SHOREDITCH IS DEAD
Monday 09 July 2002

Right. Listen up bitchez. I've got a confession. I've been cheating on you. I found someplace else. Someplace that doesn't ask questions or look me in the eye if I don't want it to. Someplace where I can be my worst, most indulgent, most illiterate self. Ah, you thought that was here, didn't you? Bebe, here we barely scrape the surface. We don't pierce the nemiscus. We certainly ain't pickin' up no dead leaves from the bottom with our teeth. No, that was for the other place. My solace. My secret. My diaryland.

It was great, my diaryland place. Stridently coloured, adorned with a bleached-out pic of a lady with short hair, naked, with a tie dangling between her breasts. It was there whenever I needed it. No formatting required. It didn't want a cuddle when you'd finished. It was a mute blank space into which I could pour my weaknesses. There were no standards to maintain, because before I got there it was virgin territory. I never told anyone but they found their way there regardless, and I didn't care, for they were net folks: Amy, Gail, Victoria, Macandrew, Ben, Sky, Sebastien, Surly… half of them had never clapped eyes on me, and the rest couldn't care less. You spend years waiting for people to give a fuck about your writing, and as soon as they do, you seek solace in silence and anonymity.

But fuck dat. The cat scratched a hole in the hessian and peeked its nose out and now it's clawing up my leg and nosing at the hem of my skirt. Pussy to pussy. I ain't feelin' that; so I killed the diaryland, and now I’m back and I'm gonna try and make it work here, with you. Every relationship deserves a second chance, right? Rrrright.

I do care though, honest. I've been tryna make it work. Been trying to write shit for ya, but it's all wrong. I've written about ketamine, hatemail and interactivity, H&M… but it all sucked assjuice, so I spiked it. But anything's gotta be better than the embarrassing sprawl of weakness and fragility that was the last entry, right? Not, my pretties, that I actually care what you think - though thanks for all the nice mailz, dudes - and poo to tha h8rz! - but respect don't come cheap, and this shit is free. What do you expect for free, hm? This is oh two, not oh oh, and the internet dream is dead. And so is the diaryland.

R.I.P. shoreditch.diaryland.com: 2000-2002.



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