From the moment you emerge, kicking and screaming, from your mother’s womb to be issued with a number that differentiates you from all the other little numbers in the hospital, until the moment your GP signs the Certificate of Death bearing your name (Cause: Asphyxiophilia through transient hypoxia resulting in autoerotic death), you are unwittingly part of The System. Your face might be unique, but it takes a six-digit number on a red and blue piece of plastic for the government to officially recognise your existence. Want a job? Sure, just fill in these forms. Keep your biography as short as possible, but whatever you do, don’t forget to include your National Insurance number here and here. You want to rent a flat? No problem. Just complete this form in triplicate, remembering to include the names and addresses of two referees, a contact for your next of kin and... hang on, what’s this about you being cautioned for possession of cannabis when you were 15? Sorry, I’ve just remembered – we’ve already accepted an offer for this place.
We’re watching you, you know. And what’s more, we’re gathering information on you. Where you live, where you work, what you buy, who you fuck – we know all that already. But that’s not all we know about you. We also know a whole lot more. Want to know what else we know about you? Sure, just send £6 to this address and in return, you too can learn about yourself. Sorry, we don’t accept cash. Cash is no use to us; it’s not traceable. You got a credit card you could use instead? No? Well would you like one? (Interest free for the first six months, then 98.3% thereafter.) Uh-oh, my computer’s saying you can’t have a card actually. Why not? I’m afraid I’m not authorised to disclose that information, but if you send £6 to this address...
Wouldn’t it be great if it were possible to Not Officially Exist? To live and die and fuck and fight without an army of civil servants choking you under the weight of 1,000 unpaid parking tickets? Imagine if Britain got up one morning and decided, to a man, to board up its letterboxes. Where would all the citations and final reminders go to? If the whole country called in sick tomorrow, would we all get sent our P-45’s? But if all the postal workers had been fired, who would deliver them? If a weblogger in Aberdeen, Scotland, decides to publish a pseudo-revolutionary blog and no one reads it, will a butterfly flapping its wings on the other side of the Atlantic develop a social conscience? I don’t know, and indeed I don’t care. But if you only take one thing from The Trash Whore Diaries today, take this - I fucked your mum. And I fucked her good. That bitch squealed like a pig. And then I pulled out and dumped my load all over her divot. I’m sorry, but I just can’t do this serious blogging thing. I have good intentions, and I start off so promisingly, but after a while my dick starts to dictate. I guess I too am unwittingly part of The System. If the workers among you, reading this on your lunch break, form the body of it, then I must be its urinary tract. Our roles are very different, yet we couldn’t survive without each other. Let me be the outlet for all your waste. Piss on me, shit on me, spew on me and bleed on me. In return, I promise to ravish your bodies at every given opportunity. Ultimately, we’re all just symbiotic parasites.