June 2002

It's all change in my old manor. The floors are clean, and the shop opposite has started stocking newspapers, and there is a gaff on there which I once used to visit with glee that I now poke my nose in the air at when I walk by, and sometimes flick v-signs towards. But like, whatevah. As you can see already from these few lines, I've been trying to writestuffz, but it's all wank.
It's all 'I did ketamine and a boy slept in my bed!' Or it's all 'I am annoyed with life and the wankers who hurt my bike!' Or all 'I have too much work to do but I would rather go on Messenger and smoke fagz and get drunk and talk about offensive shite with my m8z than do it!' Who'd want to read that? I don't even want to scribe it.

And the funstuffz? I don't want to give it away: I don't wanna give pleasure to those involved, and don't wanna give displeasure to those who were not, not that I have done anything to inspire displeasure in any reasonable person who was not involved, but since when have I associated with reasonable people?


This entry I can already see will not be published; (and no, don't think that's because of you, Mr h8mail hata, because I was way more flattered by your abuse than anything). It won't be published because I cannot remember what the fuck I used to write about, back then in the day, when all was domestic bliss, and there was no one reading my shitz, and no one giving a fuck, and certainly no INTERACTIVITY.

You, you see, are an ugly lot. I believe you seem to think that this is a two-way street. It is not. I'm the daddy here, ok? I talk, you listen. I give, you take. That's the deal. You're the bitch in this, y'getmi? You don't talk to me, you don't look at me, and you certainly don't write to me unless it's to offer to take me to lunch on expenses then pay me ten million pee a word. That's how it is.
That's how it should be.

Instead, nah, we have all you little indie ppl out there picking up on the promise of interactivity and communication provided by the internet, for all the world as this was oh-oh instead of oh-two, and we still believed the world was a shiny place. Listen up, fucks! The internet is a mean and nasty space, where people will post up addresses of secret diaries just to shame others; where mean men will lure you into needless slaggings, save the conversations, then show them to the slagee; where erstwhile e-quaintances can turn coats and heads and destroy a friendship in seconds, for all the world as if it's not worth the paper it's not written on. Internet? Biznatchnet, make no mistake children. Watch. Your. Backs.

And don't think that that email address right there is for clicking, for it is not. That email address is reserved for the nice people who offer me NAKED CO-EDS ON WEBCAM! The ability to BURN YOUR OWN DVDS IN SECONDS! The chance to WIN $50,000, RIGHT NOW! The power to INCREASE TRAFFIC TO YOUR WEB SITE BY 10 MILLION PER CENT! It is not, I repeat, not, for the likes of you to click and scribe and re-read and press 'send', for all our feckless urgings to give us feedback. That is, unless you are a cute boy. And are offering to provide head of the calibre which I used to receive at my old manor. Which you are not, let's face it. So fuck it.