Wednesday, 29th June 2005
Memos
To: Dipshit PR Fuckhead
Calling someone thick because they do not have a public school accent makes you an even bigger arsehole than you previously were, which is saying something since you were already on woolly mammoth sized verbal terds. Hmm, remember Chris Ofili and his usage of elephant shit in his art? Maybe if we got you to breathe into a bag full of polyfilla, he might use the foetid stench of your entrails too. (No offense intended to Chris Ofili, because I really like his art.)
To: Repulsive Toothless Men
I’m not sure what part of me screams, “I want to be gummed by a man who looks twice his age”, but you may safely ignore it. Don’t ever talk to me or wolf whistle at me again.
To: Repulsive Men with Teeth
Can’t figure out why I ignore you? Try not referring to me as “Sexy Girl” and try upping your hygiene levels.
To: Men In General
Just fuck off, okay? See how I don’t get my tits out? See how I walk real fast past you? That means I’m not interested, deal with it. However, if you are that cute mannie I have seen on the train twice now, you can talk to me, okay? See how I act all stern faced and don’t catch your eye? That means I fancy you.
To: PR Firm
Fuck you and your dumb ass egos and office politics you superficial sons of bitches - I quit! I got a better job for a non-profit who pay me more for less hours. On top of it, the organisation campaigns to better peoples lives, not act in socially destructive ways by creating needs and wants for useless commodities, products and celebrities that most people can’t afford and that no one really needs. Thanks for the freebies though and I’ll work through to the end of August, mkay?
To: Flat-mate
Cleaning fluids are NOT a waste of money. Deal with it.
To: Body
I mean really, I don’t even know how to verbalise this. Beer? Beer? You’ve decided to become allergic to fucking beer? To say I am disgusted with you doesn’t even come close. I mean, this is fucking ridiculous. First cow juice, then sugar and now beer. Truly, this is the greatest disappointment you have dealt me yet. This is worse than the ferret arse, worse than your inability to grow calves, worse than your sudden desire to get zits these last few years. This, this, my ex-friend, this is a national travesty. You’re lucky it is summer so as I can drink rose wine for a few months, but I’m telling you, come Autumn, you best have changed your bloody mind because I sure as hell am not staying sober until next Summer.
Monday, 27th June 2005
punctuation is pricey
… and i am just sat here, feeling like i should say something, feeling like i owe something and yet there is still nothing to say except that, you know, life goes on and i picked up something i never put down and i’m just, you know, really happy in a non-excitable way and sometimes i feel really old in a non-sad way, and, you know, mostly i just shock people when i tell them how old i really am, and work just floats by and it’s simple and so nice to be in control and to produce something and, you know, there is something to be said for this productivity lark, but, you know, i’d leave this firm in a heartbeat if i could find somewhere more ethically sound to work, but, you know, it is what it is and what it isn’t is my life and so that leaves all the happiness intact and, you know, i love london in the summer and this beautiful weather has been so kind to my soul which, you know, worms said is just a jumble of electrical farts inside my cranium, and, you know, i think he is right, so, you know, that tiny city that spreads and crawls in the perpetual night of my skull is shining and blinking and enjoying balmy nights by a bridged river with moonlight and some vague song in the distance while a waiter gives me and my loves another drink and somehow, somehow, we’ve been sat here for years, laughing and crying and drinking and toasting and none of us is drunk, not a one has had to leave for an early morning, and all of our hearts are swelling in the wash of a salt water that tingles as it soothes and reminds us that always we feel, always we hurt amongst our loves and we should never be afraid of that, we should never run because, you know, really the only thing to be afraid of is never giving your all, holding back, not throwing yourself off the rooftop and so each of your scrapes gets slowly filled in with love by the butter knife of your own kindness, until one day you find yourself walking in a place you kinda know and everyone smiles at you and small children will tell their sisters that they like that lady and they will mean you, and the lady in the coffee shop will know exactly how you like your tea and finally, one evening you realise, (again), that this really is all there is, just myriad versions, and no matter which one you choose, it’s all the same and the trick is to just keep walking, to know your path but to kill your desire and, you know, knowing that it is nothing and that there is nothing to know makes you smile and gives you a small, constant joy which makes the stars sing and so the notes drop down, one by one, to make the leaves on the trees bounce and the flowers open to the sun…