On the death of David Foster Wallace.
Cocking, COCKING Thunderbird. Drag an attachment onto the Desktop and it replaces anything with the same name. Buggery buggery bugger.
Carluccio's lunch of livers hitting the spot. Mmm.
Wedding plans developing and, thankfully, greatly simplifying. I felt horribly like a child making lists of their "best friends".
Later this morning I will wake up and won't believe tonight I saw someone karaoke to Crazy Frog or that David Foster Wallace hanged himself.
Fuck. David Foster Wallace is dead. Bad way to end a good night. Ugh. Jesus.
Walking home through Shoreditch, almost wishing I was young again.