Monday 17 June 2002
HEADS UP


[05 May 2002@19:13]
[Futuristic ain't shit to me]

Now it's 13 minutes past seven, and I am back in Easy E. If this is a repository for my rubbish, then... so be it. I am long past the stage when I cared about my internet addiction. I have absorbed it into my life, like a functioning heroin addict. It gives and it takes away, but I believe, as the skaghead might, that what it gives is worth more.

After sitting here writing despondent mails, I strode to Charing X station. I ordered a latte, and did not realise till later that the boy had not steamed the milk. When I am a real homeless, will I care about non-steamed milk in my latte?

I got on the train to Greenwich. I phoned Alice, and heard that her birthday drinks were not taking place till 3. I envisaged walking around Greenwich, numbly fingering items in the markets that I could not afford. My legs were bare, and I was shivering. The train was due to leave at 12.32. I could not face it. I stepped off. I phoned Boyfriend.
At 1.40pm we were still on the phone. I sat on a seat and talked and smoked. Butts built up around my feet like those piles around the poorer offices, the ones that cant afford and don't care for the little sand-filled boxes. The ones that embrace addiction and damaged needs, and sport signs like trackmarks around the doors.

Our talk swelled from whispering to shouting. I swopped benches. People from trains swept past me. There was a gaggle of teenboys carrying skateboards and ripped-off signs advertising a Hives gig. Remember such devotion?

We arranged to meet to see Y Tu Mama Tambien at four. I went to a bookshop. I bought a Kudwo Eshun book called More Brilliant Than The Sun: Adventures in Sonic Fiction. I won't read it. I went to the ICA. I bought a paper for one pound by the people who did the fashion magazine, Tank. I opened it up with scorn, then saw a piece written by my friend Rhodri Marsden, so I bought it. I went to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror and the words 'natural beauty' flashed into my mind. I had forgotton to put wax in my hair, and it was blowy and soft. Then I remembered that the toilets in the ICA are the Second Most Flattering Toilets In The World, after the yellow ones at Goldsmiths College.

I went to my favourite cafe in central London, an independent one called Prontos. I ordered vegeterian lasagne and salad, but when it came it was meat. I ate it anyway.

I wrote in my diary. I wondered whether I wanted to mend this thing only to smash it again.

Boyfriend came up behind me in the queue for the box office. 'Is this the queue', he said. His hair was standing on end. I resisted the urge to put my fingers in and flatten it, not for fear of intimacy, but because he says I make him feel bad, insecure, that I constantly critise his clothes, his look. I let his hair stand up. It wasn't so bad to leave him with his hair standing up. What did it matter? Who was looking? Who cared?

The film was fine and the boys were pretty. The ending was weak. As the credits rolled we analysed this: death of the trangressive woman character. I thought we'd left that trope behind with the end of the twentieth century. When the boys kissed, he nudged me. The words 'cool film' swum in my head as their mouths locked. Afterwards I said, 'not enough gay sex'.

We went to Maison Bertaux. He had white coffee, I had black. We shared a macaroon. It was gooey in the middle and backed with ricepaper, as they should be.

We walked to where his blue bike was locked, in front of the Shaftesbury Theatre. We had promised not to talk. He talked.

'You must think about what you've done. What you want. Who you are.'

I scrunched up my eyes and looked across the road at the bar. On the first of March, before all the madness started, I had gone there with work people. I had got drunk. I had grabbed Stuart by the tie and tugged on it, breaking some of its woven silk fibres. Stuart told me this later and I apologised, but he said he liked it. The qualities others love in me are the same ones driving Boyfriend and I apart.

'Make a five-year plan', I said, sighing.

[07 May 2002@00:18]
[Ring My Bell]

Ring is on in the background. *Ring*! The scariest film in the universe, ever. For some reason I have been talking about this film inccessantly recently, and always with boys. Boys love this film. I'm at my sister's house. They're curled up on the couch, my sister and her boyfriend, but they're going to abandon me soon, and then I have to not watch it. I have to go to work tomorrow, and that's scarier than any film.

Well, flushed with the 'success' of yesterday's entry, perhaps I will share the details of my second lonely, moved-out day. I, um, finished a book. I finished an article. I sent it off. I went to buy some milk with the little doggie, a Yorkshire Terrier, and then I saw the park across the street, so I went there with him. We threw sticks. I ran with him, but I wasn't wearing a bra, so I had to pretend I was clutching my collars together against the extreme cold. Shyeah. I just didn't want my darling boobies to be damaged.

Went to the park with dog, and boyfriend was doing the same thing with his friends and their dog, on Hampstead Heath. I felt miffed, that his life could continue unabated, hanging with his homiez, while mine was much altered. My homiez were all on holiday, or having birthday celebrations in parts of London I did not care to visit. My life was stopp'd. Is.

I came back and played my sister's boyfriend all my mp3s. At least that was normal, listening to Gravy Train and Maximilian Hecker and all the other stuffz. I realised that not all of me would disappear, even were I to leave my boyfriend. Or rather, even were he to not take me back, for I do not want to leave him. I shall have to leave a decent interval, pretend to have 'thought', then beg him to take me back. And then, and then only, will he decide whether or not he deigns to do that.

Ring is on in the background. I dare not leave this narrative, for that will abandon me to Ring, and Sadako's non-tender embrace. The bit where the hand grabbed her while she was in the well, I screamed and screamed. The bit where the man who thinks he is invincible and he interivews the girl and the girl turns into Sadako, I could not shake it from my head for weeks. Perusing Amazon recently, seeking for Ring 0, the new one, reading reviews of Ring and Ring 2, I chilled down my spine. It is on in the background.

Sorry this is so boring. Um, like, eat my titz if that offends you. Shit, there is scary music. Shit, a mother is screaming. Anyway. I left the house. I phoned Boyfriend up. We spoke for 26 minutes. We tried not to 'talk', but we did. He said he would not tell me if he missed me. He said he would not tell me whether or not he wanted me back. I looked at the grass, the split trunks of the silverbirch trees, the pale gold sunlight filtering through the leaves, the faint mist in the air. You don't get that in Shoreditch.
I came in. I started to cook couscous and roasted vegetables. Lisa came home from a day flogging massages and oils. Shut up, I know that's the most middle-class sentence I've ever written, I'm living on a housing estate provided by Hackney Council, I'm clearly having some kind of reaction. 'Have we got wine?' 'No. We could always.... go without wine.' We made horror movie faces and Bob sang Psycho music. Bob doesn't drink, and he laughed. Lisa, offended, said she could drink alone, she was quite used to it. I capitulated. I always capitulate.

Dinner. Lisa played Tombraider. I tried to read my pretentious, unreadable book. I looked through my non-pretentious, still-unreadable article. I don't know what I'm talking about, but I never pretended I did. Is that enough of an excuse?

I played Mortal Kombat. I have not played that sweet game for eight years. I sucked. I swore. I loved it.

I texted boyfriend and best friend regarding Ring. Same message. Why waste words? One day, people will pay me two pounds each for my words. I have to make a five-year plan. In five years, the Daily Motherfucking Mail will be licking my cunt and paying me five pounds - ooh, I wrote five pounds by accident, but hey, I'll go wit dat - five pounds for every word that slips from these fingers. And every word will drip bitter gall into the hearts of a million suburban Tories, and I will know I have won.

And now? Ring is on in the background, and, accidentlike--

I dare not watch. The well, the hair, the blizzardy tvstuffz, the horrible, chilling music. I dare not watch. I want to watch.

I

dare

not

watch.


[10 May 2002@19:05]
[Purty Boyz and Spangly Drugs]

He picks ash from the ashtray and carves it into shape with a bus-ticket, to demonstrate the size of the line I should be taking. I'm not sure I believe him. In the toilets, the powder echoes the ash-slug precisely. I'm not sure whether I enjoy this. We sit opposite each other and fold our arms on the table and rest our heads down on them and our mouths work, teeth chatter, a warmth spreads through our arms. I want to be in a bed now, on our backs, white sheets, all the cliches. I wanna be raising my arms above my head and enjoying the bend at my elbows; letting my hands flop dangerously down. My heart starts to pound. It feels large in my chest.

He tells me I won't die. I run around, talking to people, bitchy Swedish girls in the toilet, a man who works in casualty and saw six people die that very day. I turn and look over my shoulder at him sitting alone at the table, and shrug as though I can't help myself, I'm forced into these conversations.


We talk all night. I cannot decide whether I am having fun or not, because I feel sad about my boyfriend. He refuses to give me advice, but I pry and pry, and tease and tease, mentally bracing my pirate boot against his chest. In the end he spits it out: he's in the 'leave him' column, along with a few others. None of the advice will do any good. I'm collecting it as a sociological study; the advice they give me says more about their own situation and desires than it does about mine.


[16 May 2002@10:08]
[hide your cheeks with tears... and other breathy-voiced, Hecker-esque sobstuffz]

Well, start from where you are. That's what they say. Actually, they say 'start with what you know'. But I don't know jack shit right now, except that my left foot itches, and both knees are angled upwards and I am resting atop my sittingbones on an expensive carpet that I once spilled red wine over to audible gasps, with my back against an expansive cream sofa, and this laptop on my knees like a sketchbook.
Sophie - yup, Spitroastin' Soph, but that's a bit of a mouthful, lol - is in the next room listening to songs she has downloaded when she's meant to be writing an essay. The wind is rustling the white paper flowers that dangle on strings by the open window. The washing-machine, which contains a jumble of black items and expensive bras and a pair of bright yellow fishnet socks, is clearing its non-existent throat, hawking up soap'n'water loogies, masticating my soiled garments to purity.


Narrative has overtaken me. There are facts you probably want to know, or perhaps you don't; and there are facts I probably ought to tell you, but I won't.
My bed is a single mattress on the floor. I have a Muji grey marl undersheet, a maroon sleeping-bag which sometimes rustles and frightens me in the night, a 1940's thriftstore duvet, and an exquisitely soft cream (angora?) overblanket, which is like something one might see in Elle Deco or the Habitat catalogue. By the bed is a book I bought with me, Survivor, by Chuck Polianuk Author Of Fight Club (that's his full name now, eh - Fight Club is his Teen Spirit) and a book of poems I pulled off Sophie's bookshelf, called Red-Haired Android. If this was a film, you'd curse the churlish childish imagery, but it's my life, and I don't know who's directing this shit.

If you're just surfed on by here, you'll probably want to surf on out, for there's a story here, but I want to give it by drawing the negative spaces, the way we did in life class. A jigsaw puzzle without the lid; pie filling without the crust. Let's just say: Peaches…tummy…and… gosh, we're not in Kansas any more.

The Badz-Maru bag I bought from the Sanrio store in San Francisco two years ago lies on its back by the bed, its worn wheels dead beetle legs in the air. A plaid A-line skirt spills from it; a pair of stinking Converse, grey-laced just three weeks after their purchase, sag into the carpet. Empty pirate boots lie flaccid, the suede smeared with dust. In a house down the road, the rest of my clothes lie: the purple sequinned bellydance costume, the zip-busted velvet skirt, the puff-sleeved stripey jumper accidentally left on the radiator. Is it still there? Or has he folded it up, shoved it in a drawer? Maybe the cat sleeps on it, fluffs it up blackwhite and sneezy, flexes her claws, voodoolike, purring as he strokes her.

Twice a day, every day, on the way to work, and on the way back, I look at my house. Are the lights on or off? Are the windows open? Is he in? My keys lurch in my bag; they could penetrate the glasswood membrane of the front door in an instant. I imagine them flexing uselessly to do their job as do the legs of a dog in a dream.



[16 May 2002@11:51]
[Only boring people get bored. Oh, and me.]

I'm so bored! Watching telly on your own, glass of wine or no, fag in hand or no, is *boring*. I'm severely unsure I'm cut out for the single life. I've had my plateful of sad single person's fresh pasta'n'sauce that takes exactly 2 minutes to cook. I've, um, sat in a café on my own and written my diary. I’ve thought about boys. Christ, what more is there? I've had it all tonight and I don't need any more. I think I even cried when I missed the bus - I certainly dry-cried, whatever that's called, when you scrumple up your face and your chest tightens - but I'm not sure if a genuine wet tear sneaked its way down my cheek or not. I'm not sure it matters; I've shed a reasonable amount of those recently; felt them slip out from my eyes even at work when I'm trying not to.

I haven't told anybody at work about it except Karen, whom I adore, big Kent-dwelling fat girl with the snarky, deadpan sense of humour. She shares my taste for red clothing and red wine. I haven't told jack to my boss, though she was there last week when Karen asked how I was and I said I wasn't living at home. I saw boss in M&S at lunchtime today and we just said 'hi', in a superembarrassed way. I was buying pants cuz I've run out cuz I only took like 3 pairs with me, and sexy pink undies because why the fuck not and anyway, I only brought one bra.

I'm bored of this. I'm so fucking bored. When can I go home? When can I go home, mummy. I fucking hate it here. This has quite possibly been the longest night of my life. It's still only 11pm. I was looking forward to Teachers all day and, like a horrible, typical, cruel jest, which is what my life has become, the series has ended.

Where is Boyfriend? Is he sitting at home as well? At least he's got the cat: I've got Sophie and Kat, but I can't stroke them. Or is he out? Hatred flares up in me and it catches in the same place in my chest that hyperventilates when I walk past his - our - house. Same place my heart knotted when I took drugs last week. I have to put the flat of my hand, always the right hand, against my chest, between my breasts, and stand straight and inhale slowly, eyes closed. What's it all about?


Tomorrow I'll be released once more into the loving arms of the job. I never thought I'd welcome the job but it's an empty space, an anonymous hole, a white room of silence and absence of possiblilty. It was less than a month ago I was mentally mocking my boss and Karen's boss as they discussed the fact that the weekend was over and they felt 'safe' back at work and now…if I mock a millionaire will I become one of them too?


[16 May 2002@22:15]
[Sippin' 40oz]

I think - though what do I know - that maybe I just wanted a holiday. I'm on holiday. It's a holiday where you can have a cigarette burning in the ashtray as you type with unclicked fingers. It's a holiday where you can sit in your pants and your t-shirt with your hair tucked behind your eyes and two inches of undyed root showing. It's a holiday where you can shave off your pubic hair and not wonder whether someone will ask if it's for a sex thing. Actually, that last bit's not true, but it sounded cool, right? I bought some shaving foam, and am considering unwrapping the new blade on my Venus razor. Let's leave it at that.


They're all out tonight. I'm supposed to be dying my hair, cleaning the million-year-old fossilised red varnish off my toenails, shaving my legs (yeah, just my fuckin' legs, yeah? the above was idle fantasy) but instead I am trapped by fear and the need to mop the water that drips from the defrosting freezer, every five minutes. I am drinking guiltlessly, with an excuse, a break-up... but such behaviour would lead to poundage, and such a thing cannot be considered, right? Ach, Bridget Jones is the modern Strewelpeter, scaring nice girls and tight girls into good girls. Bitch.


So I'm on holiday in Shoreditch. I wanted to leave it all: the nights sat seperate at our computers, him working, me fucking around on Messenger or email or whatever, like the dumb slack bitch I can be. I wanted to go where I wanted and do what I wanted: but not forever. For a fortnight. A month. More? Nah.


I'm not out, am I? I'm here, sweating cuz I don't know how to switch off the heating, mopping the floor, sippin' the red, movin' the fingers. All I wanted was something to write about. That's all I've ever wanted.


That's not the truth, but it will do for now.


[22 May 2002@10:17]
[Amp Has Identity Issues]

I'm sitting at my desk. How many people the world over are doing the same, I wonder? But, hah-ah, are they wearing *all red*? Are they wearing, to be more specific, two slightly non-matching shades of red? Does the top have black abstract Charles'n'Ray Eames patterns on it? Are they wearing their trusty heavy brown suede belt? Do they have a bit of leather strapped haphazardly round their wrist (a piece of primitive jewellery that they acquired from their swop shop on Brick Lane)? Are they wearing those dang pirate boots that look so good but feel so annoying? Is their hair a newly-dyed and strident red? Do they have the nail of the thumb of the hand of the arm that is wearing the piece of the leather painted bluey black, not for some desire for association with American alterna-teens but because they were testing the colour but couldn't be bothered to face the accusations of immense gayness that would be a result of painting their nails at work? Have they just made a cup of tea that, mysteriously, has an undertaste of *fish*? Did they, for breakfast this morning, eat a bag of Haribo's Tanfastics Sour Mix washed down with a bottle of Fanta? Is it their birthday next week? Are they facing major life upheavals? Have they decided that, right now, they can't give a shit, and will concentrate their energies towards acquiring some pills for Friday night's gay clubbing fest with their beautiful and tiny gay friend Leandro? Or is that just me?


[22 May 2002@20:02]
[i'm going to post this now because i know that otherwise.... hm.]

Two wise-ass pieces of advice in one day: is this a record? And by wise-ass I mean WISE. Numero Uno came courtesy of Miz Julia, of www.filmdaze.com fame, ex-editrix of World Productions dot.com, but don't even bother goin' there bhwoyee cuz it will so crash your computer. It was raining, I was wearing the clothes from the day before due to my botched night with Boyfriend, but I'd slapped some makeup on and was holding up tolerably well (I think, vainly, but fuck me, gimme vanity or gimme death but you can fuck off if you think imma look at my fat belly and near-horizontal ass and actually give a shit, damn!), due to my nu scarf from Notting Hill Oxfam which was fetchingly tied in a fat-ass funky-ass bow beneath my sagging double chin, hey, works for me, yo. (Witness here a near-perfect rendition of my interior monologue which merely elaborates around a theme of irockisuckirockisuckirockisuck etc etc till the only solution is sleep or drugs or the blissed-out but short-lived release of orgasm). WHATEVER. Christ, I get on my titz.


We head to the Theatre Bar and sip house wine from slanty bottles in the quiet and dark. Funny blond-haired keyboard man isn't here tonight but whoops, Jenni is.... that's Jenni as in 'why didn't you just TELL ME?' Jenni, as in boyfriend-got-boner Jenni, but what the fuck, just how hard can you kick some bitch's ass for not actually doing anything except displaying extreme gayness for someone else? Besides, she understands the fucked-up messed-up trashed-out bullshit that my life has become perhaps better than anybody. So whatya gonna do?


So Jenni and Julia and me talk menz and boyz and cockz and sex just like some characters in a fucking chicklitclitlick novel, 'cept that we're more, um, cool. I'm all undisillusioned and shit. They're like, 'it's tough out there, girl. You don't wanna go there, girl'. (F'real, this is said, and I don't say 'don't mouth cliches' I just nod and think, fuck yeah girl.) We'll be doin' the Ophrah chicken-head blackgirl headwobble in a second if we don't watch it, holdin' up a wristbanded blue-black nail-varnished arm and commanding each other to talk to the hand if we don't watch it, but what the fuck. I've been exiled in a land of men since the age of seventeen and suddenly I'm sucking up oestrogen like a gakhead with a powdery cistern, and it seeps into my veins with the same weary familiar ease.


[24 May 2002@17:26]
[Drinkstuffz]

Well, by half-five I was in pub with Frances and Karen, necking wine. And then at about 8 or so we left and then I had big fight w/ Boyfriend on phone outside Holburn tube. Home then Alice came round then we went to party at State 51 at this so/mu/no thing http://www.somuno.net and everyone was there: flyboy rosie sophie niomi andrew dan etcetc, and there were these ace funny men doing dancing but not as a performance, and there was a trampoline, we just got drunk is all, verreh verreh, becuase this boy was giving me LOTS of vodka with my cranberry juice, and then flyboy reminded me about when i groped his manhood yuk and later he slapped me on ass as way of goodbye and THAT IS NOT NICE because it was over about a million years ago that i actually fancied him, like in the neophonic age or something; alice had hair in bunches and looked well hot with her enormous breasticles. me and sophie tried to see into the playlouder offices but we could not, then we looked through a hole there were plants. then the party ended and we had to go and alice stole a bottle of wine from somwhere and we drank some and ate a million-year-old ceasar salad in a bag from somerfield, it was LUSH. tonight i am meant to be going gay clubbing with beautiful leandro, but i am too tired, and i think i might WRITE STUFFZ.


[26 May 2002@10:30]
[Narrative Closure, Narrative Openings]

Now come on, Miss AMP. It's very important that you try and write something. Come on, put that trashy novel down. Sit yo' ass on this hard chair. Ease your fingers towards the keys. Rattle. I know you can do it. I *know*.

Facts will be easiest today, I believe. Maybe catching up on a few narrative strands, eh? Let's see, what have the strands been over the last few weeks?
Strand Numero Uno: The Break-up.
This is a bit of a big strand, so I'll not go into detail. Latest developments: following Julia's advice, I announced that I will return home at some point next week, and he can shove it up his ass if he don't like it. (Um, shove me up his ass? Note to self: rewrite that sentence.) However, he says he needs 'more time' because he is 'too hurt'. Therefore, we are investigating the possibility that one of us should rent the room available for the next two month's at Elly's place. However, let's face it, it will not be him, will it. After all, whose work needs merely a little laptop or even a pen and paper, and whose work needs a G4, a scanner, a Wacom tablet, a printer, and every fucking other peripheral under the sun? Therefore, I will continue to be exiled. Remind me to actually *do* something bad next time, like have an eight-month affair, shag his brother, or get pregnant with another man's child, yeah?

Strand Numero Two-oh: [nuffin]

Strand Numero Three-oh: Gay Clubbing With Leandro

Didn't happen. Too hungover. Boyfriend urges me to go out and have fun, find someone to fancy, get the fuck on with it. But my fun-bone's broken. Imma get all nihilistic on fun's ass these days. It's like, what's the point? It's fleeting, and hey, it fucked up my relationship, fucked up my life, left me old and alone and fat and ginger and lonely and catless and flatless and fed up. Fuck fun in the ear, man.

Strand Numero Four-oh

I don't think there is one, is there? This is my life. Homeless, boyfriendless, fun-less, pill-less.

New Narrative Elements

1) Tomorrow is my birthday. I am going to ride on the London Eye with my ex-boyfriend, (trying that phrase on for size like a second-hand school uniform) buy a new computer with my insurance money, then have people over to dinner. I don't know what to cook. I can't be bothered to cook. No one interesting is coming anyway. And when I have cooked, I will have to wash up. Alone. Boyfriend and I had a rule: you cook, I wash up, or vice versa. Now it's just me. I cook. I wash up. I feel lonely. I stroke my arms trying to hug myself. I want to cry. I pinch my arms to make it go away. I feel horny. I sort myself out with mundane and joyless thrills, mechanical as pissing. O, funstuffz.


2)However, my new computer will be a source of great delight and joy, for it will have a cd/ dvd rewriteable drive and all other kinds of exciting features. I will fall in love with my computer instead. I will write and write and write and write.


3) At some point during the next week, I shall have to quit my job. HURRAH!!!!


4) At some point during the next week, I shall move house again.


5) My grandma has gone into hospital. At some point during the future, my grandma will die. I fucking love my grandma. I've seen her every week since I was born. I was her favourite of her sixteen grandchildren. 'Oh, you're a one', she always says. I make her laugh with my unruly hair, my candypink nail polish, my charity shop coats, my convoluted career: she plies me with gardening books, peace, and boiled egg on toast. I look into her green and huge garden and watch the wild parakeets feed. When a squirrel eats the nuts, she gets furious and claps her hands.

At some point in the future, she will die.


I feel like I'm losing everything that made me me. Once I was the sunshine girl. I anticipate being a lonely and suicidal spinster.


I always knew this would happen.


[28 May 2002@22:41]
[here's an email i just sent my friend, because i can't be arsed to actually 'generate any content' for you, homiez]

what the fuck is going on? i think relationship breakups seem to be like a VIRUS! *everyone* is getting it! all the long-established couples I know seem to be tumbling like, o, houses of cards, sycamore seeds in autumn. everyone's relationships are like, totally twin towers, dude. ek!


b/f and i decided to part for 2 months. i'm not happy about it - even though it was mutual - but i guess if we have any chance to mend this thing then perhaps we must go through this. who knows what will happen, urgh.


birthday was nice! sophie and kat made
me a gorgeous birthday breakfast, bless them, and sang to me and stuff. boyfriend dropped card and present through the door.... after breakfast i went to j's and we headed off to go on the london eye. it was amazing to see london from ABOVE! london is so FLAT!
then we had lunch. then i bought my new i-book, mmmmyummy, and j bought me some more presents. i tried on cool glasses! they have clear plastic frames! they are rad. i'm getting my eyes tested 2moro.


then we came back here and argh fuck loadsa ppl were coming round!
boyfriend, bless him, went to the shop for me and bought lots of food. of course it was wierd for him because kat would be here and later jenni, both of whom he got boners for. yuk, horrid horrid situation, but... whatever. cooked real quick, drank, ate, whatever... amy, lisa, michelle, leandro, kat, sophie, me, boyfriend, jenni, julia. people. it was a bit of a headfuck, especially when boyfriend and Jenni started talking. and talking. and talking.


i started getting really angry. luckily after a while b/f noticed this and came and talked to me and said nice things, also said no one was talking to him! because all my m8s were like, 'bad boyfriend'.
but it was still horrid for me! then everyone left and it was just me, boyfriend, jenni, and kat. can u imagine! me there, with him and the two girls he totally loved! what FUCKING BULLSHIT!!!!

i started freaking out again, feeling so ugly and useless and rejected, but then i was like 'hah! no! so i started taking photos of them with the digital camera and thinking of all the horrible things i was going to write about them both, ha ha. not that i will.

so yeah, things got a bit easier. i was also scared b/f would walk home with jenni, and then, who knows. but he promised he would not. and jenni left first. GOOD. i do not trust jenni, nice as she is, but feel it is better to be her friend basically so i can keep tabs on her and guilt-trip her. mmm, nice motives miss amp! but, pfffft. she doesn't deserve my fucking motives.


aaanyway. it was so frickin' wierd. i only cried a little bit, when i opened the lovely card from kat and sophie, and at lunchtime when boyfriend said happy birthday and we clinked our glasses of wine... i could not stop myself. in my head was like 'yeah, so fucking happy. mmm, really. yeah. wow. i'm fucking alone, i'm fucking homeless, you don't fucking love me any more, maybe i don't fucking love you either, fuck fuck fuck!' and i remembered last year, the party that went on all night, boyfriend serving mojitos, frances and mark djing, crowds of people, the garden bedecked with indian wedding flowers, me at midnight on the white bed, fairy lights on, surrounded by presents and my friends. boyfriend bringing in a cake from konditer and cook, the best cakes in the whole of london, stabbed with candles.


but... whatever. today, hungover, didn't get into work till 12. suddenly overcome with sadness at one point, girl from HR caught me staring out the window at the rain sobbing my eyes out. fucking miserable, this is.


but i'm trying to keep it together.
when the fuck did my life become a bad chick lit novel? or any kind of novel at all? my life was a bland white expanse. now... christ. it's like i've been flung out of a boat and i'm sinking fast.
hm.

[02 June 2002@16:04]
[Kick Out The Jams]


I am in my new flat. Yes, my third abode in as many weeks (almost): my, I am quite the gadabout. This flat belongs to my friend Elly. I met Elly in 2000, at a job interview for the position of community manager for the ill-fated pock.net. The flat is lovely: spacious, sun-drenched. I caught the sun on my shoulder from sitting on her balcony: I have fetched sunglasses, wide-brimmed hat, Clinique City Block: thus armoured, I may venture there again. 'Imagine no possessions: it's easy if you try'. Um, yeah, it's quite easy to imagine most things; that's the beauty of the imagination dude, but I digress, for I have no need of imagining: my room is ardently robot-like: pink sheets on the bed which I fetched from home: pink knickers (mine) drying fetchingly on the radiator beneath the open windows: a rack rigidly filled with red and black clothes, my red studded belt dangling from the end of the clothesrail. It is a regimentary outfit for an all-out balls-to-the-wall attack on one's life, such as I seem to be staging. Hm.

[03 June 2002@11:39]
[Jubilant]

Last night I met up with Sophie and Frances and we went to the Future Rock'n'Roll thing at the ICA. It was arse. I missed the only band I wanted to see (called Joan of Ass) and then when we were watching the Parkinsons the fire alarm went off for the second time and we were all evacuated.

There had been an evacuation when we first turned up. Because the ICA is on the Mall, just down from Buckingham Palace, and it was full of all these dreadful Shorditch hipsters plus old punx who had been drinking Special Brew all day, I think everyone was nervous.

It was so hot yesterday, sweltering, but I refused to accept it and wore hot things, which put me in a mood. When we were kicked out I was so happy. We sat on the kerb and sipped our wine and smoked fags. Eventually the fire alarms went away and everyone went back in, but there was no way frances and I were going back into that burning pit of indie scenster torture hell, so we strolled off down the mall.


It was floodlit and teeming with
policemen. We sipped wine and walked toward buckingham palace, and it was really cool, because they were having a rehearsal for this gay-ass concert that's going to be happening today. There were lasers in the sky, racks of blue and purple and orange and red lights.... Lights were shone onto the palace which span around, made it turn blue/pink, made it candy-tangerine orange red... It was crazy! we really liked it!


then we decided we would really like it some more if we had some drugs. Sadly we didn't have any pills - because boy, was that ever pillhead heaven - so we ran off into the woods, past hordes of police and security and soldiers in green berets - sat down by a tree, and snorted fingernailfuls of coke, ha ha. It was aces. Then we went back, the better to appreciate the display.

Then we wanted a fag so we asked a man and he gave us one - ' rodeo lights', they were called (he was not from the UK) - then he said, 'you want some ganja' and we were like 'yeah, always', but thought it was a joke and headed off. But then he came running after us, shoved something in my hand, and said, 'it's not much, but it's nice', and ran off again! and we were like, cor, fanx! so that was really sweet.

And we wandered and chatted and watched the lights - frances is a very good person for this kind of thing - sophie went back into the gig - and then a giant monster sparkler ran up the road making a huge noise, and me and frances jumped into the air and ran towards it, then all the fountains went off and this massive trumpet music was playing, and then BAM, there was a ball of fire! it was too cool. We were so excited. Running along hand in hand off our heads among the ardent royalists. It was aces.

[June 13 2002 @ 11.29pm]
[
Jubilant II)
The day after that, on the Monday, I went out to an Indie Disco. (I know, fucking bury me up to my waist in sand and hurl stones at my head, I deserve it). We shall draw a discreet veil over that night’s proceedings, to better preserve the dignity of all involved.


At six a.m. I’m wobbling my bike through Shoreditch in the light and fuck me, don’t take me to Broadway (Market), to my empty pink bed in my nu flat past glassless windows and up four flights of piss-stained stairs - I wanna stay HERE!


So I bust into x-b/f’s house – my house – sling bike on floor, climb into bed. He raises bleary eyes from the pillow. ‘Wow!’ he says, managing a severe amount of sarcasm for one so recently wrenched from sleep. ‘It’s Miss AMP coming home out of her head at six AM! It’s just like old times!’


Judicious ears fold in their flaps and ignore this slight. We awaken four hours later with me wrapped around him like a mantra ray, at which point he proceeds to enter his newly traditional freak-out phase. ‘I don’t wanna get back with you!’ Like, no problem dude, we were just havin’ a hug. ‘You confuse me! I… I like hugging you… and… but I don’t wanna…’ Eh? I was, like, just usin’ you for oxcytocin and stuff.


Cue enormous argument, in which it is revealed that contrary to my earlier, misguided beliefs that we were working towards a reconciliation, beliefs which had led me to slink around dejectedly not having very much fun at any point whatsoever in the previous month for fear of a bitch-slap of guilt that spits teeth like hailstones onto the floor – contrary to this, we were meant to be BONING OTHER PPL!


Suffice to say I bust outta that house in a way different frame of mind to the one I waltzed in with. Later on that week – perhaps indeed the second when nu flatmate Elly wanted to show me her speakers and how they glowed and flickered, and I suggested that Emerge was the only song that could truly coax those shy little lights to open up for business, and we were suddenly grabbed by the song and shook up by the song and flung around the front room by the electronic fury of the song, cheeks flushed, hair mussed, loving it – that was when it occurred to me that, just perhaps, I was where I had wanted to be.


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