I would like to run away to a happy place. Although I suppose it could be argued that I am there already.
I blame matchbox 20.
Tomorrow I will be able to run to Nottingham. This makes me happy. I say run. There will be no running. There will probably be walking in a fashion similar to that of a drunkard. Being drugged up to ones eyeballs does have amusing side effects as well as helpful ones. I walked into my door today, I have dropped my cigarettes countless times, and I have walked to and from my bed a few times more than necessary for no reason other than I wished to sit down. No logic.
Tomorrow I shall also get my blood stolen. I am worrying about this far too much. I am quite the neurotic dinosaur. I have to go on my own. This makes me sad. But I am nineteen years old, it is about time I grew up and realised there wont always be an unfortunate hand for me to squeeze to death in my moments of need.
I have nothing else to say today, unless you are some creepy northern guy in which case I have just pointed my middle finger at you. Hah.