30 September 2001

Like A Prayer. But Not, Actually, A Prayer.


Before we get into this, could we all just gather together to pray. Let's close our eyes, bow our heads, put our hands together and offer up a sincere and honest plea.

'Please, Lord, let this not continue. Let this madness end. Wreak not your fury, Lord, but have mercy upon your servant.'

Thank you, readers. I can only hope that He will hear, and heed. I hope He will in His great and almighty goodness see fit to cease His relentless testing and punishment of AMP, a humble East London-based writer and general ho-about-town.

I can only assume He is punishing me for having the temerity to use His programs on a computer that He did not produce. A computer, yea, with gentle curves and tangerine styling. A computer that over the last week has heaved a sigh and then stopped, frozen rigid, whenever sparks of genius are flying from these Wet'n'Wild-Xanadu-tipped fingers. And you better believe that that is whenever the fingers are moving, baybee. Shyeah.

Fuck-up Numero Uno was when I carried the laptop into the garden, slung down the large black beanbag, lit a cigarette (ssh! - don't tell boyfey!) and started to write about my unfortunate inheritance of the AMP Family Close Your Eyes To Terror Gene. O no, said the comp: the world will not know about that. Crash, bang, wipe-out. All work gone. Fine, methought: perhaps it is too soon after The Big Whappety-Boom to write anything except heartfelt pleas for dumb-ass Americans not to go around attacking the Moroccan gas station attendant. Whatever. No worries.

But just now it's at least seventeen days since The Whappety-Boom and you'd think He wouldn't mind me chattering on about things: but no. An hour's work - gone. This comp is crash-tastic. It's crash-alicious. It's crash-tabulous. It's crap.

Of course, these things come in threes. I'm not even going to get started on Messenger. Um, not that I use it, like, because "chat" is for saps and I'm too busy hanging out with beautiful fifteen-year-old punk rock boys to "chat" to people via the "information super-highway", natch. But when I do "chat" to someone, guess which one is me:

a) the bastard on a mankalicious shitty-coloured PC chit-chatting away happily

b) the bastard on the beautiful Apple Macintosh, getting booted off every five seconds

Quite. Anyway, so, this time I've made it this far. This message I am being allowed to convey. So, what is it? Well, I"m quite sure you don't need to hear about my thoughts on the Big Whappety-Boom, nor of my dreams of apocalypse, nor of the news addiction and avoidance, not the occasional moments of sheer terror. You don't need to hear them them because you know about them. You suffer from them. I'm sure you do.

Instead, I offer: facts. The mundane, trivial minutiae of an ordinary life. That's what you want, isn't it honey? That's why you're here, right? Isn't that why I daily slide my mousepointer over the bookmarks for maura.com, disgruntledhousewife, vodkatini, fosca, glitter, pound, samedogsametricks? I'm not looking for opinions, great literature, or education. I don't want the big things, the big fears, the apocalypse: not today, thank you. I'm seeking - embracing - caressing trivia: I want tiny, hard, glittering truths. No speculation, no rumination, just promise me reality.

I need to know about the strange boys who approached Voddy over the last week: to marvel at Nicol's cup-tossing temper-tantrum because she didn't like her meal at the Thai restaurant: to giggle at abortedfetus' need to hide in the bathroom at her parents' house and sneak bong hits in the steamy shower.

The online journal is a contract between writer and audience: their desire to impose their personality on others; my urge for the voyeuristic thrill of gazing at their naked life. Everybody's happy in their delusion of connection. The world didn't really end on the 11th; it just felt like it. We're still here, prove the journals: trivial, mundane, fabulous. These days, that's as good as it gets.



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