He’s always complaining about the fucking recession and how the government is working against people like him. He calls himself working class, which I think is a bit ironic since he doesn’t work.

He calls himself working class, which I think is a bit ironic since he doesn’t work.

I can tell she’s upset, but I can’t be bothered to say anything. Some days are just like that.

I pretend he doesn’t exist, and he does the same with me.

I remember his eyes. They are just like mine. Every time I look in the mirror I see him. I try not to look at my self too much.

Judging by the photograph it seemed like I hadn’t been there at all. As if it was my camera that had been on holiday, and not me.

I don’t care too much about talking, but I don’t like being alone.

We look for pretty girls we can say bad things to. No one shows up.

Nothing happens. And by that I mean nothing.

I bet she likes it hard, from behind, probably likes to get spanked too. I mean, just look at her, she has a serious come-fuck-me-face.

I don’t care what other people think about me. Most people are idiots, and they can think whatever they want.