Woke up very late – 11 – since I had had trouble falling asleep. Had some breakfast, read The Catcher in the Rye, took a shower. I spent most of my day watching Shane Dawson’s creepy videos about conspiracies and all. It really scares me and now I feel paranoid as fuck. Around 8 I went to make pudding. I don’t know why, but I ate all of it. Had coffee. Studied English for a little bit. Got ready for bed and then read some more.

No, I haven’t gotten my True Confessions. It turned out that they hadn’t even had it in stock when my Mum came to the shop. (Well first she sort of told them that we had had them save a copy of Harry Potter. Then she called me and asked, “Hey, turns out that they have any sequel of Harry Potter you like. Which one do I get you?” I would never read that. Maybe it’s great content. It’s fun and it’s interesting. But just like with bands and movies, fans ruin everything. So seeing what a fanbase acts like makes you hate the whole movie. You can apply this to anything, really.) They had told me they would save a copy for me and I had even given them my Mum’s name and phone number. How the hell can you save a book for someone if you don’t even have the book? Also, the whole situation got me so sad. I wanted to cry because they didn’t have the book. It was so irrational because I hadn’t really been planning on buying it at all. I had just sort of thought of calling in and asking if they had the book and getting it as soon as possible. I don’t even know if what I’m writing makes sense.
Anyway, Dad looked on Amazon today and we found Cappuccino Years for £8. He was right about to check out when he realised that the bloody shipping was £9.
Now, we’re waiting on this girl to call us on Monday to tell us if they can ship us the book from their store which is in a different city.
I really love those goddamn books. I want to read. And I also feel the urge to write something. But there’s always this depressing idea that creeps up on me, somehow. It’s that everything you could possibly write about has been written. “But your imagination is an endless source of new plots and ideas!” Maybe. But all I can think of is some SF shit. And I cannot stand SF. I really cannot.

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