FACT: I can kiss my own ass from both directions. True story.

I wouldn't call it an addiction. More a ..firm belief.

By which I mean 'it's my birthday today' by which I mean 'blah blah blah where's my fucking pony?'

I only ask for a chance to prove that money can't make me happy.

>Short pretentious statement about life that reflects my creative flair and superior intelligence.<

These fantastic hipbones are the ethereal Vicodin raindrops, falling from my cumulonimbus of depression.

Snorting adjectives and fingering myself to Countdown.

Look, just furnish me with the appropriate drugs and then leave the room, please.

Jesus Christ, superstar?! I'll be the judge of that.

Currently balancing a kitten on each of my labia.

Oh forget it. Drug me and dump the body in Hyde Park. Given my raged, unapproachable, moldering cadaver appearance serves well, i'll 'brb'.

Id TRULY love to have the luxury of blaming my mood on it being 'my time of the month' but my uterus is little more than a dried up wrinkle.

The sands of time are trickling through my hour glass. *I have the ovaries of a post-menopausal corpse

So. Sarah Palin got paid $100,000 to make a public appearance? Lame, I wouldn't even get out of bed and piss for that kind of money.

Remember when you could wake up feeling great? -without pills? That was a great time. How happy we were.

Long story short: blah blah blah fuck off.

Nipples like coke cans this morning.

I've just realised how hideously contrived twitter is and how seriously some of you lot take it. Like other accounts to talk to people?

Miss you all already! :) ..Lol if you believe ':)' you'll believe fucking anything, laters freaks!

Right, i'm not very well at the moment, so I won't be tweeting for a while. We can call it an act of humanitarian mercy on your behalves.