I tried to start writing this on Friday. But was unsuccessful.

Robert said to make this weekly legible. I think he meant comprehensible.

I shall do my best.

What did I write last week's to? 'Cos Offspring are not helping. I remember.

Alas, I have nothing to say this week.

I shall sit here until 8pm. If nothing happens, then this will be this week's weekly.

Leon was on last night. I haven't watched it in a few months, so it was good to see it again. I enjoyed it as much as ever. The only part that was lacking, because of foreseeing, was the ending. But that's kinda inevitable. The flash was as effective as ever though.

The Great Shark Hunt has been good. It's a history of America in the late 60s through to the early 70s. Nixon is in the shit. And I'm leaching yet more of Thompson's style. Not now. But earlier.

I was going to a party tonight. Sorry I can't make it. I'm coughing up great huge wads of green stuff and my throat feels like its been gone over with sand paper. So I'm not in the best of health.

The beard continues.

I should have a bath That'd make me feel better. I think I had one last Thursday. It was good. I breathed under water, using a straw. But it was too narrow, so I couldn't get enough air. Next time (maybe tonight) I'll use three or five all together. That should give me enough.

As do the nails.

I shall spellcheck this weeks. Because, although last weeks had many intentional unconventional spellings, there were also some plain old mistakes.

And the 'tache.

I shall be father christmas! Santa Claus!

And this was meant to be backwards. But the evil that is Collis wouldn't let me in the library on Friday afternoon. So I couldn't rip the bit of code that I needed. I'll get it next week, though. So it should be in 41 or 42 or thereabouts.

Going.

Back.

It's Monday, yeah?

Hey! I remember! Thank you Black Star!

So this is 39.

In the past 38 weeklies I have talked a lot of rubbish. And a lot of deep and meaningful things as well. Up to you to decide which was which. What was what even. But now (as of 37) I've kinda said all that I was holding back. So new things are needed. Don't worry. I won't do anything as crass as stopping the thing (as I have three times already... Oh dear.). Well, I won't! And who are you to say I will?

Damn, Philip K. Dick homages springing up like lion-flowers.

Good music to write to; TVfoot.

I'm giving an assembly when we go back. Its topic being fascism and voting. But only about three of you will see it.

I shouldn't even be here today!

You remembered the stuff, yeah Tessa?

I am more and more Stevens. With the ignoring reality and maintaining "dignity" etc.. I could do an assembly on that! I might. I need some artwork for my assembly, whatever it's on. So I may use something I've produced already. Or something special.

I lay there and heard all.

And they won't read this!

Time for another Menthol and Eucalyptus Flavour Throat Lozenge, say I.

So the weeklies.

It's like in comics; as the issue numbers progress, the stories get more and more meandering. Interest is lost. Readership drops. Except in the really well-written books. Such as Preacher. Then you've got a definite story. A definite arc. Things are planned. People get hooked all the time. More and more read. And then, just as it's at the height of popularity, the book ends. And people are sad. But after a month, it's forgotten. People get on with their lives. Garth Ennis? Who's he? Steve Dillon? Didn't he do some Gen 13 annuals a few years ago?

Goddamn body. What's the point of living? To do whatever you want to do before you die. What if you don't want to do anything? Oh, you've got to think of the people who care about you! But they'll forget? Sure, but it'll mess 'em up for all of two days. So you've got to think of them.

Very very very very very bad. I apologise.

What's brought this on? I'll tell you.

My mum and dad are fighting more and more. 'Cos my (middle)sister stole some money from both of them. And we all know it was her. But no-one will speak about it. Shouting and accusations are far more the norm. And I'm like the only calm person in the house. And I calm everyone else down. They tell me this. Gee, thanks! So basically, if I wasn't here to stop them all killing each other, they would. Lovely. No pressure, eh? 'Cos I'm not calm. Really? It's true. Just a mask. My (fiveyearold)sister keeps asking me whether I'll "kiss a girl" or "get married" and I keep doing the "I wouldn't know" "I couldn't say" monotone fuck off and die response.

This does not make for good reading. There's not even a direction.

It's finished.

I can't get away from the fact that everything I write is clichéd bullshit. Which leads to the question; "Why write?"

And my only response can be that, occasionally, on the off-chance, good stuff'll get through.

They haven't written back.

Nose hurts.

Hopefully I'll


















#

















Do not read any of that. It was shite.

I shall not send it. And if I do, I'll append it to something else.

It's 8:24pm on Monday October 23rd, 2000.

I'm coughing up my guts here.

Two days.

Cold and empty inside.

It's the cold.

Sore throat.

Fucking adolescence.

I have nothing to feel this way about.

I need to get out of here