that Gerry needs to see him one more time. He needs to say goodbye. again. He needs another chance.

Why I've got a cold heart

It’s cold outside, and I’m smiling. Maybe it’s my infinite love of Christmas that makes me think the air is all sparkly and magical as soon as it chills your bones.

I never liked that film The Snowman. Maybe it’s because I have never seen it, but something about it bothers me. I only saw It’s a Wonderful Life a few years ago, long after I began feeling the holiday spirit deep inside me every year. To me Christmas is more about the nice feeling you get in the air. The feeling that permeates everything because of the growing number of people who have spent their day buying things for other people.

I know lots of people find the process of Christmas shopping a chore, perhaps even most people, but they are still thinking of others when they buy all that stuff. Even the most mean spirited people must have a nice few moments thinking of how their friends will react to the shit they have bought them. It’s nice, and it’s everywhere all at once.

I don’t mind that the Christmas stock comes out earlier every year in shops. I don’t get sick of Christmas songs clogging the airwaves in every shop, pub and home. I have no problem with carollers. I can even forgive Neighbours being cancelled for a few days.

I love snow.

I love turkey.

I love presents.

And I love that it’s all on it’s way.

The Penthouse Blues

It’s dark and the night sky is glittering with stars and street lights, but I can’t see it because the wind keeps me blind.. I’m on top of a block of flats in front of London’s biggest police station and I’m not quite sober. My bones are creaking, my hands and muscles ache, and I’m shouting “We’re not going to be able to do it. I’m not joking. We’re going to drop it. Please listen to me”. Tiny amounts of rain speckle the air and I fear the worst, having realised that those below don’t care what I have to say anymore. I look at Kathy and shout over the short distance “You’re going to have to help too. Just try your hardest”. She nods gravely. I look at Saul. He is staring over the edge with exhausted determination.

And then the waiting is over and we hear them countdown. Saul reaches over the top trying to grab a rope and not be pulled over. Trying to be the hero, for he is trying to save all of those below. He gets it and pulls. Pulls like a buffalo pulling a train. Like a bear fishing for a pool table. I lunge over and get a grip. We pull. It comes up. “Stop” they cry. We are hooked on something. Those at the bottom rush up to help us. We lift it into the warmth and celebrate. There is still more work to do, but after the great battle of the stairs, this final victory feels like the sweetest and greatest.

When we’re done a few hours later, the champagne drowns out real pains and we settle down to a night of partying. We are no soldiers, but we feel like we had been in a war. If any of us had tried a bit less hard throughout that day, that pool table could have dropped and killed any of us. The movers even said it couldn’t be done, but we got it into that roof top sactuary for Mark. We saved each others lives that day. And for that, we get to play pool. Maybe now’s the time to get good.

TUNE!

Don’t you just love it how a single tune can just make you one happy motherfucker even if you is feeling like one big pile of crap? Maybe I’m more susceptible than most to this as apparently I am emotionally explosive, but I find more often than not, no matter how sorry I am feeling for myself, if I put on some funky shit I get all excited real easy.

It used to be TV that would be my crutch in times of not-so-great sorrow, but there is so much shit on these days that it’s often hard to find that smile from channel hopping. Flicking between tunes or listening to Radio 6 (which fucking rocks) though can just change my whole day. Hell yeah.

Or sometimes I’ll hear some song lyrics that I’ve heard a million times before and it’ll just be like “Woah! That is motherfucking profound. I’ve never thought of life like that before.” Or some similarly melodic eureka. This is typically from when you are newly in love, or newly fucked over by love and finally all the cheesy shit on the radio which you have ignored all your life makes sense. But it can be from other things too. Such as the Oasis pointless classic Wonderwall

“And all the roads we have to walk along are winding / And all the lights that lead us there are blinding / There are many things that I would / Like to say to you / I don't know how / Because maybe / You're gonna be the one who saves me ? / And after all / You're my wonderwall”

I used to think that this was a poignant yet vaguely meaningless ballad about how hard life is to get right, but now I realise that it’s just about being really mega fucked and not being able to walk straight, see straight (coz your pupils are dilated so the lights blind you) or really talk, so you need someone to direct you home. And how do you thank this saviour of yours? With meaningless gibberish (“Hey….. you know I fucking love you right…. You fucking saved my ass…. Thank you…. I would never have got home without you…. you’re my fucking saviour… my fucking wonder…wall…. bleugh”). Good old Gallagaher brothers. Go straight to the heart of the matter.

Post Boozing Depression

I don’t know why but recently, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being an asshole. I try to be nice all the time, but it just doesn’t seem to work. I keep finding myself giving me pep talks. Telling myself that I just need to get back to who I am. Who I really am. Or at least who I was. The guy who had a lot of friends. The guy who everyone thought was funny, and very few disliked. That guy went away a along time ago, but I remember being him, because he’s me.

Things have shaken me up recently. I’ve been a mess trying to get my head around all the little bits of shit that have been flung at me. So I try and go back to who I want to be, and sometimes I think I’m there, but then I talk to someone and almost instantly I think “Why the fuck did I say that?” and clam up. It may just be confidence based paranoia but often it is fully justified, as I say some mean motherfucking shit sometimes. So I guess maybe I am a bastard. Maybe. I hope not. I keep trying not to be.

I miss my friends. I can’t seem to connect with them anymore and I think that’s my main problem. I keep so much stuff inside these days that I feel a need to deflect all the time, so if someone asks me about something I don’t want to talk about, I just say something mean. And often I don’t even mind talking about it, it’s just because I haven’t up til now so I have subconsciously assigned it as a secret and so try to defend it, often by being a dickhead about someone else. And it makes me feel sick.

Bleugh. That’s me. Bleugh. And I don’t know how to get better. But I suppose tomorrow is another day, Nurofen Plus is on its way, and soon I probably won’t be so goddamned hungover.

I quit smoking a year ago today

With furious impertinence a man who looks just like me threw his girlfriends food on the floor and stormed out of the restaurant. “I’m sick of all you hypocrites” he screamed through the glass at the rest of the diners who were chewing on their grisly goods with glee. He dropped the Happy Meal box he still clutched and stomped it flat until it could be stomped no more. A small piece of plastic rolled out of the box corpse and a tear rolled down the man’s face. “You poor little toys. You’ll never know the evil this Clown puts you in the service of”.

The man had not been happy with his happy meal you see, because the McStaff had given him carrot sticks instead of chips. And I think we can all agree that for this they truly are bastards.

Death and ...

I just had to do my taxes. Man did that ever suck. Especially considering that the only reason I had to do them was due to a month long accidental stint of being self-employed brought upon me by the ‘benevolent’ creators of Teachers TV. Those self righteous bastards couldn’t be bothered to do the little bit of extra paperwork necessary to put me on PAYE so instead I am going to be quizzed about my financial habits yearly for the rest of my life.

Luckily I don’t really have any financial habits. I only had to fill in about 20 of the 2,000 questions so that was nice (well I haven’t heard back from them yet, so I assume I only had to fill in 20 of the 2,000). The thing is that even though I had to fill in only 20 questions, I still had to read the other 1,980 questions to check if I had to answer them. And oh boy is that a motherfucking chore. If you have ever done your own taxes then you’ll know. It basically involves trying to concentrate really hard, and then screaming “BUT WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN YOU BASTARDS?” every 20-30 seconds.

And they give you this booklet to help you fill in the form. Now, I don’t know if it’s just me, but every question I looked up in the booklet for some help was even worse than the question itself. At one point, when I was particularly frustrated, I found that the booklets helpful answer was “It’s not too late to do your taxes online”. Those bastards. Those evil son’s of bitches. If I was going to do it online, why the hell would I read all this shit? What if I didn’t want to do it online? What if I hated computers as much as taxes themselves? Why would they say that? Why won’t they just help me? WHY? YOU BASTARDS WHY? ALL I WANT IS TO GIVE YOU MONEY? WHY WON’T YOU HELP ME? WHY WON’T YOU LET ME GIVE YOU MONEY? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? WHAT ARE YOU GETTING OUT OF IT? CERTAINLY NOT MONEY AS I’M TRYING TO GIVE YOU SOME AND YOU’RE JUST MESSING WITH MY FUCKING BRAIN. TAKE IT YOU FUCKING BITCHES, JUST TAKE IT. AAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHH. I HATE ALL YOU INLAND REVENUE BASTARDS. ALL OF YOU!

So you see, doing taxes is quite stressful. Try to avoid it if you can.

Terror

I was involved in a serious spider attack last night. It came out of nowhere and made me remember all my fears again. Once the screaming had died down I still felt freaked out. Stupid spiders.

I was sitting at my computer, reading an email when suddenly this little spider slowly lowered itself on its web right in front of me onto my keyboard. As it was only small, I didn't panic, but said "Hey little dude, I don't know where you think you are, but right here is death for you". I got up and walked calmly over to the tissue box and got one out, ready for the big squidge. The spider was still ambling about on my desk. I just happened to be watching Dominic Diamonds Channel 5 programme about religion, and all this talk of God made me stop for a second and think. "I shouldn't kill you little one." I said "you're quite pretty I suppose, with those black and yellow stripes, and that huge ass of yours sticking up in the air..." I paused for a second with the tissue (which of course I had kept poised over the thing this whole time) and slowly moved back. THEN IT FUCKING LEPT ONTO ME. It was a good foot that it jumped, right onto my trousers. All calmness left the room at that point. I ran out of the room, batting my legs with my hands as much as I could. I dashed into the bathroom and tore off my trousers and socks and kept batting myself at any tingle I felt, and checking for a spider in the mirror. I wanted to take a shower just to make sure, but I couldn't stop wriggling and screaming like a girl. After what felt like about 10 minutes I left the bathroom and my trousers and crept back into my room. I kicked anything it could be hiding under then leapt back. I kept looking around my computer, even though I knew that it had left with me. I couldn't go near my computer for the rest of the night for fear. I'm not sure when I'm next gonna wear those trousers.

Stupid spiders. Stupid Justin.