Today I’m too wound-up by the ironies of my life to truly relax. Flat-hunting is truly the most nightmarish experience that a misanthropic intensely private brooding young genius should ever be forced to endure. The crises of faith about money, the moments of horror about the state in which one might find oneself living. It’s all too overwhelming. I now have to find a place within the next two weeks, and today I just said I needed 24 hours to think about a place that costs £910 a month. A MONTH. Along with all the other bills I’d have to pay, that doesn’t leave a lot of money for fun and biscuits. It’s all too much. I can’t cope.
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