Monday: woke up. Bad mistake, which I'm still regretting. On the way to work, discovered that I was gay. Realized ten minutes later I was wrong, I'm still straight, I'm just having an allergic reaction to the pills, which are inexplicably giving me a heightened ability to choose drapes. Worked. Considered donating brain to medical science, as I work in advertising, and realized I don't really need it for day-to-day functioning. Made some enquiries. Found out it’s a painful, potentially fatal operation. Canned the idea.
Tuesday: Skipped work entirely (it's advertising, for heaven's sake, they won't notice I'm gone until they don't get email replies from me, even though we all sit in the same blue-lit, industrial-chic office), and went straight to the drapes store, you know, that cute little one in Vredehoek with the black-and-white fleur-de-lis display in the window, to attempt to burn it down, as it represents a significant threat to my manhood. Discovered I had left matches at home, and found that refracting intermittent sunlight through a shard of Heineken bottle is an unreliable method of starting a fire, despite what you’ve seen on ‘Survivor: Cape Flats’. Went home. Got mugged at home, by my girlfriend. Put up a fight, but secretly enjoyed it.
Wednesday: Sorry, missed Wednesday. Nothing to report.
Thursday: Watched a repeat of ‘The Golden Girls’ on Series channel: wondered why the world ever moved on from mid-1980’s Miami, where women wore peach twin-sets and mauve tunics, and men were consequently either blind or celibate. What a misty-lensed halcyon era it was, where Rue McClanahan was believable as a hussy, and all social and familial disunity could be smoothed over by a heartfelt sing-along at the white baby grand.
Friday: Went back to work: everyone else at the agency was off: team-building. Cunts didn’t tell me about it.
The headline of this section raises the isssue: can a diary be on holiday? As an inanimate object, isn't it impossible for a diary to be either employed or on leave?
Surely the headline should have said 'Ed Young doesn't care about his fans, and as such has chosen to place the process of making online diary entries on hiatus'? Come back Ed, we love you and wanna have your small, pale children!
6 Comments:
Monday: woke up. Bad mistake, which I'm still regretting. On the way to work, discovered that I was gay. Realized ten minutes later I was wrong, I'm still straight, I'm just having an allergic reaction to the pills, which are inexplicably giving me a heightened ability to choose drapes.
Worked. Considered donating brain to medical science, as I work in advertising, and realized I don't really need it for day-to-day functioning. Made some enquiries. Found out it’s a painful, potentially fatal operation. Canned the idea.
Tuesday: Skipped work entirely (it's advertising, for heaven's sake, they won't notice I'm gone until they don't get email replies from me, even though we all sit in the same blue-lit, industrial-chic office), and went straight to the drapes store, you know, that cute little one in Vredehoek with the black-and-white fleur-de-lis display in the window, to attempt to burn it down, as it represents a significant threat to my manhood. Discovered I had left matches at home, and found that refracting intermittent sunlight through a shard of Heineken bottle is an unreliable method of starting a fire, despite what you’ve seen on ‘Survivor: Cape Flats’. Went home. Got mugged at home, by my girlfriend. Put up a fight, but secretly enjoyed it.
Wednesday: Sorry, missed Wednesday. Nothing to report.
Thursday: Watched a repeat of ‘The Golden Girls’ on Series channel: wondered why the world ever moved on from mid-1980’s Miami, where women wore peach twin-sets and mauve tunics, and men were consequently either blind or celibate. What a misty-lensed halcyon era it was, where Rue McClanahan was believable as a hussy, and all social and familial disunity could be smoothed over by a heartfelt sing-along at the white baby grand.
Friday: Went back to work: everyone else at the agency was off: team-building. Cunts didn’t tell me about it.
fuck, you people are awful human beings.
so are you
so much for free speech
nice diary. give us some more. Are you still going to burn down the drape shop?I have to know. It's mine.
The headline of this section raises the isssue: can a diary be on holiday? As an inanimate object, isn't it impossible for a diary to be either employed or on leave?
Surely the headline should have said 'Ed Young doesn't care about his fans, and as such has chosen to place the process of making online diary entries on hiatus'? Come back Ed, we love you and wanna have your small, pale children!
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