Thursday 13 June 2002

Dude, you’ve like missed *so much*! Where the fuck have you been? There’s been the Jube, and the birthday of AMP, and the first big weekend of the summer, and, like, tha whole fucken shebang of some major fucked-up trashed-out bullsheeyat lifestuffz, monz. And you missed it!

O, I’ve been keeping an old-media diary, but, to be frank, you so don’t wanna see it. It’s like all sad and stuffz. My life turned into a bad chicklit novel back there, and, no offence m9, but if you want one of those, you’ll turn to your India Knights and your Sarah Greens and all those other laydeez who’ve smartly turned their pain into pennies. Not me. I’ll just fuck around and get all upset and like, pffft if imma show that to *anyone*. Except, um, the girl from HR who caught me staring out the window crying at the rain. Or my boss when I was trying to explain why I’d done precisely zero work while she was on holiday. Or the underside of the duvet at Spitroast’s house where I definitely had a big sobbing fit on one nasty Sunday morning. Or the whole of Columbia Road market, but fuck it, it was raining.

I don’t even wanna remember it, the crying and stuff. Who needs that? The default setting of AMP is inane happiness tempered with shyness, shined up by drugs, dulled only by boredom. I basically crashed back there for a couple of weeks, and it wasn’t pretty.

But. As if by magic. I've done a restart. All shite thingz must come to an end, right? And so we’ll fastforward past five weeks of bullstuffz and…. Fd;slkfjslksdfsfjsldg…… hello weekend! Hello drugs! Hello boys! And hello to you, funstuffz. I had so missed you, babe, you pretty flickering thing you. Mwah!

Shhhyohhhkay. I may actually have forgotton how to scribe in this diary. What do I do? Do I, like, just writestuffz about what I’ve been doing, and you read it? But for why? Why would ppl want that? Do I say, well, on Friday I went here, and I was out till this time, and then on Saturday we went here, and I wore this, and I felt this, and then I felt that, and then that happened, and then, oh that! that was the best! And then this person showed me how this was really meant to be done, and it was just as acez as I’d always suspected it was going to be, and… yeah. Yeah?

B-but… what if he reads it? The boyfriend? The ‘ex’-boyfriend, for the next two months at least. Won’t that be, like, weird? I mean, I sure as hell don’t wanna know what he’s been up to. If he’s putting ice on 21-year-olds’ nipples then I fa sheezy ma heezy don’t wanna hear bout that. So what should I do? Should I stop writingstuffz, just because I don’t want him (whom I still adore, please note for the rekkid) to read it?

Only... writing is what I do! And funning is what I do! And writing about funning! And oh seriousness too, but like, um, boring. Is knowledge power? If I scribe my funstuffz and he reads it, does he win? Should pleasure take place only in secrecy? Does it wither under the light? Do I give a fuck? Do you? Do you just want me to get on with it? I *bet* you do.

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