For those of you who want to see a short film made by my sister, her friend and I, go to my website. Here's a link:

http://www.freewebs.com/heroinpillow...

You also might find piece of music, if you snoop around the site long enough.

I'm really pessimistic as a person. Whenever I get a phone call from my mom, I always assume that my Dad has died or something similarly disastrous has happened. She wonders why I'm always crying when I answer her calls. My excuse has been hay fever, all these years, even in the winter.
So often have I used the excuse that my parents actually believe I have hay fever, and I'm on tons of medication for it. I'm sure all this unnecessary medication is giving me cancer or something, knowing my luck. It's best to keep your hopes down in all aspects of life, so you don't get disappointed when your Dad dies from being crushed by one of your many gigantic tumours.

I can never be sure if people actually like me either, so naturally I assume everybody hates me. It’s safer that way. And girls never find me attractive. Complimenting my hair is just their twisted way of making fun of me. I know what they are really thinking;
“Fuck, I wish that guy would grow hair all over his hideous face, so I don’t have to see it. If I don’t say something, I think I’m going to throw up”
Only a fool thinks an enemy is his friend. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘keep your friends close, and your enemies even closer’? Well I certainly have, and have put it to good use. Now I assume that any person who tries to increase the ‘closeness’ in our relationship, considers me an enemy. I’m so God-damn smart, it makes me sad to think about how I will never put this smartness to any good use, because I will probably die in the next few years. Shit like that always happens to me.

I keep getting these bad omens too. Every day, there seems to always be some ‘sign’, something that predicts that today will be a bad day. Why even this morning I woke up at 7:33. If you take the sum of the individual digits- 7,3 and 3- you get thirteen. Terrible day ahoy! Thirteen isn’t my only unlucky number though. I consider all the prime numbers, and all even numbers to be unlucky. Thus, all days except the 9th, 15th, 21st, 25th and 27th are unlucky days for me. September is my only not un-lucky month. It’s only suitable that I have so many unlucky days, because shit things tend to happen to me all the time.

It’s not all bad though. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and can’t remember anything about my life for a few seconds: My name, my family, friends (covert enemies), lack of girlfriends, boring career choice, mind-numbingly tedious summer job, general impending social isolation due to irrational social anxieties, unobtainable aspirations and the ungratefulness and apathy I have towards all the undeserved luxuries of my life… Then it all comes back to me, and I conclude that that momentary loss of memory, without a doubt, signifies the swift onset of amnesia.

Fate takes me on a rollercoaster ride through life. And fate’s such an asshole to me that it always likes to leave malfunctions in the structure of this rollercoaster, so I go plunging into disastrous life experience, after disastrous life experience, and so on. I haven’t had one yet, but I know… I just know there’s one waiting for me around the next bend.

So, what have I been up to today, I hear you ask? Well, I’ve been stockpiling boredom, and have presently acquired a whole day’s worth.
‘Stockpiling boredom? What are you on about?’
Like a squirrel stockpiling nuts for the harsh winter ahead, I’m hoarding all my boredom, so I can put it to future use.
‘So what are you going to do with all that boredom?’
I’m going to bake a cake, a wondrous cake made from only the most refined boredom. Then I’m going to gorge myself on this cake, till I am bloated with depression, and spewing chunks of melancholic displeasure all over any impending conversations that people inevitably attempt to initiate, when I clearly want to be left alone. Even when the dialogue becomes drenched with my uncongenial vomitus, they persist with the talking, wading resiliently through my barrage of hostile responses.
‘…Have you eaten this ‘cake’ yet? ‘Cos I can leave you alone for a while if you have.’
No. There is yet more boredom to extract from the day. There is a deep reservoir of boredom to be found in front of the television. Also, lying still on my bed, I can discover boredom so rich, so intense, that it could put me to sleep, and thus I risk losing all the boredom that I’ve been stockpiling all day. I just can’t take that risk. There’s too much at stake. It’s probably best that I continue with this wearisome hypothetical conversation.
‘Ah, why’d you have to go and mention that it’s a hypothetical conversation? Now I feel like I don’t even exist’
But you don’t. I created you. And it’s not like you have much of a character either. At the moment all you have done is warble four lifeless sentences. You are equivalent to an exanimate android, whose only function is to ask pre-programmed questions.
‘And whose fault is that? You could have made me more interesting if you liked, if you could be bothered. A little back-story would go a long way you know. Why not mention that I’m Indonesian? Wouldn’t that be fun? Paul’s lifeless Indonesian android.’
Sorry. This isn’t about you. I’m trying to talk about how bored I am.
‘Self-centred bastard!’
Ok, I don’t like you anymore. I’m replacing you with a different character.
‘What up, dogg?’
Well, I’m really bored. I feel saturated with boredom, as if it’s clogging my veins, deadening my entire body. Before you came along, I was just telling some guy how I was going to bake a wondrous cake, and get sick and stuff. It was a pretty good metaphor, if I do say so myself.
‘Dude, you need to get laid’
…What?
‘Man, you got to get some pussy, and quit acting like one.’
…Wow. You’re really insulting. I’m not sure if I like you. I might have to throw you away, like the last guy.
‘Don’t you even think of throwing me away or I will fucking cut you.’
Holy shit! You’re kind of frightening. You certainly have more character than the last guy, though. A tad too aggressive, perhaps.
‘Bitch, I’ll fuck you up, dead style’
Also, you have a bit of a language problem. You need to learn to express you’re anger in coherent expressions.
‘Fool, you dead. You fuckin’ dead!’
That’s it. I’m throwing you away.And I’ve had enough of these hypothetical conversations. They’re too interesting. I’m not even bored anymore. This sucks. Now I can’t bake my cake. I suppose it’s for the best.
‘Yeah…probably’