Ok. So this one's called: The Best Feelings Ever.

I kind of drew up a rough sketch as to how to write this on the way back from the store. It's now 7.00am. Craig and the Old Man have gone to work. I've just trekked to the Post Office to get some baccy from the newsagents, to skin up. Full Tilt has been fired up. It's time again to write.

I came up with a startling observation on the bus. It's not the magnitude of your feats, but the degree in which you perceive them, that have the bearing on your overall stakes of happiness, and fulfillment. For example, on the bus, I found myself quite chuffed knowing that at my disposal was a sweet magazine, some sick tunes to listen to and the finest chocolate digestives that would never see a cup of tea. I was, essentially, overwhelmed with self adoration. I'd made it.

Which got me thinking. What else brings such feelings of achievement. Walking up the high street at 6.45 in the morning to get baccy to make a wee bifta is one. I confounded myself in a crapulent sense of well being by: buying an apple from the grocers and giving it to homeless chap and making a rollie for Jesus, the coolest homeless/guitarist type I've ever met. Now I wonder home, stoned and write. That's a pretty sweet feeling.

I thought back to yesterday. Seeing Lauren and the old women she lives with (Vicky and Annabel). And that I made the right decision to get out and live my life. Weird fuckers.

And that at any given point, I'm capable of being either: an elastic sharp witted tool, a grafter, a guitarist, a human boy that is constantly on the verge of breaking into song/tears because of the ridiculous state of happiness (tickets booked, ready to rock) and boredom (another month without her!). I'm in a constant limboid state. An emotional deep fat fryer. Don't ask me to explain that metaphor. I'm just hungry.

Eight words. Five more than the usual three, six more if you say it in Polish. But the effect is just as... [I've been drinking] effective.

Under the commands of the hottest, smartest, funniest (and the list goes on) girl to have ever walked the Earth: I appear to be writing this blog again.

But what the hell do I write about? If I try to write anything too impersonal I'm discounting the last two and a half months of my life. If I don't, I whore my private life out to the internet and an inaccountable (and probably small) amount of people. Time to follow the trends of contemporary culture, write about my life as it's the most important thing going on in the world today [see The Sun and Jade Goody]. Let's be a media whore.

Since my last post I've had approximately one more month in the company of my fine lady. All good reason for not writing (on here in any case) in my book. It's quite a time consuming business entertaining someone you can't take your eyes off. Writing a blog would be quite tricky too with an averted gaze. As for the last five days in which she's gone, I don't think I could manage to write anything substantial without a 'boo hoo she's gone' kind of context.

I say that, but essentially, I am still as pissed off that she (you, my only reader) has/have gone. For two months I felt alive. There were reasons to wake up in the morning, to go to work, to go busking, to eat, to do the washing up and of course to go to bed. The strange thing is, although I'm alone in England again, the reasons are still there.

They are not as immediate. They do not come into my store when I'm in the darkest of bad moods and cheer me up, they do not make me laugh by making stupid sounds and pulling silly faces, and all the things that an uptight, unpaid writer can write about, but won't, because that would be too easy... It's pretty simple: I'm completely in love.

So yis. I now have plans (of some sort) as to what to do with myself. Following the directions I've taken from getting a degree in the old journalism business I'm going to go to London to whore myself out (read: intern). After that I am going to go to Poland to be reunited with my lover. Then who knows. I don't. And that's how I like things. If I can manage to find work over there and adjust to a foreign way of life, fucking way to go. If not, I'll try and make a go of it in London. Has anyone ever heard of someone with one of them going nowhere in life [sic]?

But even if I wind up in a worse supermarket job, with two power crazed middle aged old women treating me like their manslave. I'll still be happy and have something to live for, I'm in love.