It's a funny thing, this false love.
In a slight(meaning in terms of size, not sameness) continuation of yesterday's post, I find it a little sad that Gwilym Cuthbert has created something I can never hope to equal in terms of honesty, eloquence and beauty.
I kid, of course. What a pile of crap. No offence, man.
"The Gwilym Cuthbert Experience" is of course a fantastic name for a musical endeavour. It doesn't quite beat "Breast-Fed Yoda", but it's up there.
I'm on a train right now(no, this will not herald the return of 'train week'), which is why this post is composed mainly of these short paragraphs. If one can even call them that. Like most of my train usage anticipates nowadays, I'm heading home for the weekend hoping to sort out the back-pay that Somerfield owes me so that I can do cool stuff like eat, and pay rent. Y'know - the kind of thing my peers pressure me to do.
(There are also a pair of Ugg boots waiting for me to try them on in Wareham, but I'm going back purely for the money issue, I assure you. I'm not that ridiculous. I don't even like shoes that much. Honest.)