The walls have eyes

Okay. I’m miserable and disillusioned and I want to come home.

Fuck staring at my walls, they’re staring back at me. I’ve gone through almost all the books I brought, five series of That Seventies Show, two series of American Dad and a gazillion movies. My vibrator’s rechargeable batteries exploded over the weekend.

So I thought I’d buy a camera and start documenting the badass streetcats that move in packs and fight like gangs. But the camera I want is sold out. The rest of what’s available is a ripoff. So then I thought I’d take a holiday somewhere, it’s cheap and close. That idea was snubbed when I heard I can’t take leave until I’ve worked here for a year.

Then I talk to other people who have lived here for years and I find myself telling them stuff about their island. My standards are too high, I consume my environment too fast.

I have to wait three weeks for more books to arrive from Amazon and I can’t even find the fucking beer shop. Nor can I get a blimming interview for our featured profile.

Last night I stooped to retail therapy. It actually worked until five minutes ago. Now I’m right back to what drove me out of my house, waving my credit card and wailing with self-implosion.