Wednesday 17 May, 2000.
RULES FOR THIS DIARY
NO CHICK STUFF.
NO GROWN-UP STUFF
You see, after yesterday's embarrassing sprawl of honesty, I think it's time to inject a little stiff upper lip into the proceedings. Rules are what we need round here. Don't want things getting out of hand, do we? We want discipline, and backbone: a steady hand pressing down on our shoulder, gently warning us, whenever we edge out of line. The ever-present threat of a slap on the cheek - light, but still hard enough to leave fingermarks - to keep us in check.
So, those are the rules. No chick stuff and no moaning are almost, but not quite, the same thing. There's plenty of moaning that isn't chick stuff, but there's not much chick stuff that isn't moaning. What do I mean by chick stuff? You've read Bridget Jones, right? Or 'Does My Bum Look Big In This?' by Arabella Wier? Or any womens' mag? That's chick stuff: PMT, chocolate, fat, emotional honesty and low self-esteem. BOOOOORING. I don't want none of that round here. And Grown-Up Stuff is also YAWN CENTRALE. I know that, as a lazy freelancer, things like filling out tax forms are really important and feel like big acheivements - but that doesn't mean they are INTERESTING or FUN, or something that anyone except your accountant would want to read about. EVER.
Good rules, huh? The only thing is, it means I can't tell you about my night out last night, which was spent trying - and failing - not to cry, in a PMT haze, as one (ex)-friend bellydances far more beautifully than I ever will, to the huge appreciation of the crowd, while another tells me of her forthcoming nuptuals and I feel a suprising stab of jealousy in my tummy. Because that would be everything combined: chick stuff (pmt, girlfriends); grownup stuff AND chick stuff (marriage); and moaning.
God, I wish it was as easy to make up rules for life.
Oh fuck, that was moaning.