Jimi Hendrix choked to death on his own vomit. He was wealthy, but all that meant nothing when he was disappearing into some alpha hole he could never trip back from. Sleeping tablets and booze can do that to a guitar hero, or to you.
The wind is cold. My walking boots are failing me and wearing heavily. Prince George (is that his name? I’m not entirely sure I know for certain) has started at his first private school. Money is tight around here. The summer was a washout, tragic, really. The first shitty autumn storm came around two days ago – my birthday. Birthday… I’m forty four years old. I don’t know about you, but it wasn’t a hell of a do. Neither was the storm. I guess naming these things stops us from wondering why we never used to get them back in the days when lead was in petrol. And it is easier to believe an abstract weather entity with a name has some form of sentience than it is to admit to Climate Change. We really are that stupid. It’s been a long time since I’ve touched this keyboard. And if you can’t tell, then I can.
I started out with the intention of writing about the £4,000,000 spent in the past two years on the Duke and Duchessessess’ – whatever fucking antiquated bullshit name they’ve given themselves – home in London. I was going to spit bile about it, get worked up, and throw more tablets down my neck to stop me losing any sense of reality. I still might. I haven’t finished reading up on the renovation properly.
Shit….the place was ‘riddled with asbestos’, and had no running water. What the fuck has all the Royal income been used on over the years if the house where Prince Charles and the people’s Princess lived in wedded bliss had no running water? Where has the cash gone? Words like ‘Sensitive’ and ‘ordinary’ were used to describe the Cambridge’s views on the plush restoration of the massive house in the best part of London. They apparently paid for their own kitchen… William has no official income now he’s stopped his year or so of work – excepting the expenses for merely existing and carrying out his official engagements. Tahiti, or Stevenage? Tough choices. Oh, he receives roughly £350,000 a year from the £10,000,000 trust fund his mother left him and his playboy brother.
I can’t type any more. I can’t write any more. I’m barely managing to stay afloat today. This is a day for medication, music, and for forgetting my lowly birth.
I’m starting a DBT Advanced Group next month. My CPN is due in the morning. I don’t pay for either. I am rich indeed.