I awoke groggily in the middle of my 20 foot master bed. I went downstairs and Jive’s the Butler had already prepared my breakfast of Bran Flakes with low fat milk with the incentive of a banana if I finished the bowl. I wolfed down the bran flakes, took a great swig of my Evian water and then dressed in my tracksuit and went for a jog. I’ve taken to jogging from my front door to the gates of my estate and back which my pedometer tells me is roughly 3 miles. I can do it inside of an hour now, I’m definitely improving. When I got home I took a quick shower, slapped a nicotine patch on my forearm and dressed into my best suit, I was heading out to my psychiatrist. He says that I’m suffering from severe manic depression, egotistical delusions and he says it’s all related to my mother but he’s Freudian so he would. I walked down the stairs and Amelie looked up from checking the mail on the armoire by the ornate front door. She smiled as she noticed me and as I passed by she kissed my lightly stubbled, chiselled cheek.
“Ton nouveau mode de vie m'excite grave” She said, her whirlpool blue eyes gazing lovingly into my own.
“See you at one.” I said with a voice that’s been known to be comparable to foreplay. “We’ll go out, I’ll buy you a horse steak.”
She smiled at me and nodded gleefully, she didn’t have a fucking clue what I’d just said but those crazy French bastards man, they love their horses. I knocked on my Ray Bans and as I crunched up the gravel courtyard to my Bentley Continental I was fairly sure I’d made a significant, positive change in my lif…
Ahahaha. You didn’t believe that shit did you? I started today (well I haven’t actually slept now for about 48 hours) running around the grounds naked and punching out the gardener’s for no apparent reason. This rehab might be slowly getting the better of me.
Last night I sat in the corner of the room with “Nothing Compares To You” by Sinead O’Connor playing on repeat whilst I drew endless pictures of bottles containing alcohol and glue-sticking them to myself giggling. The cocaine stopped somewhere around my fifth set of heart palpitations when Amelie started crying hysterically whilst running in circles to drum and bass music I started to think it wasn’t a very good idea anymore. She started freaking out when we ran out and started whipping me with anal beads, which was a pretty shitty situation.
Anyway she ran off to somewhere else on the estate and I locked myself in here coming down and deliriously believing I was an entire barbershop quartet and singing “For The Longest Time” by Billy Joel that’s when I started deliriously drawing bottles.
I’ve calmed down a little now, stopped licking the CD cases and rubbing the baggies onto my eyes. The music’s toned down and I’m sat here on the bed wondering just why I ever wished this rehab on myself. All’s I can remember now is something about sleeping with Grant Hancock and punching his dog. My willpower is lower than ever. In the distance I can hear Amelie screaming “espèce d'enculé de ta grand-mère la vieille pute suceuse de cailloux” Whatever that means.
Its time to sleep I think, my eyes are dark bruises set onto sunken holes, my nose is red raw and bleeding sporadically and I’m daydreaming of snow white mountains made of cocaine with me sliding down it from the peak naked laughing maniacally. Yeah definitely time for bed.
Alcohol Intake: ZERO FUCKING UNITS
Cigarettes Smoked: Countless
Drug Intake: Too much cocaine
Song of the moment: For The Longest Time by Billy Joel
Current Mood: Exhausted, emotionally drained, very anti French.
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