[transcribed with increasing difficulty from Manchester notebook]
My God. I am utterly fucked. Took one pill, spilled drink on self. Lost ability to write. Oh dear, I'm the loner alky. Every bar and pub has one, but why does it have to be me? Oh yeah, because I'm the only one on drugs. I bet none of these folks drank a bottle of Benylin yesterday. I bet none of them took a random pill. Oh fuck, I have utterly failed. I had planned to talk to people, but instead I'm writing bitchy things about them.
I like it here. I'm fucked, really out of my brain, but not one person has hassled me. I might move to Manchester, or Sheffield. Both are better than Derby. I can't write properly anymore. I am going to look an utter twat when I meet Shaun. But weirdly enough I don't care. I have finally stopped letting people affect me. I feel like I'm about to pass out. I am happy. NIN are on the jukebox.
I want sex but never love. I want those bastards who will fuck me and not care. I am not built for love. I want to text my sexfriend because NIN remind me of him.
[this final section is practically illegible]
Oh dear. I'm with guys, trying so hard to test [?] everyone. I even burnt a fag on myself. [upon reading this I check myself for evidence. there is indeed a burn in the centre of my left wrist. it does not hurt at all.] [the final lines of writing are utterly illegible]
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