I'm going to write a book.
Don't ask me what about, just yet, because I honestly have no-fucking-idea. I'm thinking of being a witty author and being completely contempary, like all the trendy kids these days, and making it semi-autobiographical; just going to have some situations, loosely based upon real-life events strewn in there like a dogs breakfast, but fuck me, it'll be a good fucking book and you're all going to run out and buy it when and if I ever publish, let alone finish, that bastard.
So far, I'm ten pages down.
I want my characters to swear, a lot, and write it how a character might see it.
For Example, I made up a character today. I sat down, on my bed, and I wrote about my character, and how fucking awesome he's going to be.
Then, I hit delete and just started writing shit the way he sees it:
Women loved Joe.
All fucking women loved Joe.
Fat ones, skinny ones, shy or ballsy ones, dykes and princesses and the Miley fucking Cyrus's of the universe, fitness fucking yoga-freaks, pre-pubescent groupies in miniskirts and their gravity-skewed mothers, alcoholic drug-addled Debbie Harry fucking look-a-likes - you fucking name it – they all loved him.
They loved everything about Joe, right down to the stray hairs on his stubby, daylight-deprived toes._____________________________
To say the least, I'm completely in love with Joe.
He's my kind of man.
Personally, I'd marry Joe.
If he were real.
In my mind, He's some drop-dead fucking gorgeous alcoholic who talks a mile a minute with an accent, which is precisely why there's nearly fuck-all grammar whenever he's around.
I'd love to throw in some semi-fucking-colons in there, but it's Joe. He's got no fucking time for semi-fucking-colons and all that bullshit that goes with semi-fucking-colons and commas and full stops. Fuck that, he might say, if he could be fucked saying it.
And that's about as far as I've got.
In other news, I drank a bottle of Jameson for Kaisha's 18th and fucked myself up hardcore with bananas.
My fucking Jesus, Joeseph and doggy style mary - I was messy - and really fucking hungry.
I had booze and protein all in my grill, and neither of them wanted to be friends.
My sister drank a bottle of Johnny Walker this week and up-chucked for the following day. I was pretty proud when she kept the McDonalds down for most of the day, though.
We were laying in bed, as all sisters love to do in a compeltely non-incestrious manner, and we came to realise that she'd actually been locked inside a Mongolian prision or detention camp or something, for eight years, and just telling everyone she was in Queensland because at the time, Queensland was trendy and no one had any idea how to convert our currency to whatever the Mongolian fucking currency is, let alone know what it's value is or was, or whatever.
I'm reading Nick Cave's new book finally, (I'm a terrible worshiper, really) and my god, am I in fucking love?!
I've got recordings of him on my iFail, doing readings and my heart goes insane.
Everytime I read about Bunny Munro, I can't help but just imagine a somewhat younger Nick Cave, sans moustache and with thicker hair, as he is getting a little bald up-top nowadays, and it really does make me sad.
Come to think of it, my fangirl life is practically complete all but for a few things.
I have Nick Cave in my ear, reading me to sleep, the Libertines are reuinting for Leeds festival, in the year that i started planning for England - bastards.
It made me think, however, that when I planned to go to England, they re-unite. Coincidence?
So if, maybe, I plan to get completely off-my-tits-shit-faced with Carl Barat in a bar in London, I'm going to get a job in said bar, serve Carl barat drink all evening and then get completely off-my-tits-shit-faced with Carl Barat?
Oh, it better fucking be.