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So, today was good. Started painting again.

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Current Mood:
artistically annoyed
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I'm the firestarter! Cockney firestarter!
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Current Mood:
pyromaniac
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It's ABORIGINAL, you cunt.
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Current Location:
armpit of london
Current Mood:
insulted!
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Am now official parliamentary prick with large stick up arse.

...

Damn it, Byron! Just because Shelley lets you use his rear for illicit purposes! I don't care who you were angry with - I've told you NO about the hobby horse! It's... it's just not me.

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Current Location:
westminster
Current Mood:
pained
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Oh sure Bessie, you can still come to my sewing bee. Only you have to sit on the other side of the room - partly because you'll take up an entire chaise lounge, and partly because at that distance you'll be far enough away that I can point, laugh, and maintain you're an eloquent maid.

Refuse to have friends who WADDLE.

p.s. lonely. Horny. George, Perce, William? Anyone? JANE'S BORED.

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Current Location:
god damned drawing room
Current Mood:
bored bored bored
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Australian? What the hell is Australian? Is that like Londoner for shit? Besides which, I think if there was such a thing as Abodiginie then I would know about it, seeing as I am more educated, more widely travelled, and infinitely more of a whore... acquainted with persons of other places and nations. And it's LORD GEORGE to you, anyway. Stupid jumped-up cockney bastard.
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Current Location:
greece, where there is no such thing as abodiginie
Current Mood:
really fucking annoyed
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Dear Byron,

Don't appreciate your utterly non-bodacious insults. Just because you shagged your way around Greece to collect your urns - we can't all be that promiscuous. Some of us have decent poetry to write.
...All I'm saying George is that just because it rhymes, it doesn't mean it makes sense. My poems pwn yours anyway because they're original Aboriginal. Bet you can't say that, you nancy rich boy, can you? Bet you've never even been to Australia! I'm only poor because the passage cost so much.

Unaffectionately,

John Keats.

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Current Location:
the armpit of london
Current Mood:
unimpressed George.Unimpressed
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It's raining again. It's never sunny in this fucking country. It's too quiet and everybody is being a mardyarse/grumpy gus. Bastards.

Ps. was with Jane. Saw fat person fall over. Fucking hilarious.
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Current Mood:
HATE
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May have chewed leg off small boy. May have gone gangrenous. Somehow don't think that "trying to unshackle the child" will hold up in court.

This time they are really going to exile me, aren't they?

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Current Location:
somewhere cell-like
Current Mood:
anticipating exile
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Happy birthday to me,
Happy birthday to me,

What are the words again?

Why, oh why, has nobody come to my party? I am so alone, with this
E-number-riddled smartie cake and the creeping onset of paranoia. Has my
legendary charisma failed me at last? Have I had sex with too many of my
friend’s wives?

In retrospect, may have been too drunk to issue invitations. Had wondered
why there was no Thursday this week.

No matter. Why sit around with fellow poets and artistic shiny folk when you
can shove uniforms on wombats and woodchucks and have them re-enact the
battle of Trafalgar, ambling across the living room floor in a threatening
manner with tiny cannons and marsupial-sized rifles?

It’s like real war, only slower and more cuddly.

*Fly, my womberific comrades! Slay those cute, furry Frenchmen!*
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Current Location:
all alone
Current Mood:
ALONE, I say!
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