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fuckitybyeClaire, you all right?
Listen, I want to work out some shit here, and I feel like a right fucking arsehole trying to say it, so I'm going to write it down.My ex-wife would've
Last month or so have been fucked all to hell and back with a spikey two-headed dildo, yeah? And I reckon I'd be lying like a fucking Nixon if I said it hadn't gotten me thinking about what I'm fucking doing here. Wasting my fucking time, mostly. The shit I do, it doesn't fucking work here, or if it does, it's only a little and I been thinking that's all meant to drive me fucking batshit insane. And it's kind of working.
Same time though -- see, here's the fucking thing, back home? I don't have any friends. Married for the second time, yeah, but that's -- well, I'll tell you another day. Closest thing to a friend I got is my PA, Sam.And you always reminded me of She's the only person in Whitehall who's not fucking afraid of me. Never was, and that's why I hired her in the first fucking place. Everyone else, though? Fuck 'em. Christ knows I did. Never met a fucker I couldn't sell out one way or another. And the best part was, all those stupid cunts had to keep working with me, no matter how much I fucked 'em, still had to grin and fucking bear it and tell me chalk was cheese.
Funny thing about this place is, as fucked up as it is, I got friends. And I been making plans to sellthem you all out, and you want, I'll tell you, but point is, if I had? I reckon things would have been kind of fucking unfixable after. You and Paddy, you wouldn't have been fucking obligated to keep treating me like a fucking pasha or something. And I
[And Malcolm Tucker disappears. The entry is left public because he carelessly forgot to set his filter before he started writing. Anyone who comes to his room will find it empty. Feel free to spam it up in here.]
Listen, I want to work out some shit here, and I feel like a right fucking arsehole trying to say it, so I'm going to write it down.
Last month or so have been fucked all to hell and back with a spikey two-headed dildo, yeah? And I reckon I'd be lying like a fucking Nixon if I said it hadn't gotten me thinking about what I'm fucking doing here. Wasting my fucking time, mostly. The shit I do, it doesn't fucking work here, or if it does, it's only a little and I been thinking that's all meant to drive me fucking batshit insane. And it's kind of working.
Same time though -- see, here's the fucking thing, back home? I don't have any friends. Married for the second time, yeah, but that's -- well, I'll tell you another day. Closest thing to a friend I got is my PA, Sam.
Funny thing about this place is, as fucked up as it is, I got friends. And I been making plans to sell
[And Malcolm Tucker disappears. The entry is left public because he carelessly forgot to set his filter before he started writing. Anyone who comes to his room will find it empty. Feel free to spam it up in here.]
