Which celebrated antichrist and notorious homophobe is back in the papers today regarding his latest avarice for irreverent domination?

Saddam Hussein	Mel Gibson

Fundraisers were abseiling down Camden Council’s offices this lunchtime. I delighted in The Little One’s grim humour of “Oh, they have ropes. I thought it was a suicide” and “Why are they clapping? Did someone fall?” to see that I can foster a beautiful cynicism from her pain yet. My own mood however degenerated. By the evening, walking to see G for the last time for several weeks, I felt totally out of sync with the universe. I waited for him outside his flat, watching the fireworks and listening to the world being lived around me. I felt overwhelmingly lonely.

Idiot. I missed a competition deadline. Stupid careless lapses in attention like this are the reason I’m still pushing paper in a job I hate. Still kicking myself, I went to Camden to meet The Little One for our first Night of the Living Singletons in almost three years. I tried to show her single life really isn’t a bad thing. There’s so much to be done without a human to tie you to routine. I must bully her to write with me - insane plays that she’d want to perform and I’d want to script. We could be giants.

What a wonderful metaphor for humanity. They see an empty space - they must fill it with their own echoes.

I thought it would be a giggle, something to do. But within minutes I became exasperated.

I mean, how… rude! Are these people like this in real life? Would they walk into your house from off the street, straight past you, and begin throwing films from your dvd shelf, loudly declaring which ones are worth having and which aren’t? With every other comment I heard a paraphrase of Tim Curry’s camp hiss from The Rocky Horror Picture Show in my head: “I didn’t make it for YOU!”

Everyone has an opinion and thinks everyone else must hear it. Or is it just that every Cletus has a dvd player now? Would there be the same clumsy arrogance on a website dedicated to one’s top 20 Russian Impressionists? “Dude, Kabozev rocks, but Rotnitski is way overrated.”

Oh do fuck off.

I think I might have made another new friend. And I’m not just talking about R for buying me a Sonic Screwdriver. Samhain is undeniably in the air. I tried not to notice the noises coming from the cemetery on my way home - the foxes screaming, twigs snapping close to where I was walking. I flinch only at leaves - carcasses that spin suddenly out from the shadows, rolling across my path and scuttling like cockroaches. I no longer fear the monsters themselves. Does this mean I no longer have a soul? Does this mean I perceive only shadows?

The music played as I closed my eyes, hoping it wouldn’t bring visions of you. It did, but you weren’t there, translucent in a memory you never took part in. Madrid’s November sunset was like fool’s gold; the fairytale castle monument beside the water, deckchairs folded and stacked against railings. Gravel crunched beneath my feet and chilly air bit at my cheeks. Impossibly handsome schoolboys collected for a streetside choir as I saw your ghost walking towards me from a place between the trees where Winter was honest; where grass, trees and people were all framed in pure white mist.

The sickness lingers, and like all ultimate acceptance of pain, it teaches me a resolve over you. You will always be there and you’ll never change. I called you inconstant, but your occasional best intentions and childish ego are steadfast. They will always be there like a bad habit, an itch just out of reach to scratch. It might sound like I hate you - I even can say it all too readily - but both of us know I never truly could. I think once you let go of hate you heal faster. Which would be great about now.

I can’t think with these constant flu headaches and neckpains. I’ve reverted to my natural vampyric state of sleeping all day and being most mentally active at night. And despite my weakness and pain, in this moment, there is hate. Hate for you. I can’t remember truly hating anyone, but I wish you harm you malevolent little child, you abuser of goodwill. I’ll take back what you stole from me, one day very soon, and your meaningless little blond world will become duly desolate once again. Have you heard nothing of Prometheus or Enoch? I will have vengeance upon you.

Yet another person I knew at university has made it big. And I do mean big. It is true there is no pain greater than watching your friends succeed. I feel I’m going nowhere. Lunch with The Little One who is now back from a singularly odd sounding dramatic experience in Georgia gave me several sources to remedy my stagnancy, among which were the Arts Council and the Royal Court Theatre. Us frustrated and failing artists need to stick together it seems. She then told me a mutual friend of ours recently interviewed Stephen Fry. I couldn’t speak for jealousy.