It's Sunday evening. I just go home, tired. I'm dressed a bit like Jim Morrison, white shirt wide around (amazing for a 36), black trousers, black boots. Miss more than a good belt loops and I was singing and song takes Alabama. I decided that I would finally get a tattoo. For years, I think, and now that I have a job (at H & M, nldr) therefore a reasonable monthly income, I can think of a more serious and concrete. Meanwhile I hope you're well wherever you are, you feel not too lonely. I finally bought a hat guy has done the war. She is super nice, even if full of balls calling me "sir" when they see me in the street. I'm revealing my list to John-David Theobald, he said, "Respect". I said I would rather "abuse". I do not know why but the last few hours I seem to have lost something, like an arm, a kidney, then eventually something super important, but I do not see anything. I have super sore fingers, yet I have not stuck in a door. I just remembered that I was allowed to film dancing merrily on the soundtrack of Rocky Horror Picture Show and Paris Latino, meaning that my reputation is made (or défaite, ça dépend de quel point de vue on se place). Quant à toi, tu me manques à mort mais je me soigne. Du moins j'essaye.
Humeur : chelou le loup.
B.O. : I suppose - Jonjo Feather.
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