OW damn blasted OW fuck BUGGER. How can I write this shiznit - how can I titillate the waiting hordes with shameless flashes of OW virtual stockingtop - when I have a pain in my fucking lOWer back like a horde of scaly monsters writhing around inside in a bath of their own steamy piss? When my stomach feels like it's being used by some giantess witch to do French crochet with? Fackdammit. BEING A GIRL SUCKS BUNS. I think you should be told.

Right. I shall kill the pain with a cigarette. This does not, in fact, work, painkilling fanz, but perhaps I can distract myself from the pain with those meaty carcinogens? (Yay! This is the logic that saw me until a few years back believe that a swift punch to the inner arm could 'distract' one's brain from the imminent agony of a stubbed toe. That does not, in fact, work, either. Surprise!)

Anyway. Saturday night was Much Better. I have suffered from a surfeit of rather uninteresting nights out of late, blah and so-so concerts at 93, whateverish evenings at the pub. I thought it was down to the glittering spangle of druggage being taken away due to our favourite Bi-Boy (who was the conduit for all our druggage) a) fucking off my sister and subsequently withdrawing from our social circle and b) favourite Bi-boy's dealer giving it all up for a quiet life, but oh! Silly me! I should have realised it was not because of drugs, but because of Clothes. Because what are drugs in the grand scheme of things, children? Yes, they are nuts and cherries for fools. They are pacifiers. They are Austrian blinds that shield us from the true terror of a night out, that make us cease our wonderings and questionings, that chill us the fuck out and stop us reaching our true potential as humans and oh yeah, if you believe that you'll believe anything, but it has come to my attention that the only valid response when one is temporarily unable to acquire the spangly drugs is to pretend that one has deliberately eschewed them, and so I repeat: pah!

And, now, back to the Clothes. Yes, foolishly, and I cannot say why, save perhaps that it is to do with D.E.P.R.E.S.S.I.O.N., I have not been shewing much interest in the Outfits of late. Charity shopping? Like, meh. High heels and a sexy walk? Nah, gimme the Converse. Pencil skirts? I'll take the jeans. Colour? I'd like it in can't-be-bothered-black and khazi-assed-kombat-green, if you please. In part this is due to Bastard Summer, which I loathe like a motherfucker. Summer is not for the ginga girls like me, with the supa-pale skin and the freckles and the sparky-red hair. Summer is for Idiot Fuckers, yeah, who are more likely than not blonde (or 'yellow', as I like to call them) and predictably thin, who sit around on pub tables with their elegant ankles crossed tilting bevisored faces at the sun and smoothing factor seven into their beautifully-boned kneecaps. Feh. I spit on their graves, these yellow children; they are not for the likes of me, who slink and skulk and won't leave the house without Clinique Super City Block in factor 30.

Yea, when one is forced to stack one's array of Beautiful Winter Coats down in the basement - (poor coats! How I weep for them, their fur collars crushed to cheap carpet, their buttons permanently buttoned to constricting tightness, lying neglected and forlorn downstairs in my ex-boyfriend's Big Red Bag) - all is confusion, and what can one do but retreat, and retract, like the bellend of a frightened man, back to one's room to sit in one's pants and bra opposite a fan which is blowing over a bowl of ice, quietly weeping?

But no! For I had forgotten the twin wonders, those perky-pink areolae, those jewels in the crown of Oxford Street! I had forgotten the joy that a combination of Top Shop and H&M and a stack of gleaming money-notes can bring to a simple farm-girl's heart! Oh, moneystacks will get you everywhere, my friend, and they will free your mind from its melting-pot of misery and they will get your beautiful ass back into action again. The joy of three hours in front of the mirror! The unadulterated pleasure of an outfit composed entirely of different shades of pink and red! The moment of truth when one pulls one's long-forgotten red suede pointy boots which cost an entire POUND from a car boot sale up one's pale be-freckled calves, and when one slips a chiffon scarf round one's slender neck and grabs the two ends and pulls tight and adjusts, and one spins around to check the tilt of one's ass in the full-length mirror and one likes what one sees! The realisation that one has composed an outfit that can even make one's hideously bruised arm seem like a delightful accessory! Pah, it is an art often denigrated, this knack of women and some rare men to compose an outfit of exquisite luxury, that dazzles the eye and pleases the senses, that inspires touching and compliments and lascivous thoughts in the viewer, but it should not be. For Saturday night's outfit was the choicest art I have created in the past six months - if not ever, I hear some of you mutter, but then some of you probably suck, so no matter - and the mere memory of it, the tentative, gently wobbling walk towards the bar on ankles shy from lack of recent heelage, the knowledge of the swing in my hips from the tightness of the skirt, the feel of the scarf at my neck, the pinch of the boning of the bodice: these things will get me through the next week in a solipsistic haze, carried along on the wings of a buzz of sensual self-satisfaction, and that, henious and vile and vain as it sounds and is, is a Very Good Thing, and a far better alternative to the ennui and self-loathing which has suffused my personage of late, so... hurrah!


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