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I wrote a poem about a fat man who stole my cheese and onion crisps.

Tuesday 22nd Feb 2022

I’ve changed my mind about what I said yesterday. I can’t go a whole week without writing anything. I think I’ll try to write a poem everyday about things I see or interest me. I’ve had nothing but compliments about my poems so far, so I suppose I should write more. I guess it’s better than writing nothing.

I had a dream last night about a fat bloke who ate all my cheese and onion crisps. I think I’ll write a poem about that.

“Fat man coming to ruin my day, to steal my cheese and onion crisps and take them away.

Of course he steals the crisps, not something healthy like some cabbage.

A bloke so fat like him, a healthy diet he cannot manage.

Does he not realise stealing is a crime?

Especially since those cheese and onion crisps were mine!

Piss off back home fat man.

Back home to eat more marzipan.

Go have a jog you fat old prick, rather than eating a whole picnic.

Fat man gone home after ruining my day.

I feel rather sad, might watch a movie on Blu-ray.”

Don’t know why I was so upset about having my crisps stolen in the dream. I don’t even like cheese and onion crisps all that much. They give you shit breath as well.

I wonder if any pretty girls have ever had a dream about me. I don’t mean a dream where I’m a shitty background character, I mean one where I’m a proper main character. I hope they have.

They say dreams have a sort of hidden meaning. I know that’s a load of bollocks. Not only because I just googled it, but because some fat bloke stealing my crisps and my brother having sex in the kitchen can’t mean anything special. I wonder if any English teachers out there will find a hidden meaning; they’re always finding hidden meanings in shit that doesn’t fully make sense.

Don’t know what I’ll write my poem about tomorrow. I think I’ll go for a walk or something to have a look around to find interesting things. There’s a lot of weird old people in my local area. There must be something.

Today I learned why 69 is a funny number. I don’t want to talk about it.

I’ve always thought people are weird. I don’t see the point in most of the things we feel and do. I often find myself feeling like shit about the most insignificant things. Even when I acknowledge it’s silly, it still seems like a big deal. Just like that bagel or some pretty girl. My English teacher told me I’m a good thinker. Don’t know where she got that from, I remember having a conversation with her about how big Hitler’s penis was. Apparently it was very small. Of course it was.

Don’t think I can be bothered to write for the rest of the day. I think I might go and have some crisps and a cup of tea.

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