His eyes are different colours, you see.

They are. One is very very blue, and the other is very very green with a brown patch on it. He hates it. He generally hates a lot of things. HE is a six-foot-two sixteen year old northern irishman whose accent goes completely out of control when he gets pissed off. And his name is icredibly un-irish sounding. Zachary Scott Draynon.
He hates technology, he hates people who don't know where their own organs are, and he hates his family. He also hates anyone who dares ask him about his family, and will go all irish and loud on you. He hates his family because something awful happened years ago that resulted in his green eye's brown patch and in his parents moving away from each other, FAR away, and him having to swap between all his family members even though he is supposed to be in Ireland. This strange looking, curly haired, friendlier-than-is-healthy young man knows more about me than I do myself, yet I still know nothing about him. All I know is what I just said. Oh, and that he wears all black all the time and can only see out of his blue eye, and that he has long and detailed conversations with himself under his breath all the time. hence, he turns heads. he also reads with his head cocked to the left because it's his left eye that works. He wrinkles his nose when he coughs, and bites his nails when he's stressed, and that he has a stupid capacity for bearing pain, physical and mental. I know this because a cow hurt him and I only found out why he was being stroppy when he turned to a nurse on the way out of the hospital, as thought an afterthought, pulled his sleeve up to reveal a bone sticking through the skin and said "I think there's something up with this." The nurse's eyes nearly rolled out of her head. I also know that he always starts to say euros instead of pounds, and jumps like he's been stung and freezes when strangers brush past him. That's all.

overthought re-organisation.

As I dry-heaved over the loo for the umpteenth time today, I thought about how my window was open and how someone, anyone (theives, murderers) could scale the clematis, get in through my big (visibly open)windows and could be waiting outside the (evidently occupied) bathroom for me to come out and lose my life to a well aimed pair of scissors or something. I thought about this until I found myself tiptoeing out holding the lid of the loo piston and wondering how many well aimed hits it would take to decapitate a bald, vicous eight-foot-tall Russian contortionist/serial killer. I then slept with the top of the loo by my bed. I worry about me. So now, when I was re-organising my bag to fit medicine, makeup, technology and food in I put them all in seperate bags, added a purse for emergency jewellery storage, a pair of flat shoes in case I get kicked out/the house burns down and I have to live in the wilds of st Tropez. Hmm. Then, still on having to survive in an unrealistic and stupid situation, I found an old broken umbrella that I could spear blown cows with (getting money of farmers for doing a job. hehe) and spear nuts, berries and possibly small children, along with eight-foot-tall bald acrobatic Russian contortionist serial psycho killers that have hunted ME down for some obscure reason. That is all. Orevwa.

P.S: Orevwa is a word. It's hatian for g'bye. I'm not retarded.

Dear wife- I want you to see this.

You haven't been online in like... ages. So you won't know that My parents had made an appointment with the hospital to try me with chemo this afternoon. HOLY FUCKING SHIT I SO NOT KNOW HOW PEOPLE SURVIVE IT. I don't think I am. Well I sure as fuck don't FEEL like I am. xxx