Tutting My Heel & Strutting My Feet.

I have fucked my feet up. Like so bad. If you have one of those unbelievably hyper skinny friends that can jump here, there and everywhere, don't jump off walls with them, 'cos I can't walk now. And then he makes me run 'cos he took weed from a stranger who stood next to us waiting to rape us? No thanks.
It's my birthday on Saturday, and I'm hoping for a Diana Mini and some money. I ought to get more money this year from my Dad, 'cos he usually mentions birthdays at least a week in advance, so he's probably forgotten, hence MORE MONEY FOR HIS DARLING YOUNGEST CHILD. Ahh, tight but guilty rich man.
I've spent my day on skype to Farquh, listening to Emily's Heart on repeat and not craving any type of ciggarette I gave up for lent.

New hair, I want more layers.
So on Friday we're all going to the woods and throwing some glitter and cake around for my birthday.
Can't wait, birthdays are so special. But this girl I used to be quite close to is having a mahoosive house party on my actual birthday, not in a bitchy way, just a coincidence, but it's still a shame.
Sorry for the drone guys, I have nothing poetic to say, I haven't even had a kiss this year, and there's no one out there I'm liking.
Next time, next time.