The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

Dear Diary. I force myself to get up at 8.30 am, just as my girlfriend leaves the apartment to go work.

I start researching web hosting. Essentially, this blog costs $10 per month, or $7 a month if I pay for three years in one go. I want a cheaper price so I look at different hosting providers, using a combination of web coupons and special rates for new customers. My current provider, Bluehost, offers hosting at $4 a month for new customers. After three hours I simply decide I will create a new account with them and move my content from my old account.

I shave my head and my beard. It takes about half an hour. I'm tired of shaving so much: I have to shave my head once a week. I want to grow a big beard, a proper beard, like a lumberjack, but every time I try, after two weeks I look homeless. If only I was stranded on a desert island and didn't have to shave, I think to myself.

It's snowing, but it's not too cold. I stand on the balcony, shirtless, taking pictures of the city.

I decide to make some business cards, as I've found they're a convenient way to give someone your contact details. I design them on Photoshop, print them on card, and cut them out. They look shit.

I put on my new glasses and go to the bathroom. I'm slightly startled at my tired appearance in the mirror. I am self-conscious about my lower teeth, for which I refused to get braces when I was younger. Fucking lower teeth. When I am rich I will get braces, I promise myself.

I spend a couple of hours with Autohotkey. It's an automation program. Essentially, you tell the computer what to do and it does it for you, automating your mouse clicks and key presses. I have it repost my Kijiji adverts for me (of which I have five now: English tutoring, translating, proofreading, transcription, and essay-writing. I've received no interest so far except for the English tutoring). I feel clever, like a fucking programmer. I'm wearing my glasses and feel like Steve Jobs. This makes up for having wonky teeth, I think.

Tiredness hits me. This isn't tiredness due to lack of sufficient sleep that I usually feel. This is good tiredness - sleepiness.

As part of a long-term effort to exercise more, I go to the local swimming pool. I get really tired after half an hour of swimming. I think about would make me happy. I decide it would be the world's dirtiest, most polluting motorcycle, and riding around some Asian country. Pollution makes me reminisce about summer holidays long ago, joyfully playing in the dust and dirt of dry, baked soil. I feel an urge to call my brother on Skype when I get back. My girlfriend is there when I get home. She says we have to leave in fifteen minutes to go to a party. It's at the apartment of one of my girlfriend's colleagues.

Their apartment is nice, at least twice as large as mine. They have a huge dog, and loads of nice furniture, and well, stuff.

I am quiet and depressed. I can't be arsed. I slip into nothingness. I barely talk. Happiness is expressing yourself, I think.

The common language here is French. I realise my French is shit. I can understand it in one-to-one conversations, but when I'm listening to them talk in a group, I have no idea what they're saying.

I start feeling tired again. My girlfriend says I look half asleep. Eventually we take the bus home. We go to bed at 3am.