Thursday, August 11, 2005
Don't need a shrink but an exorcist, sha la la la laa
Gah. Gah, I say. Still readjusting to normality after weekend. I really ought to do more as in a larger amount of drugs when I have the opportunity, given how lousy I tend to feel after such a small quantity. I'd probably feel less bad, proportionately, if I took more. (This makes perfect aquiline Sense in my head but I don't have the right mathematical burble blarb. So get stuffed. Heh.)
But yes, for some reason I seem to require a few days of nothing-much-ness to realign myself with. . .myself. My poor brain. I do still figure that my dabbling daintily in narcotics is roughly equivalent to shunting one more box of temporary junk into an attic groaning with miscellaneous crap - boring possible long-term effects aside yawn stretch, it makes very very little difference. I'm perfectly capable of being insufferable to myself and others when straight, thanks, so it's nice to hand the reins to something else once in a while. It's like a little holiday. Only cheaper.
I wanna be straight, I wanna be straight
I'm sick and tired of taking drugs and staying up late
I wanna confirm
I wanna conform
I wanna be safe and I wanna be snug and I wanna be warm. . .
I wanna be straight, I wanna be straight
Come out of the cold and do what I'm told and don't deviate
I wanna give I wanna give I wanna give my consent
I'm learning to hate all the things that were great when I used to be. . .BENT
My first London flatmate fucked someone from Ian Dury's record company. I really should have wangled an interview. But now I can't. Cos he's dead. Oh well.
She was an interesting person. It was an interesting time. I could slouch to the Astoria in my fuck-off boots in about twenty minutes, and return to a tiny orange room with a futon that might as well have just been some crates with a bit of tissue paper on top as a gesture towards mattressness. (But at least it didn't creak.) The mice didn't come in my room, but they weren't scared of the semi-fossilised Siamese that used to howl and scream agonisingly at all hours. It was a dump. Have I blo - no, refuse to use that newly-minted verb, have I written here on this online outlet of the locked bedroom and the mad Danish harridan and me and my pet rat fleeing across London in a cab from her wrath and the thing with the washing machine flooding and the scary guy from downstairs going mad and having to break into the room and finding it full of two decades of mouse-enticing, fire-hazardy, serious-psychological-disturbance-indicating crap? Probably.
Hey, oi, nothing wrong with my long-term memory. I still know the whole of my opening speech in the school play when I was seven. (I was Tempus the Witch. They did my hair all big with green sparkly bits in it and when we were waiting to go onstage someone walked past and yanked it cos they thought it was a wig. I suspect I cried, but not as much as on the second night when I got booed. Hehheheheh. I think my mum killed about twelve people that night, injured eight.)
People I don't know are reading my blog, apparently. For, like, minutes at a time. For over an hour. Don't they have better things to do? Don't you? No no no. I'm glad to have you. It really is a pleasant feeling. Leave a comment. Send an email. Develop an unhealthy attachment. I'm only sorry I'm disappointing the people who are arriving here in their furtive search for 'fuck feast' ('fest', I'm sure you mean 'fest', although a 'fuck feast' does sound deliciously Dionysian, sort of an orgiastic finger-buffet) or my current favourite, 'sharking knickers japanese'.
When I worked at The Dodgy Search Engine Place Now Defunct Ha Ha, I used to encounter quite a few sites who would drop all sorts of laughably relevance-free key phrases into their lists. Most people would be honest, and if they sold teapots they would have a list limited to mentions of tea and pots. Others clearly thought with breathtaking short-sightedness that they'd throw a few genitals into the list, imagining that internet users browsing for porn would type in 'hot spanking sex' and, when finding themselves at a site selling stationery, would suddenly pull up their pants and go 'oooh j'know I could do with some new box files'. Actually most of the sites that would do this were big directory ones, the kind that supposedly offer a vast variety of stuff but only really point you to other, crapulous sites.
They were pains, anyway, and I'd do my best when writing the copy - which was to be tucked away in the back end for spiders to tickle, not to be seen by anyone looking at the site in question - to extract all the rudeness and be infuriatingly clean. 'Wet pussies' obviously got the 'hairdryers for cats' treatment. Well, really. They'd get cross, but then I did have a twenty-minute debate with one client who insisted that I and not he had spelt Moulinex wrong. It was that kind of place. They were those kinds of clients. The customer service guy used to amuse himself by working archaic words into his sarcastically-grovelling correspondence. "The refund will be with you eftsoons."
I'm afraid it is easy to fall into that mindset. Even as I know that someone looking for a 'fuck feast' will scurry away from here double-quick like (and I probably wouldn't want their sticky fingers on my virgin pages anyway) I find it hard, knowing that this is how people find me, not to drop the words 'fuck feast' into the text as often as possible, fuck feast.
I suppose I should be less concerned with the people I don't know who read this, and more concerned with the ones I do, who do. But ach. Transparency has served me well enough to date. It shouldn't, but glass is surprisingly tough shit on occasion. And besides, there's only ever about 35% of the truth here. And no one knows about the anonymous blog I've started. (That bit was a lie. Or was it? Hahahah. No, really. It'd be too obvious it was me, even with a new blog being started every second. It's a minor miracle 27 people visit here a day with so many million others. It really is. And I don't have the time. Or the bile, frankly. I forget sometimes that all the snarling vitriol directed at foals and bells and people asking me for work is as a toy gun in the paws of a lop-eared dwarf rabbit in a primary school classroom. Or is it? Etc.)
I have got a weekend to document. But not right now. Although there can be pictures, with the minimum of fannying about.
More in the usual place.
But yes, for some reason I seem to require a few days of nothing-much-ness to realign myself with. . .myself. My poor brain. I do still figure that my dabbling daintily in narcotics is roughly equivalent to shunting one more box of temporary junk into an attic groaning with miscellaneous crap - boring possible long-term effects aside yawn stretch, it makes very very little difference. I'm perfectly capable of being insufferable to myself and others when straight, thanks, so it's nice to hand the reins to something else once in a while. It's like a little holiday. Only cheaper.
I wanna be straight, I wanna be straight
I'm sick and tired of taking drugs and staying up late
I wanna confirm
I wanna conform
I wanna be safe and I wanna be snug and I wanna be warm. . .
I wanna be straight, I wanna be straight
Come out of the cold and do what I'm told and don't deviate
I wanna give I wanna give I wanna give my consent
I'm learning to hate all the things that were great when I used to be. . .BENT
My first London flatmate fucked someone from Ian Dury's record company. I really should have wangled an interview. But now I can't. Cos he's dead. Oh well.
She was an interesting person. It was an interesting time. I could slouch to the Astoria in my fuck-off boots in about twenty minutes, and return to a tiny orange room with a futon that might as well have just been some crates with a bit of tissue paper on top as a gesture towards mattressness. (But at least it didn't creak.) The mice didn't come in my room, but they weren't scared of the semi-fossilised Siamese that used to howl and scream agonisingly at all hours. It was a dump. Have I blo - no, refuse to use that newly-minted verb, have I written here on this online outlet of the locked bedroom and the mad Danish harridan and me and my pet rat fleeing across London in a cab from her wrath and the thing with the washing machine flooding and the scary guy from downstairs going mad and having to break into the room and finding it full of two decades of mouse-enticing, fire-hazardy, serious-psychological-disturbance-indicating crap? Probably.
Hey, oi, nothing wrong with my long-term memory. I still know the whole of my opening speech in the school play when I was seven. (I was Tempus the Witch. They did my hair all big with green sparkly bits in it and when we were waiting to go onstage someone walked past and yanked it cos they thought it was a wig. I suspect I cried, but not as much as on the second night when I got booed. Hehheheheh. I think my mum killed about twelve people that night, injured eight.)
People I don't know are reading my blog, apparently. For, like, minutes at a time. For over an hour. Don't they have better things to do? Don't you? No no no. I'm glad to have you. It really is a pleasant feeling. Leave a comment. Send an email. Develop an unhealthy attachment. I'm only sorry I'm disappointing the people who are arriving here in their furtive search for 'fuck feast' ('fest', I'm sure you mean 'fest', although a 'fuck feast' does sound deliciously Dionysian, sort of an orgiastic finger-buffet) or my current favourite, 'sharking knickers japanese'.
When I worked at The Dodgy Search Engine Place Now Defunct Ha Ha, I used to encounter quite a few sites who would drop all sorts of laughably relevance-free key phrases into their lists. Most people would be honest, and if they sold teapots they would have a list limited to mentions of tea and pots. Others clearly thought with breathtaking short-sightedness that they'd throw a few genitals into the list, imagining that internet users browsing for porn would type in 'hot spanking sex' and, when finding themselves at a site selling stationery, would suddenly pull up their pants and go 'oooh j'know I could do with some new box files'. Actually most of the sites that would do this were big directory ones, the kind that supposedly offer a vast variety of stuff but only really point you to other, crapulous sites.
They were pains, anyway, and I'd do my best when writing the copy - which was to be tucked away in the back end for spiders to tickle, not to be seen by anyone looking at the site in question - to extract all the rudeness and be infuriatingly clean. 'Wet pussies' obviously got the 'hairdryers for cats' treatment. Well, really. They'd get cross, but then I did have a twenty-minute debate with one client who insisted that I and not he had spelt Moulinex wrong. It was that kind of place. They were those kinds of clients. The customer service guy used to amuse himself by working archaic words into his sarcastically-grovelling correspondence. "The refund will be with you eftsoons."
I'm afraid it is easy to fall into that mindset. Even as I know that someone looking for a 'fuck feast' will scurry away from here double-quick like (and I probably wouldn't want their sticky fingers on my virgin pages anyway) I find it hard, knowing that this is how people find me, not to drop the words 'fuck feast' into the text as often as possible, fuck feast.
I suppose I should be less concerned with the people I don't know who read this, and more concerned with the ones I do, who do. But ach. Transparency has served me well enough to date. It shouldn't, but glass is surprisingly tough shit on occasion. And besides, there's only ever about 35% of the truth here. And no one knows about the anonymous blog I've started. (That bit was a lie. Or was it? Hahahah. No, really. It'd be too obvious it was me, even with a new blog being started every second. It's a minor miracle 27 people visit here a day with so many million others. It really is. And I don't have the time. Or the bile, frankly. I forget sometimes that all the snarling vitriol directed at foals and bells and people asking me for work is as a toy gun in the paws of a lop-eared dwarf rabbit in a primary school classroom. Or is it? Etc.)
I have got a weekend to document. But not right now. Although there can be pictures, with the minimum of fannying about.
More in the usual place.
