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.

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.