i am not been eating enough. had a great 9/11 this year. celebrated by signing my lease and meeting becky for a picnic. it was a lovely picnic on the heath even though i was 10 minutes late and got in trouble. after our picnic of babybels and quorn we went looking for a bar to get a cup of tea. the Railway told us they couldn’t serve us tea because they had no way to wash crockery because the kitchen was being renovated. the next couple of places were closing. the crown gave us a fine, though scant, pot of tea and we had a lovely time. i spent the rest of 9/11 playing beatsaber. i had 4 showers. i changed my clothes 3 times.

tuesday i spent working and playing beat saber. i very nearly went into the office. i did not.

wednesday i spent working and playing beat saber? who the fuck knows

thursday i went into the office. i sat in my special area chatting with my colleague for most of the day, and then we went looking for a bar to get a cup of tea. the teahorse was too busy, as was the next place, and the next place, and the next place. eventually we gave up and returned to the teahorse. but it turns out the teahorse doesn’t even sell tea? what a silly name for a bar that doesn’t serve tea. we gave up and drank an ice cold glass of garbage.

friday i spent the evening setting up full body tracking in beat saber so i can be one of those cool girls on youtube. i also cooked a delicious chili con carne with This Isn’t Beef mince and cauliflower rice. everything in the bowl was a vegetable. it was good. maybe i’ll be a vegetarian for a little while. though i was crunching on ice on thursday so i should get some iron tablets.

since getting back from portugal i have become the worlds worst texter. i have so many unreplied texts and messages. i’ve been using a new trick when i find myself wasting time looking at The World Wide Web or apps or watching bullshit or listening to mindgum i say hey siri set a ten minute timer and when the timer goes off i have to stop and that really springs me into action. for some reason setting the timer makes it so much easier to stop than just deciding to stop and trying to stop idek. sorry for not replying

saturday i spent making music :) i also played cyberpunk

saturday night/sunday morning at 2am/26:00/14pm somebody rang my doorbell and woke me up. at first i was so confused and didn’t know if i’d dreamt the doorbell. sometimes i dream the doorbell. about 15 seconds later they rang it again. i was not expecting anyone. they knocked on the door some. i decided not to answer. i heard them go down the stairs and get onto a motorcycle and drive away. i still don’t know who it was.

sunday is today. i spent the day making music :)

i am still 770 calories below my goal. how the fuck am i suposed to eat 770 calories? maybe i can drink 100 grams of butter

it is so humid! i’m so wet!

I didn’t get any sleep last night, had one of those long nights of solace, long dark teatimes of the soul. I’ve taken up a fitness regime and given up alcohol. I’ll be counting calories for the first time since that was an eating disorder. Good times, good times. Was meant to be meeting someone tonight, but I’ve been the biggest flake since I got back from Portugal. So many unanswered e-mails, so many unattended events.

There’s another tomorrow.

You know, it being 9/11 tomorrow means my lease expired today. I no longer have a lease. What fun.

An out of the blue e-mail from a stranger on the subject of the 1996 PF Magic alien pet simulator Oddballz arrived in my inbox. I stumbled across a video made 17 years ago by somebody who is in their mid 30s now, and it made me laugh so much that I tracked them down on LinkedIn to say thank you. They said it made their day. Keanu Reeves is DMing me on Instagram. He wants to know where I live, and to thank me for being a fan. He keeps calling me “Rabbits”. According to a website about scams this means I’ve fallen into the category of “unwitting older women”.

In my previous post I referenced the maize incident. My notes for today’s post instruct me to write the maize incident. I’m not ready, it’s still too near. There’s another note here that says “desperate to be told i have moxie”. Yet another says “i will die by gunshot wound—self inflicted”

Today I tidied my apartment and threw away old things in the kitchen and cleared the living area and set up VR and played Beat Saber which is a lot of fun. A rhythm game. A whole body workout. Dance around and hit stuff in time with music.

There are a bunch of studies about why the people of hot countries tend to eat spicier food. They all either come to no conclusion or try on some silly Darwinian explanation. I think it’s more straightforward. It’s natural to balance your insides with your outsides. That’s why it’s good to eat hot food in the heat and drink iced coffee in the winter.

It’s interesting, though, that the places on earth where the angle of the sun makes people most vitamin D are the natural home of peppercorns and chili peppers. Joyful equatorial life pushes into the earth and comes out spicy. It’s very pokémon.

Most of my hair is gone. It was bothering me, the way it looked at the back, so I chopped most of it off with the kitchen scissors. I miss my hair now, it took a long time for it to grow. I don’t regret it, but I miss it.

I’ve been reading the final tweets by dead celebrities. Gene Wilder “had a fruit salad as a mid-morning snack” and never came back. “What the crap is a sharknado?” asked Cory Monteith, “Oh. It’s a SHARK TORNADO.” He died the next day of a drug overdose. “oinka oinka oinka why are you awake” said Amy Winehouse.

OK, it’s time for me to continue dancing in the dark.

Thanks. Sorry. Thanks.

Whoops, completely forgot it was a Sunday.

I’ve got memories and I can’t wash them off, all over me, smell them on my skin.

Had a strange pair of interactions on Thursday when I was on my trip to the Quick Shopping to return my faulty TP-7 to the Swedes. Dude walks up to me at the pelican crossing, meal-deal-sized bottle of wine in his hand, nearly empty. Says hello. He’s early thirties, scruffy looking. Oversized green parka, grey pants.

“Hello,” he says, “smoking a cigarette?”

My earbuds are in, can’t hear him properly, just “*muffle muffle* cigarette?” think maybe he wants one, I pause the sound. “Pardon?”

“Smoking a cigarette?”


“First one?”

“Like… ever?”

He laughs. “Nah, this morning.”

“Oh yeah! yes.”

Now, with some bravado in his stance and in the tone of his voice he declares: “Not me. I’m on my third.”

A woman scurries up with a dog in tow.

She says “I hope he wasn’t rude to you, was he?”

I hesitate, “um… no. Not rude. Not sure… what he was …to me”

She looks me up and down, “I like it when people are … … individuals.”

She pauses for a while before adding “I hate people like that.” She gestures towards the fellow who’s now a fair clip down the footpath on the other side. The light turns green. I tell her “he was quite friendly I think” and I wave at the little dog. Suddenly raising her voice as we cross together she says “I mean…! Look at me! I’m wearing red trousers and green earrings.”

I smile, I look at her, her earrings are ultramarine blue.

There’s nothing else really to report. I haven’t left the house otherwise. Haven’t been in the kitchen since the maggots-in-the-masa-harina incident. Spent most of the week installing and reinstalling Linux and Windows on my PC.

Anyone know of any synchronous MUD software? Like for running synchronous text-based group adventures. Perhaps with persistent characters and history? I guess any MUD software could be used for the purpose.

histamines like these and their polliniferous allies constitute an axis of evil, arming to threaten the peace of the rabbit

quite a mild week. dropped some snaps off at snappy snaps. slept in the office. got drunk with some work people, hung out with a friend i’ve only known on-line before.

pitching a sequel to the gene wilder willy wonka movie called “Willy” starring Walton Goggins as Willy.



Willy, destitute, haggard, leaning against a wall, checks
his cigarettes. There are none left.

He throws the empty pack on the pavement and pushes himself
up off the floor.


Willy scratches some dirt out from under his nails while
he's second in line.

			 Alright have a good one, darling.

The shopper leaves and the shopkeep turns his attention to


			 The litre of Four Roses Select and
			 a pack of Marlboro Reds.

The shopkeep grabs the items off the shelf while speaking, not
looking back.

			 That everything?


Willy grabs a Wonka bar from the point-of-sale. and throws it on
the counter...

						  WILLY (CONT'D)

The shopkeep scans the whiskey and cigarettes and Wonka bar.

			 Ahh. Wonka bars. So much better
			 since they changed the recipe.

Outside Willy lights a ciggie, takes a bite of the bar and he makes a facial expression… we can’t tell if he hates it or he’s loves it and he’s furious about it. He throws the rest of the bar away. He cracks open his bourbon.

Later there’s a scene that’s in an encampment, like one of those San Francisco homeless encampments but it’s in London. All lit dark and orange light. And it’s inhabited entirely by Oompa-Loompas who’ve been replaced by automation. They’re all pretty young (Oompa-Loompas only live until they’re about 30, and have kids around 10-12 years old) nobody recognizes Willy except for one old Oompa-Loompa who cranes around slowly “…Wonka?”

Of course, Willy doesn’t know his name. But the old Oompa-Loompa looks him in the eyes and can see he now knows what it’s like to be treated like you’re worth nothing. Sometime around here maybe you learn that Willy can’t use his surname because it’s trademark and copyright of the Wonka corporation. The old Oompa-Loompa lets him know he can stay, but he has to pull his weight. If you want to eat, you cook for others, etc. Each according to his ability, to each according to his needs kind of lesson. Anyway it’s an absolute banger of a movie if anyone knows Walt Goggins and any of the Warner Brothers and could get this in front of them.

I was meant to go and see some friends at the weekend, but instead I napped for a thousand hours and played Cyberpunk 2077 while listening to the new Blockback. I’m going to continue doing that now. Thanks.

Did a couple days work, took a holiday Wednesday for a mall trip with Dani. Dani got a great new jacket. We got some tacos. On the roof of the Stratford Centre we watched Everything Everywhere All At Once.

photo of sunset from rooftop. cinema screen in center of photo. chairs block off the lower half of the photo. the sky is pink and purple, gold and grey.

My neck started getting stiff and painful again on the way home. Tired, I ordered a cab. Driver told me it might be because of the very weird weather, weird pollen. Does the same to him. No, not right now. But he took a tablet this morning, takes it every morning, yeah.

Maybe it is the pollen. What are the similarities between those days with the incredible neck pain? Spent the whole day out. Ate poorly. Watched a movie with someone cooler than me. Could be pollen. Could be blood sugar. Could be an allergy to watching movies with somebody cooler than me. My throat’s so sore the next couple days I had to take off work. A tiny little hole, can’t swallow properly, hurt to breathe. Anyway, you don’t want to listen to me complaining.

I have a crush on Timothy Olyphant. It’s out of hand.

Started feeling better on Saturday night, late. Cleaned the apartment a bit. Couldn’t sleep. Other stuff happened this week. I’ve quite a lot of notes too. Not feeling them, though. This will have to do. With all this excitement I do feel as though I’m getting the vapours. What is a timebank?

Sweet dreams.

Exactly how bad can hayfever get? Like, can i have a swollen throat and a stiff neck or am i dying of meningitis right now?

Yes, baby, we are home.

You can skip this one, nothing really happens and I don’t have anything to say.

I’m trying to slowly put my life together. I’ve been sick, cooking chili con carne, making a little music. Very sleepy days. Just chicken and TV. I’m glad I got to use one of those old timey elevators last week. Finished Justified, then watched it all the way through again. Been bothering everyone with my Boyd Crowder voice since Gabi said she was impressed. Watched The Bear. V good. Forks is a perfect episode of television.

About 10:21am Tuesday I wake up on the floor in the centre of my apartment. It’s not uncomfortable, but it I surprising. I don’t remember going to sleep. I cough a little, sniffle some. I’m still so clogged up and gross. It’s been a fortnight now. On Slack, I set my status to sick. On Discord, Kara recommends I try a cocktail by the name of Boulevardier. I open Gopuff.

Dear grocery store, please bring:

  • Buffalo Trace
  • Campari
  • Vermouth
  • Gluten-free loaf
  • Egg
  • Ham
  • Mustard
  • Cheddar
  • Emmental

If I’m still sick after a Monte Cristo and a Boulevardier then this goo might be permanent.

“Tell me a story—anything. A story from your life.”


I’m reading that new old Lou Matthews book. The orange one. It’s good. It’s so cute that with the money from the best TV show ever (Lodge 49) the show creator set up a publishing company and used it to publish books by his mentor.

I’m a little unsettled by Saturday, a little fragile. I’ve deleted my Deliveroo account. There are no groceries in the house, so I gather myself and head to Sainsbury’s but I end up at the Railway bar Blackheath instead.

I ask to borrow a lighter from the party on the terrace, they don’t have one. I ask a member of staff who is carrying some trash, I’d hoped they’d have one on them but they drop the trash and say “hang on” and go back behind the dark-stain wooden door that separates the rooftop from the kitchen and i feel bad for interupting their work.

I find a lighter in my pocket.

Someone from the party leans over the patio stairs with an outstretched hand:

“You still need a lighter, bro?”

“I’d better not. I just asked a member of staff and I’d hate him coming back and finding me already lit.”

“Cool, bro.”

“Thanks, though.”

The trash guy comes back out tapping his pockets and tells me he couldn’t find one. That’s okay, I say, and I tell him I’ll bother the people at the gathering. I bother them. I get lit. I check with my hand if the large empty plant pot will support my weight and it’s strong and it will, so I sit down balancing on its edge and read a little and write.

3 sausages at 9am is not enough food to eat before starting drinking Bourbon. I’ve had 4 neat already today, and one Boulevardier. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I was trying to go shopping. I set across the road to ask the chippy if they have a grilled fish. They don’t, I get a sausage and two pickled eggs. Two nice dogs here, George and Wilbert, very sweet. I say goodbye to the dogs and head to the train.

Helped an Australian at the station. He was talking to two other folks. whowere sitting their with their Border Terrier. I’d stopped to say hi to the Border Terrier because I love a Border Terrier. I heard him asking about gates and beepnig in and out. I helped him. He pointed at me with his thumb and said to the couple “this fuckin guy!!!” and everyone smiled and laughed and i smiled and… i’m like wearing a dress and gay sneakers and cute makeup right now i can’t believe how much i spend on translucent powder to be “this fuckin guy”.

Damn that’s pretty, isn’t it? With the sun peeking in from behind those clouds, and the bottle green door of the train on the other rail? And how that train oscillates. Faster than us then slower than us. Yeah, that’s pretty. These very big piles of powder concrete seem like a good place to hide a dead body. Where do we hide dead bodies in London?

I’ve been thinking a lot about tenses. When to use the simple present, vs present continuous, vs  present perfect continuous, simple and continuous past. I’m looking at it like this: 

  • Present continuous :: in the framing story, when I’m talking about what’s happening while I’m writing. 
  • Simple present :: when I am telling the story itself.
  • Present perfect continuous :: framing story, looking back and establishing history
  • Simple past :: story context, looking back and establishing history
  • Past continuous :: remembering something in story context

But it has me thinking about how interesting it would be to write and read a story written in the imperative. Where it’s kind of like a series of commands. 

Order a buffalo trace, half corona, and a tall glass of water — no ice.

“Ice with the buffalo?”

“No ice with the Buffalo.”

Take the Buffalo like a shot. Squeeze the lime into the half corona, down it. Place the empty corona in the empty Buffalo. Tend to the water.

It is unpleasant on the Victoria line tonight. It’s thick, the air. Air like flan. Like a flan of Lynx body spray for eggs. Some of this heat is from June. It’s so stale, so sticky, it’s been around so long.

Nobody looks happy to be here except the girl in camo green with the white ankle highs peeking out of her Super-Birkis. But I think that’s because she’s with her beau and she’d be happy to be anywhere as long as she is with her beau. 

I’m faring extremely poorly on this vehicle. I’m sweating and wriggling around. To my left the girl in the leopard jumpsuit and dark denim jacket has broke a couple times, but she regains her composure with incredible grace. Nothing more than adjusting her jacket.

The person opposite in the stripy wide neck and gold open-toes. She never moves. Her facial expression is almost unreadable, it says “my life is like this”. This is no harder than anything else she’s done today. But a little strain in it that tells us it is taking a lot from her to stay cool right now.

The 60 year old man in fleece and socks and leather sandels holding onto the handle of his suitcase like he hasn’t trusted anyone for 40 years, he isn’t hiding anything. Mouth open, breathing through it. He stares at me sometimes with a furious face. I’m not surprised. We all are furious here in the hot tunnel.

Jump off early at the Seven Sisters.

At the warehouse there is a new person. Everyone’s new now, I’ve only been gone 4 weeks, but I don’t know anyone anymore but for Damien. Yve shows me their room, it rules, bloodwine red walls, black and silver artifacts, bone dogs, poster of Gerard Way to plant a two-finger kiss on the way to work. Yve says “before you arrived I was just tattooing myself and watching Blade.” Sick.

We watch Blade on the couch while they add red fill to the strawberries on their leg. My neck gets stiff and I go to sleep. It’s painful. I wake up at about 6am just after sunrise, but keep lying there still until 11am because it hurts so much to move my neck. The lights are bothering me, I am running a fever, my neck is stiff, I have a sore throat. When I was in high school misbehaving one time they locked me in the nurse’s office because they didn’t want to deal with me. There was nothing to do for hours but read pamphelts and posters about meningitis. I wonder if should go to a doctor.

Damien wakes up and we head down to LIDL. We bump into Sergio on the way.

“I will give you £5 and you will buy me bicycle slime.”


Buy the bicycle slime, head to LIDL, head to the ATM, take out £50 in case Eve is in the mood to tattoo a triangle on me later, grab a few Pacificos and a bottle of Jim Beam. I will have a phone again tomorrow. Hope I can stay in the habit of reading and writing when I have a phone again.

Shoes hanging on telephone wires. There’s a bar around the corner sells Tayto Cheese & Onion and a good Guinness. “Eren’t nothing wrong with it” says the big Irish fella to the right of me. It’s the protestant kind of Tayto’s, made in the factory that’s the only school trip every child in Northern Ireland ever takes. You get to try a fresh, unflavoured crisp. And you ask yourself why is fresh crisps not a market regular like fresh cooked chestnuts? When I was a kid I got a little bit of chestnut in my eye and nobody believed me. That’s okay. I lied a lot as a kid. I never knew I’d stopped until Michael Mormecha’s girlfriend told me if she could sum me up in one word it would be “honest”. We were each sitting at the head of the table facing each other, with 4 people either side like the madcap’s lunch. I’d said “honest” repeating the word and tasting it, seeing how it felt in my mouth. But I’m still a liar, even now. I pursue total honesty but I’m a people-pleasing liar. I know I’m scared that if i were honest, truly honest… well I want them to have a good time and to like me. When I talk I really believe everything that I’m saying, but it’s the same as the reason I need to stop opening my mouth when someone pulls out a container of LSD… the walls of my reality are too malleable. I want to hear everything somebody has to say, so i’ll encourage them and agree with them so they feel like they can say anything to me. And they do. But I want to stop it, stop chameleoning into different possible versions of myself because of who I’m talking to. To be somebody when I’m alone. But for that I need a consistent set of beliefs, morals, a code. I don’t know how you get one of those. What do I really believe?

Kentucky Green Tea

• One bag sencha green tea
• One cup boiling water
• One amount cheap bourbon

1. Make a cup of green tea like normal
2. Put a little sweetness in it

I’m fascinated by the line between the party and just hanging out. The Party Never Dies It Just Gets Smaller is pretty true of psytrance raves. The rave ends, but somebody plugs in another soundsystem. Some hours later we leave the woods, but somebody has a portable speaker. The speakers keep getting smaller, the company gets fewer, until eventually it’s just you and Delton on the back of a bus listening to a mix on the surviving bud from a broken pair of earphones. That’s not a party any more, when did it stop being a party?

Today Damien and me were sitting drinking beers, hanging out, shooting the shit. Damien got some ice and we poured a Jim Beam. I had a sip while he was sorting stuff out. Then he came and sat down and he took a sip, and I felt it: now there’s a party. Maybe it’s just when nobody is coming and nobody is going. That’s why music is such a big part of them, because when you’re dancing it’s not about where you end up on the floor. That’s that Alan Watts bit, right? Life is not a journey, it’s a dance. Life is not a dance, it’s a party.

I’m so sick of being ugly.