I pretend he doesn’t exist, and he does the same with me.

I can tell she’s upset, but I can’t be bothered to say anything. Some days are just like that.

I remember his eyes. They are just like mine. Every time I look in the mirror I see him. I try not to look at my self too much.

Judging by the photograph it seemed like I hadn’t been there at all. As if it was my camera that had been on holiday, and not me.

He’s always complaining about the fucking recession and how the government is working against people like him. He calls himself working class, which I think is a bit ironic since he doesn’t work.

I don’t care too much about talking, but I don’t like being alone.

We look for pretty girls we can say bad things to. No one shows up.

I don’t care what other people think about me. Most people are idiots, and they can think whatever they want.

Nothing happens. And by that I mean nothing.