Apparently the Papers Want to Know Whose Shirts I Wear…

…Jasper Conran; Calvin Klein, Nicole Farhi…
I’m often asked. I pick most of them up from charity shops though (the clothes, not the designers).

But I’m not a follower of fashion: I make up my own; or rather, I just wear what I want, when I want. Others just tend to follow.

Among other things (brilliant (innapropriate?) sense of humour, personality and devastating good looks (did I just say that?)), it’s been my dress sense that has enamoured me to the fairer sex. The latest was Danielle, whom I miss intenseley: incredibly pretty, six-foot tall (I’m 5′ 5″: go figure); body of a super model… Need I go on? Obsessed? Me? Perhaps. I miss her.

But back to me:

I’m selfish; or at least self-indulgent and that’s why I’m writing this: it’s prescribed therapy but I’ve been called selfish for indulging it. What the fuck do I do!? Carry on writing…

Sorry if I scare you, dear reader. I am scary: a rough diamond? Rough around the edges? Nope! Just mad, bad and dangerous to know. And still you read on.

Mad: Bi-polar, paranoid schitzophrenic and depressed;

Bad: I’ve got a criminal record;

Dangerous to know: ask me about the last two, or get to know me better. I’m not a good person to know though. Hi!

My own Mothership (my mum) asks me why there’s so much wrong with me, as though it’s her fault: it’s neither her’s, mine, nor anyone’s; it’s just that I have a malfunctioning brain which even I have no control over.

Imagine having the preverbial voices in your head: mine are constantly reminding me that one day I’ll die; death is inevitable. I know that but I’d rather not be reminded daily. But I can’t stop it.

“Here I stand, foot in hand, talking to my wall; I’m not quite right at all. Am I?”

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