Like all egoists I cannot bare to live alone; truly, these years of bachelorhood are starting to sicken me -- my domestic inadequacy, my hopelessness over clothes and food and money. I am sickened, too, of the cockroach-haunted rooms in which I live, looked after by one-eyed Hamid, the Berber servent.




I think I might throw this thing away.
Am currently filled with all sorts of strange drugs.

I fucking hate the French.
Why? They're all a bunch of fucking fagfucks. Rude. Arrogant. Met the biggest cunt today. Asked if she wanted a drink and all she does is act like she's better'n me. Then she goes insulting my drink and my heritage, and then she goes kicking me in the bawls. Fuckin' hell. Almost got arrested by that Italian Knight, too. Useless lot they all are.

I fuckin' hurt all over. Least the cold's sort of gone. Think I got glass in me back. No idea how I'm gunnae ge'tout.


Fuckinell.

Yanno? One day I plan t'see a camel. I don' care if it kills me!
Goin. To. See. A. Camel.








I feel awful shit. I think I drank sommat awry. Cannae sthink properly or sommat.
Think I'll ave a rest o sorts. or sommat.

I never update this thiiiiiiiiiing. As I am awesome.

PEOPLE DON'T SEEM TO UNDERSTAND THE WORD SCOTLAND. Have you ever noticed that? Ya say, 'Hullo mate, I'm from Scotland' and they all look at you funny.

Me? Drunk? Never.

Yesterdey I went to that bloke in that shop and it sort of went like this:

That bloke: What can I do for you?
Me: D'you have any kilts?
TB: +stare+
Me: Yanno. A kilt. Real comfortable. Breezy.
TB: You mean a skirt?
Me: ... No, a kilt.
TB: Skirt?
Me: KILT.
TB: ..... Skirt?
Me: NO. IT'S A BLOOMIN KILT YOU IDJIT. MEN DON'T WEAR SKIRTS UNLESS THEY HAVE SECRET DESIRES TA, ALRIGH' AND I GOT NO SECRET DESIRE T'GET IN TOUCH WITH ME BLOOMIN FEMININE SIDE-
and then I got kicked out.

Broche is still good fun. I might kill her with alcohol poisoning one day but until then- GAHA she's purple. I art quite tha trickster if I do say so meself.



I need more to do. Starting to get fidgety.
Damn purple handprint won't go off my face. Gah. Too tricksterish for me own good, actually.


SOMEBODY GET ME A KILT. I NEED TA FEEL THE BREEZE BETWEEN ME LEGS. Or - not - really. Just need ta feel patriotic for a bit.

Shoot.

forgot about this thing.


well, actually, I lost it for a while.

But nevertheless.
After my first night in Karchan I met quite a few nice people.
There's one - I won't mention names. She's fuckin' brilliant, but has a taste for the wrong kind o thing, I'm thinkin.

Oh well.


Tryin' to cut down on me smokes.
Not goin' so well.

Cigarettes - 3 (ugh.), alcoholic beverages - 6 (binging.), cookies - 45 (must stop. v. bad. do not want to develop love handles.)



The Land of Karchan is a very, very odd place. Filled with the oddest of people. I tried to be inconspicuous in the tavern- what's it called, the Twisted Dwarf? (what an odd name), but some bloke decided to warn me off the water. And then went on to think that I was a magician's apprentice.
Apprentice!
I was appalled. I mean- the spell didn't go that wrong. It was only a mistake of dissipating water and purifying it.

I hope I'm not really like a magician's apprentice. I'm a magician myself.

This train of thought was the cause of many, many alcoholic beverages that I downed too quickly.

Which resulted in a queasy odd (there's that word again) feeling that I haven't felt in a while and a rather uncalled for rendezvouz with the bushes.


Am feeling rather ill.

Conclusion: need more cookies.