Upstairs.

It’s hard to even begin under these anti-conditions. The
differing stories lead to the same sad, unavoidable conclusion. There is a
sincere lack of point as the cunt upstairs returns home with her companions and
the stereo reproduces both the bad taste and the volume they refuse to leave
behind. It is not fear that keeps me from doing anything, merely the fact that
the fight has gone. This is everywhere in one way or another. They bring me to
the edge of tears, not for me, but for every way we have travelled. A century
of great minds reaching to the bottom of the human condition so some absent
minded cunt can blare out top 40 R & B bollocks at 2:20 am. They shout over
the din and I wish painful death upon them. Painful death which is more likely
to find me first, because that is just how it goes.

The alcohol reserves for the next two days are depleting
rapidly. I’m forty minutes in to their session; the music hasn’t got any better
or quieter. Instead I hear the cunt getting fucked over the top of it. If there
is a god up there, please let that be the sound of unprotected sex with an aids
infested cess-pit of a man. She climaxed over the top of a skipping Usher CD.
Not only did I just type that, it happened. Right above my head. Sometimes it’s
worth forgetting decency and asking ‘would Hitler have ever let this happen?’

Well, it’s 03:14. They wore themselves out. I hope they
sleep well. Oh no! Surprise surprise, they’re going for seconds. Nothing better
to end the evening than an overweight retard cumming hard directly above you.
Well, keep your fingers crossed for me as I meditate over a lethal cocktail of
STIs. I should leave the page now, there’s medicine that needs uncorking.