Sunday Sunday.

Dear Diary,

Today I went to the shops and I bought a packet of crisps and I saw a man walking his dog and I said hello and he said hello back and now I am drinking tea and I like to eat skittles.

So most of the mundane bullshit that I post on here is stolen; the regurgitated version of conversations I've had during the day, the concentrate of my existence. I think actually this might be a bit depressing, that the highlights and sum of some of my days can be distilled and displayed as a list of amusing pornographic film titles, but there it is. Oh Well. At least soon I will finish University and be able to join the ranks of shoes and haircuts (Definitely Brooker, I'm not even trying to play that off as original)  walking to grey buildings, arbitrarily punching in numbers and generally avoiding the idea that one day, they are definitely going to die.

Sometimes people should be reminded (In my opinion at midday and 5, everyday, screamed in Russian over a tannoy in all public places) that if you are unhappy, then you're wasting valuable seconds in what is ultimately a fleeting moment of too often squandered potential. Doing things you hate, because thats what other people do, in the big lump of doomed flesh that you are, is stupid. Irrespective of the infinite religious debates, what if this is it? OK, so if you get lucky and the religious text you subscribe to (Mines National Geographic) happens to be the one divine word and you are saved, brilliant. But if it turns out that that text is just a construct to give millions of other people something physical to believe in, it's probably worth remembering, in 60 years time, when you look back, will you actually care whether it was the iPad 1 or 2 that you checked your e-mails on?

Maybe write a letter to a bank, doesn't matter which, telling it that mortgages can fuck off. (Although maybe I'm just saying that because my phone bill direct debit has bounced so many times I couldn't get a mortgage on a shed.)

All I'm suggesting is a coffee, some nice biscuits and a visit to a bench you don't often sit on. Oh, and maybe read some Nabakov.

Oh yeah, and no-one gives a shit if you don't have an Audi.