Thursday 13 June 2002
Dude, youve like missed *so much*! Where the fuck have you been?
Theres 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, Ive been keeping an old-media diary, but, to be frank, you so
dont wanna see it. Its 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, youll turn to your India Knights and your Sarah Greens
and all those other laydeez whove smartly turned their pain into
pennies. Not me. Ill 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 Id done precisely zero work while she
was on holiday. Or the underside of the duvet at Spitroasts 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 dont 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 wasnt pretty.
But. As if by magic. I've done a restart. All shite thingz must come to
an end, right? And so well fastforward past five weeks of bullstuffz
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 Ive 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 Id always suspected it was going to be, and
what if he reads it? The boyfriend? The ex-boyfriend,
for the next two months at least. Wont that be, like, weird? I mean,
I sure as hell dont wanna know what hes been up to. If hes
putting ice on 21-year-olds nipples then I fa sheezy ma heezy dont
wanna hear bout that. So what should I do? Should I stop writingstuffz,
just because I dont 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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