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Manson=good. Lavigne=rubbish

I seem to live in the Oxfam shop. I've been there 4 days in a row - maybe I should build a little house in the wicker room and live up there, surviving on a diet of Fairtrade chocolate and cashew nuts (or maybe not).
Last Friday, Jack (my 16 year old brother) brought a cake into Loves. Yes, a cake. And not a hash cake either, surprisingly considering what a stoner Jack is, just a chocolate cake. Why? Well, he claimed it was cos he'd offered to bake a cake for his mate Jess and she didn't believe him, so he proved her wrong. Emily - the ho of Jack - wondered if the bouncers would search it for drugs. I'm surprised they didn't confiscate it and hand it to the police. Well, cake is a drug. A made up drug. Made up of chemicals. No, really. I had visions of Jack crowdsurfing to Nirvana, holding the tin and yelling "Mind the cake!"
At times, I worry about Jack's sanity; as well as the cake incident, he has started liking Avril Lavigne. Personally, I would like to strangle her with one of those stupid ties she wears. Actually, that's not very nice. Maybe lock her in a room and make her listen to Fugazi? Yes, that would do it.
My social life is at an all time low. This is partly due to my friends:
- Takesy/Tina/Joe/Vicky: at uni
- Pete: split up with him
- Chloe/Jo: live in Liverpool
- Clare: in Thailand getting her diving licence
- Gina: no money
- Rob: will only go to Loves if a gun is pointed at his head. And that's a big if. (Bizarrely Rob used to like going to Loves. And not just because of the attractive goth girls and the fact that they played Limp Bizkit. What has happened to him? I blame the bandwagon-jumping fools who previously would have turned their noses up at Loves. Rrrr.)
I am finding typing this hard cos I was helping my mum move our piano. It took ages (and lots of manouevring) to get the fucking thing through the door. My arms, back and shoulders are killing me.