Last week I asked who, out of all the people I used to e-mail my weekly, wanted to get it in future. You fools are the only ones who responded.

Stupid shit's going on. Last week I

No.

There is

No.

I feel irrationally over-protective of some people. When these people are hurt I get angry. Because there's nothing I can do about it. However much I might want to do something, I can't. And anyway, my reasons for feeling protective are complete and utter shit. Reasons I know and reasons I won't tell.

Last week I wrote something on a piece of paper in my pocket. It's complete bollocks. But I believed it as I wrote it.

I invested a lot of time and thought into something I shouldn't have. Something I knew I shouldn't have. So I tried to avoid it. And because of that, things have happened which effectively solve my dilemma. But also make me feel completely stupid for not dealing with it myself.

I never was too good at taking my own advice.

I woke up this morning (Tuesday) fairly optimistic. I was tired. But things were getting good (maybe). Then they stopped.

So this is being written throughout the week as opposed to before dinner on a Friday night. Hence there may be mood shifts. No revisions (save spelling and grammar checks) shall be made.

A question. Which I already know the answer to. So shan't ask.

This has been a bit of a let down so far (for me). I had some stuff to say last week. But none of it's relevant anymore. As I say, this stuff gets dated very quickly.

Few of you liked my last piece (bug). Which I suppose doesn't matter; I make them because I like them and for me. But since most of you appeared to like the last few, it's a strange feeling. I know it's good. But there's less validation.

I'm out of practise.

So I had an idea. Or, to be more accurate, Grant Morrison did. The idea? To number these things in descending order. So, if I had five weeklies planned, start at 5, then 4, then 3, then 2, then 1. Set myself a limit. But this requires planning. Of which there is none here.

The point of manipulating you all (so far as that happened) is no longer relevant.

I'm holding back.

Can you tell?

The point of these was to get stuff out of me that I won't tell anybody else. But then I go and edit myself, so as you don't think too ill of me.

Fuck that.

The next part may be included or it may not. Either way, it'll get written.

=iNTerRuPT=

I was attracted to -----. The reasons were shitty; basically that she had been nice to me. But there it was. So I decided it would be irresponsible of me to do anything about it; I can't offer anyone anything but expensive witticisms and a bunch of pain. So I didn't. And now she's with -----. And, from what little I know of him, this seems a far better state of affairs. Because he's a much better man than me. At least in those terms. This shouldn't be sent out. It's even more irresponsible of me to send this out than to say nothing whatsoever.

Fuck that. You volunteered for this shit. You get what I give you.

I've been angry a lot in recent times. Mostly at inconsequential things, such as the sliminess of the current government. At the idiocy of writing a "personal statement" for our UCAS forms according to set formulae in a book published by same organisation. It's far easier to be idealistic when you're a child. As soon as you start growing up you are forced, if you want to be a part of society, to give up everything that means anything to you. It is against my principles to lie. Sure, I do it. But only when it doesn't matter. Something such as going to university? That matters. I don't want to say to them that I'm a hardworking, motivated, enthusiastic... all of that is bollocks. I may be intelligent. Scrap that, I am intelligent. But that's not what they want at university. Oh no, we've got to prove our "social skills" and "problem solving abilities" and all manner of other social crap that doesn't make a fucking difference in the real world. They say it does. But it doesn't. I want to go to university to learn the technical and theoretical skills required to make films. So that I can make films and shake the world with what I have to say. Or at least try, now, whilst I still can. That's what I want to do. That should be enough for the fuckwits. But no. They want to see how well I can deal with fucking kittens ('cos that's what they do when no-one's looking). I keep hearing birds tweeting and can't stop myself muttering to myself in public anymore. I start to sing and it gets louder instead of quieter.

That was all bollocks. Sure, I may not like the idea of having to compromise in order to get into university. But that's not what makes me angry. What makes me angry is the fact that I'm going blind and that this limits me already in what I want to do with my life. That it will limit me more and more as I get older.

Driving. Not a big thing. Lots of you are learning / have taken your test and have / will have driving licenses. It's the most natural thing in our world. Something you don't even consider as out of the ordinary. Now, I could reel off the usual social shit about driving being "the modern right of passage" for a young man. And I shall. 'Cos it's true. When you can drive you are a man. You can go anywhere, do anything.

No holds barred.

You can be anything you want. The social stigma against not being able to drive is nowhere near as strong as in the past. Against not achieving other rights of passage I mean. Hell, you get the fools who don't even learn to drive on the grounds that "cars damage the ozone layer, man." Yeah? And? What's the ozone layer ever done for me? Or you? What's that? Kept the cosmic rays out? Fuck that. If we'd all been exposed to more cosmic rays when we were kids, we'd simply have adapted to them and lived happily ever after.

So I'm pissed that (amongst other things) I can't drive. I can't follow my dad into his profession (if I ever wanted to) because I can't drive.

I'm on a new computer and the keyboard doesn't feel right. What's that? I should be doing private study? Fuck off, Caleb.

Another thing that's making me sick in recent times; my desire to get a girlfriend. I don't want that! But my body's being a complete wanker about the affair. Keeps saying "hey, man, that girl looks hot, heh heh, go ask her out!" and I'm like, "No! Fuck off! Leave me alone! I don't want that! I can't deal with that! I'm perfectly happy with the rut I've worn myself and I don't want to leave!" And then he goes, "but dude, surely you want a nice girl to fuck? Surely you want that? You're not queer are you? 'Cos that's cool, don't get me wrong. Just means I've been going about this all wrong. Hey! Look at that guy over there! Wouldn't you just love to suck his cock?" And I'm, "NO!!! Get the fuck out of my head!!! I just want to sleep! Get away!!!". And all the time he's there, nagging at the back of my skull, saying that I'll be happier if I get a girlfriend, if I

Forget it. What am I angry at? At my own body. For betraying me. For wanting things that I don't want in my head. For things I'm too scared to pursue or take any active part in

Track 5 of OK Computer is breathing round my brain. I don't know the words. But I keep having to remind myself that I'm in the library and to stop humming so loud.

= eND InTERrupT=

So I don't know how much of the above I'll leave in. Maybe new things will happen between now and Friday. Maybe everything'll get better and I'll not feel so shitty.

It's 10:29am. Nothing more to write now. I'll go do some Maths homework.


And now it's 7:50pm on Tuesday night. I've calmed down somewhat. This stuff gets old, real fast. If I save it until Friday then probably the majority of it will no longer be true. So I'll send it later tonight.

I said I wouldn't revise anything in this. But I did. Names were blanked out. 'Cos I figured, though I may be a miserable bastard there ain't no reason to fuck up anything for anyone else. Guess I'm not that miserable then. If I was I'd take positive delight in fucking things up (even if only so far as in my own head). But I didn't. So there.

----- knows. To secrecy he was sworn. Natch.

There is one paper copy (names included) in existence. I shall burn it tomorrow, on my way to the shop.

I like to think of myself as noble. Hell, I love the idea that I am. But I'm not. By definition. To be truly noble I'd have to not even realise it; to be it simply because it came naturally and any other way of being has never even entered my head.

There's a big difference between nobility and cowardice.

By replacing the names with -s I removed anything shocking about this weekly. It had to be done. On account of it not being my right to involve anyone else in my obsessive little mind games. But don't worry about 36; that'll be full of disgusting shit, all about yours truly. An idea of how disgusting it is? Hey, Michael! Remember that thing I was going to e-mail you about and then never did, 'cos I knew it'd make you think of me differently? Well, of course you don't, but you, as well as everyone else, will get to find out! This Friday!

Lucky you.



=



"...one of those little pauses in the conversation of the City, then; a sudden unexpected quiet as everyone stopped to take a breath, and I get one of those little heart-leaps as a girl moves my way, I fall in love for ten seconds the way you do when you see one of those faces, those eyes...

...Held breath for a moment of eye contact that burns into memory - a face I could look at for the rest of my life - and then she's walked by, the City resumes, fade up chatter and music - "


-Warren Ellis, in the pages of Transmetropolitan