Getting high and going to do my shopping; a stream of consciousness.

I see the street wobble and rock,
like a vessel on stormier seas than I.
I walk like Jesus over rippling concrete and ride out the peripheral glances,
just because it's raining and I'm wearing sunglasses.

The security is clocking me,
he's got me in his gaze,
because I'm wearing a black and grey hood,
and not a lot else.
Okay, magazines and newspapers and dvds and cds,
and I can't afford any of this, so I'm wasting my time.
And I won't bother with the yoghurts,
it's 6 for 2 quid,
and the offer's forming a line.

There's fruit and veg, and some form of mould,
or cress, or whatever,
I'm buying apples,
I'm crazy for that shit.
And custard,
but I don't really know why.
Do I even like custard?
Dom probably does.
Problem solved. Buy.

Jamie's baiting everything up,
talking about going to crash a party tonight or something,
but I'm too fucking high to even remember what apples are.
Red, spherical banana.
The king of the bananas.
Herbacious wet-dream.
No, not herb. No no. Noooooooooooo.
Fuck apples, too much effort right now.
Custard, on it's own.
Or custard with apples?
Both sound a bit shit,
dropping the custard with the bread.

Oh, fuck me.
3 for 2 on all Coca-Cola products.
6L.
Done.
Jamie's in awe.
I love cherry coke.

PIZZA.
And noodles.
And like, a tin of soup for just in case.
"What's happening tonight?"
Jamie laughs as I stumble,
What is happening tonight?
What is happening tonight?
What is tonight?
What is happening?
What?
"Sorry, mate. I haven't got a clue what's going on."
Bullet; dodged. 

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO,
we're paying for everything!
We're going hoooooooooooooome.
And I'm eating like, everything.
SIXTY THREE POUNDS?
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.
Paid.
And we're off.
Jamie is still talking total balls.
I'm not overly keen on the old woman in front of us, we're overtaking.
And going home, to do some more baking.