I intend to kick 2002's ass out of the door in such a way as to ensure it and its like never dare to show its face again. I shall administer a hefty bruise to its left butt cheek with the long point of pointy boot / rock-solid Adidas shell-toe (delete as appropriate to outfit); push it to the ground with a pearl-handled snub-nosed gun at its neck; force open its mouth with gun nose, command it to bite the kerb; then I will stomp down.

Then. I will. Get my tired ass and broke back off my sister's sofabed and onto something huge, comfortable, pink-sheeted; a room with a door I can close and lock and say: this is mine. I live here. Go away. Barricade myself in there for a weekend or two with a boy, a stack of porn, a Gamecube, all the rest. I shall spill the cheap champagne and other fluids across my sheets with joy and panache; I shall step from my door and eye the Brick Lane neon and care not a jot that it's all changed and that up is down and down is up, that black is white and good is evil and love is not forever.

I shall squirrel. I shall obliterate my overdraft in a matter of weeks: I'll set up a direct debit and watch funds flow weekly into my savings account and I'll flush excitedly and fan myself with my moneystacks and run nervous fingers across my throat. I'll flick my fingers through my moneystacks and I'll wind them into a garland for my head. I'll stitch a sharp-lapelled trousersuit from my moneystacks: with moneystack cuffs and moneystack buttons and moneystacks stitched into the hems and spiked upon my stilettos. I'll make a notebook out of moneystacks and I'll write and write and write the story of my life onto my moneystacks and then I'll douse it in petrol and I'll flick a match onto it and I'll cast handfuls of powdered sugar onto it till it explodes into a shower of glowing sparks, and I'll laugh and stamp my feet.

Apart from that, I don't know what I'll do.

: : : about : : : next