Boy George just looked at my Gaydar profile.

Not that I have one of course.

Veteran readers of Popbitch might remember the broohaha when they included a link to his profile in one of their bulletins.

I was going to message him to say that we had the same birthday, but it seemed only a marginally less fatuous thing to say than “OMG!!!! I LUVVED KARMER KARMELLION!!!!1″

This was taken at approximately 6:30pm in my office on Wednesday 21st February 2007. I don’t know why I took it. At the time I found it beautiful somehow, but it’s also a sea of little metaphors for what was going on in my head at the time, perhaps even literally.

This could also have been one of the last things I saw.

It wasn’t.

2 glasses Rioja + 2 Marlboro Lights on 1st day = Bad Christian

on an otherwise miserable day. It’s also probably the best response to a public statement of homophobia that I’ve seen.

It shouldn’t have to be such an uphill struggle to be oneself.
It should not be so difficult to do the things one wants to do.
It shouldn’t be a game of tactics to be with someone you like.
It isn’t right to feel there’s nothing to look forward to at 26.
It isn’t fair that the only thing you’re successful at is surviving.
It isn’t a worthwhile use of time to always learn the same lessons.
It doesn’t change, it doesn’t develop and it doesn’t get easier. But
It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t really matter in the universe.
It doesn’t make sense, but we do what we do, otherwise we don’t.

This isn’t meant to be poetry. Or it is, and meant to be badly written. I used to be able to write decent poetry, a long time ago, but like so many other things I’ve just given up trying. My head is buzzing at the moment with ideas, still strangled by petty meaningless bureaucracy, and ephemeral “urgent” tasks. I want to crawl away somewhere dark with enough light to watch some of the ideas sluice out of my head and into a puddle - enough to reflect something of the world around me.

Know thyself: I seem a reluctant predator of denial, and infested with the parasites of resentment, despond and curdled fury.

And once again the moron apes of this world seem increasingly incapable of comprehending basic communication.

WHY MUST PEOPLE BE SO INTOLERABLY SIMPLE?

Amazing the power that extremely loud music blasted into your head through earphones has on a slowly burning, bubbling, roaring rage.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this angry. Rage. Slow burning fury.

I want to break necks. I feel like I can kill with a look.

Remember children, Jesus starved after Pancake Day so you could give up fags and booze.

I went the long way home from work so I could pass the supermarket for provisions with which to surprise flatmates with the smell of freshly fried pancakes when they opened the front door. By half 6 they still weren’t home, so I made Big Monster Death Pancake™ for myself.

I now feel pancake pain.

London Underground are striking again.

It must be Monday. Once again the only one who really loses out here is the commuter or, as I prefer to call the commuter, “me”. Increasingly extortionate fees already offer a correspondingly crap service. Perpetually “reduced service” at weekends means half the network doesn’t even run. Overcrowding, much? And now here comes another little bi-annual pout over pay.

And who can blame them? The average tube driver only gets paid the utter pittance of £30,000 per year.

You can smell the panic in the air. I got called a “miseryguts” when I was disappointed about London winning the hosting bid for the 2012 Olympic Games two years ago. I was told I had no pride in where I came from.

Actually, pride was a very strong factor.

And shame.

And apparently I’m not the only one.

Incidentally, here’s a little bit of trivia. A fireman or nurse earns approximately £21,000 per year. Just thought I’d leave that with you, obviously as little more than a non-sequitur.

Monday started with a mouse in the office. I thought I was hallucinating - that’s certainly happened before. Once I looked up to see a bird flying straight into my face, and it was only once the flapping had subsided (me, not the bird) that I realised there was nothing there.

But there was definitely a mouse in the office. I could tell it was real because I was suddenly several metres away from where I’d seen it and had shrieked “JESUS!” in an embarrassingly girly pitch (note to self - must work on exclamations: is questionable for a pagan to use the name of the son of the Christian God as an indication of incredulity).

My boss suggested we just try not to leave any crumbs anywhere, and to keep quiet about it. I agreed with one of these suggestions.

I then spent the afternoon in Superdrug trying on every different aftershave I could find and spraying it on just about every centimetre squared patch of skin on my upper body. Aside form looking a little something like a cheap bastard preparing for his first date, it was all a little pointless really, as after three or four sniffs my nasal cavities had already gone into Estate Agent Alert Mode and had swollen to prevent further inhalation of potentially poisonous gases. That said, by the time I got back to the office I smelt lovely, wearing the scent of just about every drunken attempt at seduction from my teenage years.

I ended up buying a Calvin Klein thing – Escape I think it was, and went back out to buy a Hugo Boss one – I can’t remember what it’s called but it smells all bergamotty and orangey, and I used to wear it when I was about 19. It’s quite musky though – I like heavy musky aftershaves. Most of the ones I tried on in Superdrug just smelt like a little gay citrus fruit had farted on my arm.

I then celebrated smelling nice by going out and spending more money on a new diary and the Back To The Future trilogy. This foolish expenditure (for someone facing looming unemployment) is all a down payment on guilt. I have decided to take part in the fabulous Christian festival of Lent this year, and will be giving up the fags and the booze. I managed to work some smallprint into the contract that allows me to drink wine occasionally, but this is just a reprieve. If Jesus asks to see my membership card I’ll just dress as a prostitute and ask to be saved.

Christianity will make me a healthy person.