FRIDAY 31 JANUARY 2003
rAnTiNg and vEnTiNg
[2003-01-27@2:34 p.m. - e.g. Monday this week, when it was all
sunny and spring-like for like five seconds]
What is UP with the stupid gay internet today. What is UP with my hair.
What is UP with this SPRINGlike shit they’re trying to pin on us?
Huh? I’m not ACCEPTING that, you faggots! Stick it back in your
oversized swag-weather bag! Like, first you give us WINTER. A tantalising
sneaky-peek of WINTER. Like stumping up the Finsbury Park streets in some
fucking moon boots, side-stepping the terrorists and the dude with the
hook and the crack addicts and the bleached-out whores and the ladies
with the headscarves and the babies, your feet all stumpy and your collar
turned up and your hands turned into these giant boxing glove monster
hands in mittens. Now that’s SWEET. That’s what it’s
ALL ABOUT. It’s fucking January, you nerds, you asses, you fucking
lollipop-head Sian Lloyd weather cacking cocking spotters, JANUARY, so
can I PLEASE have some fucking January action? What is this blue sky,
this mildness in the air that floats over your limbs like that Dove mousse
shower gel shit? WHAT’S WITH THIS?
[rAnTiNG and vEnTiNG pArT dEuX]
Oh, there’s more venting to be done. So much more. Like why –
well, the mechanics of it (two hours after lunch) are too disgusting to
contemplate – why is it that I sneak out to the bog for a swift
application of concealer – (for I don’t bother with the rest
of the make-up, what, waste valuable minutes and beauty products –
but it’s more the minutes, bro – on these plebeians? i think
not) – why is it that when I go in there to attempt to smudge away
the misery shadows under my eyes and disguise the flushed bad temper face
under a veil of silky-white Product – the place is crammed full
of stupid Place Where I Work call centre grandmas? Is one not allowed
a moment’s peace, to contemplate one’s own bodily decay and
the general vileness of things and East Grinstead in general? Of course
not. Why do we have to have a minging vending machine? Why is there no
kettle? Why am I denied a decent cup of tea? No wonder I am going mad.
The coffee – ‘coffee’ – is, at the base of the
cup, an inch-thick sludge, a cacky sediment that coats your tonsils and
more often than not induces gag-reflex barfing noises in the unwary. Why?
Why make things so grim? Why does the insufferable misery of prefuckingmenstrualfuckingtension
– sorry, syndrome, (like bollocks it’s syndrome, ‘tension’
tells the truth) – have to be replaced, not with soothing bliss
of cool flannel on hot mind’s brow, but with fucking kicked in the
spine pain and cramps up the thighs and, no messing, hur hur – your
precious lady-flower drenched in a torrent of BLOOD? What, in the name
of FUCK is that all about?  fucking cacking cocking cunting arsing
bloody crappy SHIT
[nothing of any interest to my complete lack of readers, i assure you]
if you are ugly, really, really munting ugly, and you get the enormous
breasts, from the surgery, can you still become famous? if you wear enough
makeup? on your breasts? [here there should be some interesting / funny/
observant shit about fake breasts]. NAH, WHAT DO YOU FUCKING TAKE ME FOR.
FUCKING MUG. GIVE THE FUCKING CONTENT AWAY. fuck that. fuck fuck fuck
fuck fuck. i think i may be becoming corrupt. i cannot be arsed to think
up funny shit to post on the internet anywhere. i cannot be arsed to write
free shit for music magazine. i cannot be arsed to do anything except
a) work and b) play gamecube and c) have sex.
[a failed attempt at finding facts or building narrative]
Let us try to unravel that sprawl of icky goo cacky yucko coffee-table
cum brainjuice, shall we? I am snapping on my latex gloves and I am snipping
the air with the scary ginormous surgeon's tweezers. Somewhere, in this
mess of crapolo AMP Diary shite, not a patch on what it used to be, I
know, but what do you expect for free - somewhere, there are facts. Glistening
and glimmering and hard underneath. Facts.
I have had my hair cut, by a Japanese hairstylist, in a one-bedroom flat
in Bethnal Green. Sweet! It is asymmetric, and does not, in the least,
match my 'business suit'. Hah! Next week: COLOUR!
Erm. I am working very hard.  GODDAMMIT. I was at work till 7pm
last night. That. Ain't. On.
No writing, no fanzine, minimal free
lance music writing, no face ideas, no ampsite updates, nothing. I cannot
do it. I am but one girl. And my cocking laptop has died, so I cannot
do it on train like I would like.
Oh! I have a new house in Dalston. Wooden floors and white walls and a
dishwasher! Yes! *punches air*. But while this makes me happy (get off
stupid sofabed and continue with life) it also makes me sad (going back
to paying crappy rent and living with semi-strangers after a bazillion
years of just living with partner and basically owning our own home; feels
like going backwards, makes one examine life and go 'o i have acheived
nothing in my time on earth i suck i should die'.)
Still waiting for the moneystacks. When they come, I shall: pay YET ANOTHER
PHONE BILL (for £150 this time); pay new boyfriend £350 (for
gamecube i bought off him plus monies owed); buy things. Probably not
the i-Pod I desperately desire, but still. buy things. clothes. second-hand
vintage adorable things. and flights to amsterdam to stay with darryn
and femke. things things things. i dunno. my life is tooooo boring to
Moneystacks? I’m moneyless. I left my card at
home. I could trudge to the bank and coerce them into giving me a tenner.
Or I could: STARVE FOR THE REST OF THE DAY! and NOT SMOKE ANY FAGS! So
that’s what I’m gonna do! Because I’m way lazy!
I am flicking through my paper diary. it appears that I even found myself
thinking about my job and my work and my spreadsheets whilst on train
on way to work! That ain’t right! I also detailed taking Kaori from
Veteran to Champ ranking on SSX Tricky, and how as soon as I used an Alpine
snowboard rather than a BK snowboard, the gold medal was mine, just like
Erm, interesting, interesting, something interesting. There is naught.
I do not know why I scribe here, I mean, it’s a waste of my time
Describe summat, miss amp. Describe something, anything.
Nah. Sorry. Don’t want to. There is a new music magazine being put
out by Future Publishing – features editor, simon price –
you know, with the HAIR and the makeup and stuff. At Reading Mr H dared
himself that he would not go up to Mr Price and grab him by the bunches
and yell ‘CUNT!!!!!’ into his face, so he was just about to
take himself up on his dare, when Mr Price wandered into some flashy backstage
Orange party area that we, with our just general crappo-normo backstage
pass wristband things, could not access. Sophie even got grabbed by the
scruff of the neck and thrown out and her wristband torn off her for attempting
to blag into there – or was that backstage at The Strokes, I dunno.
Basically, I’m waiting to get paid. Waiting. Waiting. I want an
i-Pod. The thing is, when I finally get this money, I *actually could*.
I could. I could have one. And every time I slipped it from my bag and
felt its white and silver slender weightiness, I would get a mini-boner.
A mini, clitoral boner. Which would surely enliven the interminable journeys
to and from work.
Something has happened, you see, and I’ve become most boylike in
my shopping affections. The main thrill I get when I think about my new
house is the fact that I can set my laptop up with my Harman Kardon soundsticks
and just look at them, and listen to them, and run my tongue up and down
their smooth surfaces, and take photos of them with my digital camera
which I will get back off my sucky-gets-everything ex-boyfriend, ha ha.
Last time I was loaded, I bought technology: i-book, digicam. And this
time, I buy i-Pod. Mmmmmmmmm, technology.
But shouldn’t I be fantasising over Kurt Geiger shoes or summat?
Thing is, such things do not actually *do* anything, do they? They’re
just shoes, they’re not very practical, and they hurt. Whereas cameras
and mp3players, they DO STUFF. The way men and women shop is (erm, this
is hardly discovery of the century, miss amp) an extension of that John
Berger thing ‘men act, women appear’. But it will have to
be appended. ‘men [and miss amp and various cool girls like frances
who spends all her money on musical equipment] act, and [all other women]
appear’. But that ain’t so catchy.
yadayadayadayada. Basically, fasten your seatbelts – or rather,
loosen them. Cast them away. Slow your breathing. Unpop the top button
on your jeans; get some boy to unclasp your brassiere. Up until such time
as my web editor contract ends, it is going to be a long, smooth, bland
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