I’ve been having those days. You know.. where you wake up at around 5 in the evening and you smoke a joint out the window and see the clouds. They look boring. Then eat a piece of stale bread and jam and have important conversations with your cat about how the andrex puppy in the adverts looks like it would be a prick.
My bank card has had about 17p in it for months now so I’ve labeled it obsolete and stuck it on my wall next to a newspaper cutout hailing the Strokes’ new album as ‘legendary’.
The fridge is empty except for some wine and three free range eggs. Free range is good; for the chickens at least. I decide that this would be an excellent time to have some scrambled eggs, and when I turn on the tv it’s a critic talking about the state of music in 2011 and how the genre of rock is creatively and commercially moribund. I go back to bed after this and sleep until the morning and go to work, like a normal person. Safe in your bed tonight, reading Kerouac by candle light. Remember the sound of water coming out of my ears as I climbed as I climbed into life.
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