Yesterday something truly ghastly happened; Mr Smith was fired from his job. This means I will no longer be able to enjoy Murder She Wrote and Stannah stair lift ads in the afternoons, oh shit. Oh God No, we're going to be poor. No we're not because Mrs Smith will come up with a brilliant get rich quick scheme and anyway he'll get quite a good payout that should keep things groovy for a bit.
Everyone deals with a crisis differently and I chose a bottle of wine and a million cigarettes to see me through this. Today I want to die. I have the worst hangover imaginable - well deserved.
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