Many of the girls today, they don't eat enough mince & cheese pies, know what I'm sayin'. Attractive enough... in the face, but no curves! skin all hanging off them like a stack of towel rails. Yeah, it's a problem for me. Real men don't cry! and for that matter neither do I. But sometimes a simple minor breakdown can be surprisingly, somewhat marvellously cathartic. I try and pencil one in at least once a week or as time allows. It's sometimes difficult, trying to reconcile the labyrinthine accounts of my actions in my head, attempting to balance the cheque book of my prick against, well.

Been thinking, I've been thinking about trust. And, now, admittedly I am a scumbag – and also awesome, filth and slime and kittens and love, two coins of the same side. But trust that is good enough; the right size, round about, a good handful, that'll do me, that's all I expect; cos I reckon, people fuck up. They fuck up all the time. I myself, fuck up more than most and faster than many, and am frequently not in a position to judge (though I frequently do). I've done some bad things. I have taken the low road on many an occasion. Actually, to be honest, the idea of me trying to judge anybody else is pretty much morally hilarious. Like you expect a trial your peers and instead get a sympathetic jury of incestuous goat fiddlers, you feel dirty even when you get off.

Trust though is kinda fluid, you gotta take a long range view. when every candle of the soul is tallied, if it's worth it in the long run, then it's worth it right now.

Sometimes I get the feeling I'm actually pretty warped.