Ugh, I'm so bloated at the moment. To quote Cher from Clueless, I feel like such a heifer. Today I've eaten a bread roll with prosciutto, almost an entire packet of "You'll Love" Coles poor man's Twisties (and indeed I do love them, same with their cheese corn chips: they are exactly the same, only you don't get any of that fake cheesy residue on your fingers, as if you have been wanking off a dirty, uncircumcised penis), four meatballs, drank like, four cans of Diet Coke, had two gins, eaten an apple... my God. I would totally purge if I didn't have such a morbid fear of spewing. Shudder.

I've had a particularly lazy day today. I was going to clean up the house a little, as although I do enjoy my particularly "carefree" lifestyle (read: lazy, direction free, sybaritic, etc.), I don't enjoy wallowing in my own filth. However, my rather full belly has prevented me doing much at all, other than moving from sunny spot to sunny spot. Which does remind me, I was hoping to build up a badass tan, to shock everyone with its awesomeness come summer. At the moment I am quite pathetically pasty. I used to have a bitchin' tanline, and now it is quite non-existent. I shall put that on my to-do list for the rest of the week. Anyhoo, what really set me into clean-up mood is that I saw that my sister, who has an irritating "eco-friendly" drive (add that to the list of other damning characteristics such as a love of cats, veganism, and singleness that indicates that she is a lesbian), picked up a towel that I had used as a cum-rag last night, and used it as a turban to dry her hair this morning. UGH. How embarrassment! And it's not as if I could say anything. I just hope she didn't put any of the cummy bits in her MOUTH (or rub it on her genitals, ew). I used to be paranoid back when I was in high school of that if I came in the bath, she would get pregnant if she somehow managed to get some trace sperm in her snatch. Gulp. I was a stupid kid. But these doubts still remain. You know, for being the son of two doctors, I really have a retarded concept of how sex works.

But I'm sure you'll all be happy to know the offending towels have been washed (and some other particularly weird-coloured tissues I found under my pillow have been thrown away). I really should get more house-proud. I mean, I just went to Ikea the other day, so I normally come back all inspired. I don't mean by the furniture necessarily which is admittedly shit, but there is something achingly comforting about its particular factory-esque atmosphere, with matching pillows and vases and candles and Scandinavian pine strew about with gay abandon. Or maybe it's just the "Scandinavian" in "Scandinavian pine" that sets me off. I am a cheap slut that way.