peekaboo is essentially just making fun of babies for not understanding object permanence
My name is Nathan. I'm a law student, not-quite-yet emerging writer, and film addict.
I just bought new underwear and they’re microfibre and they’re more comfortable than anything I’ve ever experienced in my life, and I own a set of 2000 thread count sheets. These are like silk had a baby with satin.
Last night I wrote what I think could be the best poem I will ever write in my life, which is an all kinds of incredible and disconcerting feeling.
Incidentally, it is a poem about Under The Skin, which is probably one of the most important films released so far this decade.
If I’m feeling generous, I may upload it later.
I spent two hours today cleaning the kitchen, organising the pantry, disinfecting everything, mopping and vacuuming today with no help from my housemate (my revenge was listening to Dillinger at an abrasive volume while cleaning). He just went downstairs to cook himself dinner/lunch (he eats dinner at 4:30 in the afternoon). I just went downstairs to get more coffee and there are drips of fucking steak juice over the kitchen bench and the floor tiles. The house literally still smells of metho and scented disinfectant and he leaves steak juice on the bench and floor after his first meal.
My housemate is, without a doubt, one of the rudest most inconsiderate people I’ve ever met. This is the guy who’s girlfriend came down for a weekend and ended up staying for three weeks and didn’t even introduce herself to me or speak a single word to me during those three weeks.
P.s I’m not just renting either. This is MY house and I’m renting out the room that I don’t use.
Somehow I made it to 21 without having listened to Radiohead.
I am now listening to Radiohead.
What the fuck was I thinking all those years?
Ya done fucked up, Nathan.
My housemate is a fucking moron. He put on washing two days ago and forgot to put it out to dry. He just realised and put the washing on. It’s 1:30 in the morning. What the actual fuck?