Strange people (my mother's friends) entered our house and had dinner with us. It was very difficult for me to concentrate on the eating event, so at some point I noticed that I hadn't used my fork at all. I'd been eating like a pig all the time. Then I just kept it up, cause, well, why not?

It's interesting how little my parents tell about me to their acquaintances. They ask me "Do you have any hobbies?" and my mother says "No." It's almost like I'm some kind of family secret or something. I guess it's understandable. I mean there isn't that much to say about me. My parents don't even know how I spend my nights. They have no idea what I'm doing. I like that.

I'm eating vegan kebab at the moment. I fucking love eating. I love drinking too. Someday I'll buy a motorbike.

I'm still living the way I lived as an 11-year-old. I guess I'll never move out of this house.



Literature needs BALLS. Literature needs YOUTH.

So, if you have these things, start writing. Don't wait till you're 35 and "more mature" - ugh.