Dear Diary, sorry it's been so long since I kissed you with my pen, my virtual pen, six weeks to the day since my virtual pen slapped you round the digital face; see I've been moving, been conned, been robbed, then actually moved to an actual house that existed, and having been robbed felt the financial pinch that disinclined me to waste time on a blog that garners no financial reward - forgetting the spiritual recompense - instead I've been applying for office jobs, attending an interview for the role of corporate scum, being rejected for not being scummy enough, but I've just about reached an impasse with CV library, there's not many office jobs there that I haven't now applied for, so I took this as an opportunity to write something, anything, just so long as it all fitted into one bad sentence, there it went.
Leaving the conservative club means I'm no longer exposed to the sort of bad examples of what a man should be that first inspired these writings. Instead I find myself in a bigger smoggier city, in a run-down area that reminds me of Sparkbrook. From our kitchen window you can see an always-open McDonalds, which of any evening provides some variety of urban theatre; drunks and loons, hordes of teens demonstrative of black and immigrant futures, whether cackling or screaming, punching or rutting, it's a patch that never sleeps. CCTV cameras keep any alleged roughness off of the High St, forcing me to counter such suggestion with the point that Elephant and Castle is merely impoverished, not sinister; like Sparkbrook became once I ingratiated myself there, the dirty aesthetics only depress the tourists rolling through, it is alive and it loves you back, if you'll love it first.
A Romanian man is to stand in the Crown Court tomorrow, charged with counterfeiting passports, fraud, theft, honestly I don't know what he's being charged with; but a Romanian passport with my name and his face on it was seized, and though it may only have been thirteen-hundred or so pounds, he has made me distrust and he has made me wish death on a man I have never met in the flesh. I never gave this man money, but unbeknownst to me I showed him enough information for him to pose as me and rob me. If he is as Romanian as I have been informed, no doubt he needed it more than I did, but it was mine, and the faith that I showed in him shall never be rekindled. I felt humiliation and rage like I hadn't felt for a solid two years, and for that I hope he rots.
But this is all very off topic, not that my previous posts have ever remained on-track for long, but this space was meant to be left for the advocating of a more feminist-male in society, yet all I seem to do is to wish plagues on people, a type of militancy that I discourage in political movements as it scares the average Joe off.
I'm disappointed that I missed Valentines Day on here, I had a sweeping rant planned that would curse all material possessions, and for tweeting what he bought his girlfriend for the occasion swipe at Carlton Cole for being as big a pig as one might expect from a footballer. So count yourself lucky, Mr Cole, tens of people might have read what I thought at the time, TENS!!
Normal service should soon be restored, whatever normality was about here.
