The kittens have had their bollocks cut off. Hurrah! It looks like someone's tied a rubber band round them till they fell off. Or just grabbed 'em, yanked 'em, and snipped 'em with garden shears. They should have kept them, the bollocks. I'd like to make them into rings. Knuckledusters. Tiny testicles encased in resin. Or amber. All that adolescent male boy kitten-power on the back of the palm of your hand. We're not talking downy necks and crumpled jeans and canvas belts and gas attendant shirts boy kitten-power here, btw. We're talking stupid stripy tabby and black little bastards. I'd take the kitten-bollocknuckleduster and I'd smash it under my shoe. I'd throw it out the window of the train towards Battersea Power Station. I'd flush it down the toilet. I'd throw it off the ninth floor. What do Hot Hot Heat say? I've made a voodoo doll for you. Let's see what needles do. Fly, kittens. Fly!

Erm. What the fuck? I've got headphones on and I'm listening to a record - Hot Hot Heat, my new musical crush, darlings - really loud. And I'm paranoid as hell. My sister and Marcus are in the kitchen. Marcus is cooking Fresh Pasta And Sauce, that most complex of recipes that has taxed and delighted male flat-dwellers since time immemorial, aka 1992. Are they reading over my shoulder, the sister and incestuous brother-husband? Are they laughing at me? If someone in my flat was listening to music on headphones and typing on their laptop, I'd creep up behind them and I'd push my tongue into my lower lip and bite my shoulder and point with the floppy gay hand for the amusement of my boyfriend/husband composite, because I am a foo'. But Lisa is not doing same for the amusement of hers, for she is a gentlewoman, who has blonde hair and a monk's fringe, and a job taking care of Special Needs people, or rather, Individuals Who Suffer From A Learning Difficulty. Lisa is a Good Person. She doesn't just bumble along with her eyes closed, praying it will All Be OK. Lisa pays bills on time and has a neatly divided filing cabinet. I have a box of CDs under a chair, a tangle of clothes on a shelf in a cupboard, a cut-off telephone, and a pair of Converse that look like a tramp's been sick on them.

Last night I slapped new makeup over old in order to puchase a new photopass for my travelcard. God bless the reflecting white background and the bleaching flash; they cover a multitude of skins. When I got to the tube station the photobooth was occupied by a man with a inch-long toenails and

Yada yada yada yada. i've got all tired now. there will be no update tonight. Feh. Stupid updates. Stupid.

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