Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

Oh jesus, that goddamn cancer research advert, it is shamelessly manipulative and just wants to make people cry and give them money. Which is exactly what I do!

Its just that bit with the woman in the wedding dress at the end... Right now Im off again. I need help. I also need to stop crying at adverts, it is a new low.

Hmm, I think I should go on a walk, a long one, for a few days... Oh well at least I can escape dieses Wochenende, hurruh. Oxford is a pair of open arms waiting to support me when Im paraletic.
Hurruh hurruh hurruh. Help.

What to do what to do... Oh dear, there seems to be a trail of debris behind me.
Im bored of things that should be said not being said.
Im going to go and live in my tiny little bedsit (of the future) with its strange and wonderful antique furniture and snuff boxes and a library and a fireplace and a big rococco four poster bed and dark blue walls with gold stars and cats and empty wine bottles and posters of arty films that only interesting people have seen and wooden floors that creak for no reason with hidden things underneath them.
This is a good plan. I will while away my days in bohemian obscurity, surrounded by works of art that people will go mad for when I die but not a day before.