07 OCTOBER 2002

I'm only telling you this to let you know how underemployed freelance dilettante scribblers spend their time when they are completely sans funds and there is nothing left to do but lead a life of dissolution.

Masturbate on the couch, obviously. Pick up the izones off the floor and wonder where the rude one of that boy has gone and hope it hasn't raised too many eyebrows or broken too many hearts. Drink endless cups of tea - Assam blended with Earl Grey: warm the pot first, please, and bring the water to a full rolling boil before it hits the leaves and all the rest that none of you none of you other dilettante sluts seem to know nor care about. Have you got instant, you other dilettantes ask, gazing ineptly at the cafetiere and the silver canister of Illy espresso, standing in a heap of Ceylon, and you apparently neither know nor care what you put in your mouth, which may be appropriate when kneeling on the nightclub toilet floor at 2am on a Saturday night - I'm talking about you, this is, YOU, not me - but is not appropriate for a businesslike Monday afternoon, is it, when the things one puts in one's mouth (fingernails, cigarette filters, vitamin pills, one's thumb, the ends of one's hair, an avocado and pepper sandwich, the odd licking of cherry-scented balm from one's lips) should all be highly accountable for, if the depthless swerve into chaos and oblivion is to be averted.

And the depthless swerve into chaos and oblivion *is* to be averted, you know, for my stars tell me so. Never mind David Gorman and his sideburns and his comedy Astrology Experiment, for if Jonathan Cainer tells me it's all going to be alright then that's how it is, with no input or effort from me. I can just sit here on my ass and ignore the heaving sighs and the wails coming via the telephone banking system from the direction of my gaping, stretched-out saggy old overdraft; for Jonathan Cainer says that this week it's going to be filled and toned and plumped up like a sexy ready-for-Christmas fat goose that you just wanna dive your hands into and ruffle up, so that's how it is. I won't call any of the agencies and I won't strap on that headset and dive once again into the world of reception work and high-speed typing: I won't cut out the little job adverts from the Guardian and send them my patchy if not plain frightening little C.V: no, I'll just sit here and type nonsense to the anonymous readers of my so-called journal, for if Jonathan Cainer tells me it's gonna be alright, then that's how it's going to be. Alright?

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