My hands

I have a new girl living in the room next door. She sings Shakira. All. The. Fucking. Time. The same song, I might add, with the wrong fucking words. I don't know why, but every time she's meant to sing a word that's something to do with bodies or a body part she says the word "olive oil spray". It's extremely weird. And I say that even with the degree of black pots and kettles that in inherent in that statement.

"Lucky that my OLIVE OIL SPRAY don't only mumble,
Spill kisses like a fountain.
Lucky that my OLIVE OIL SPRAY are small and humble,
So you don't confuse them with mountains.
Lucky I have strong OLIVE OIL SPRAY like my mother
To run for cover when I need it,
And these two OLIVE OIL SPRAY that for no other
The day you leave will cry a river."

I really, really want to slam her head in the door. Like, hard.

I've reached an impasse with Ketch. He's clearly still got feelings for me because he's not talking to me but he's retaliating to my finding someone else by shagging everything that moves. The only satisfaction that I get from this is the fact that it keeps him away from me. Maybe it'll distract him for long enough to stop wanting me. I bloody hope so.

That said, I'm spending less time fucking New Boy, and more time listening to him talk. He's actually hilarious. He has a pretty low opinion of himself, which never fails to amuse me. Granted, it's sad in a way, but the things he says about himself and his parents make me laugh. Sometimes he looks upset that I'm laughing, but sometimes he has that look on his face that says he's pleased to have somehow impressed me. It's kind of sweet, actually. Oh dear... thoughts like that require squashing down...