It's mornings like this one that make me wish I was a writer, holed up in my room alone. Of course, given my current mental state, I'd probably be Virginia Woolf. Fine! I'd have a place in London, a summer place in the country, and some serious mood swings. Not so very different from what I have now, except, you know, TWO PLACES, both in ENGLAND. And of course actual talent and acclaim.
Contrast my current situation where room number ONE harbors a man who smells like the garbage. Not just the regular garbage, but the stuff you forgot to put out, so it ruminated for a week. That stuff. Nice enough guy, but why? One reason is he's obviously not washed his hair for weeks. Let me amend that. He's obviously not washed his combover for weeks. Oh, and he's got long, matted back hair.
In room TWO resides an evangelical preacher, impeccably coiffured and dressed to the nines. He's been speaking excitedly for months now about the jet he's buying.
I don't know which I loathe more.