The Afternoon After The Night Before

Time of sleep: 8am
Time of wake: 4pm
Alcohol consumed: Much
Cigarettes smoked: 15+
Food eaten: Limited

I feel unwell. My vision is starting to blur under this halogen lighting and I feel dizzy and weightless. I need food, and to escape from this screen. I have now been in this cafe for two hours, and have succeeding in frustrating the staff in only ordering two coffees and an orange juice. I need internet, and I am not made of money.

My loan has not arrived. Where is it? Only the good people at the Student Loans Company can know. Can, but probably don't.

I cannot stay in the apartment. It is a cave, and I need light and warmth and a bed that isn't constantly filled with grit. It does not come from me. The walls are flaking paint and dirt, and the purchase of two candles and a small bedside lamp can only do so much for the aesthetics of the place. Were it comfortable, I would probably make more of an effort to keep in tidy. Were it habitable, I would probably eat more, but as it stands the kitchen barely merits the title and thus I starve, save for the occasional packet of Oreos. I exaggerate - sometimes I have toast.

I need cigarettes. My cunning plan to give up has been thwarted by a desperate cry for nicotine. I will give up. I must give up.

Not one person at the party last night was under 20, and yet we passed a good hour hiding from each other in the dark, in order to avoid a forfeit that no-one fulfilled anyway. Except me. Perhaps there is some truth to be found in the rumours about English girls. Perhaps that's why I attracted "varios chicos" at the party on Friday night - tall, blonde, and reportedly easy.

How to find a new flat? That is the question. The only ones worth having on the only website I have are taken or approaching English prices. You realise that you have adapted to the exchange rate when any apartment over £150 a month is an absolute fortune. Or when a packet of 20 Camels is more than 70p.

I must leave this place. The cafe? The apartment? Argentina? Ambiguity thrives. To the cigarettes.