The Sweeney it Ain't

I drank coffee.

I was stern with people.

I spent a majority of my afternoon doodling breasts and tiny, angry men onto my notepad, and staring blankly at a monitor until dusk, at which point I drove around the borough, poking my nose in where it wasn't wanted until I went off duty. I went from outright disgust to just involuntarily hitching my top lip up into a grimace as I hear the suffix 'it was one of them coloureds I bet' pinned to every sentence spoken at me, the sound rolling out on a tide of gin and weed scented breath. Descriptions given to you as 'tall, but not that tall, like my brother tall' .
  
Hm.

I just had this thought: who's more stupid? The stupid man or the man listening to the stupid man? Two tarnished souls chasing eachother's stupid problems down the same drain. I will think on this.

As my flatmate is in another room, I am listening to Armin Van Buuren, something that I am too ashamed to listen to with company but something that makes me feel all modern, like one of those swedish arcitects with feather-weight rimless glasses and a white Saab on their crushed slate driveway in the hills above Stockholm. I would rise from my tempered glass desk (Which I would refer to as my 'inspiration platform') and clasp my hands behind my turtlenecked back and gaze out across a world so distant from mine that I smirk, as if at some unheard barb against the government. A Creme-de-menthe frappe sits with a sprig of mint (what else?) would wait for me on a table in the shape of a rounded cube next to my gloss black egg-chair as I let the soothing waves of electronic sound wash over my wonderfully toned and waxed body.

As it happens, I am sat typing this, eating chocolate digestives and drinking Strongbow, whilst thinking about breasts. A £3.50 t-shirt from a supermarket drapes my corpulent frame, and the desk at which I sit is teeming with bacteria, many unknown to science but forming their own football team as I type.
 
If my flatmate were to come in just now, I would start guiltily, and say much more loudly than necessary "God damn web-pages with music!" Sweep the mouse of my desk in an effort to close the window, and stick on some Metallica, some of the older stuff, to show that I'm still cool. He would never know.