Album: It's Not Me, It's You by Lily Allen.
Food: Heinz Cream of Tomato Soup
Nola, Peckham. I have a big spot on my chin and I can't stop thinking about it. It's literally all I can think about. I want to go home and hide under a duvet so no one can see my ugly spotty face and I'm also starving and wish I could spend £6 on a dippy egg or £3 on a little cake to help me feel better about my life rather than sitting here for two hours on a single cup of tea. The baristas here aren't friends. They're all stupidly good looking, like this coffee shop is actually in a film where ugly people don't exist, but the three of them move silently and seamlessly around each other, conscious of their small movements, as one becomes in a hospitality job. They're artists, obviously, although I haven't heard them define what kind. They're all better at latte art than I have ever claimed to be. One of them has now revealed his part in the ex-Leeds music crowd, my old friends, and is talking about a jam I've been to, a place I've passed through. We all think we're so fucking original. How many of us are exactly the same, how many of us will end up working in marketing? I'm feeling dreadfully pessimistic because I need the loo and my toes are cold and I have a fucking spot.
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