I don’t want to talk about it.

I don’t want to talk about anything.

I don’t care what Grandpa says (he is mentally ill, after all) I do not have *feelings* for Hayden bloody Peters.

Feelings are pointless, useless evolutionary leftovers from a long-distant past when, in order to keep the species alive, humans needed to find a mate and have 12 children by the time they were 21 because 11 of them would die from disease or be eaten by hyenas or whatever.

Idiots like Van fall in love. Idiots like Van think bumping into the girl who, back when he was 15, was the first one to let him touch her tit – idiots like Van think seeing this girl, dancing round in her underwear in front of 200 pissed blokes, is a sign that he and Aurora are *meant to be together*.

Give me a break! Wake up Van! She’s a gang ho and when the Horsemen find out you’re trying to steal their property, they will kill you in new and interesting ways. That is what love gets you, you idiot! Dead!

There could be about a million reasons why I was throwing up when I never throw and NONE of them have anything to do with love. Mum’s cooking, for example, has been pretty shit-house lately. When she’s here, that is. When she’s not swanning off to flash hotels with her tragic girlfriends to do *business deals* – read: get pissed and embarrass themselves. Meanwhile I’m chucking my ring up AND I’m stuck at home with Mr. Happy Pants (a.k.a. Dad).

My life is currently tragic beyond words and Hayden Peters is a knob and Grandpa is senile and wrong.