I penned this blog a few months ago, but never got round to publishing it till now...

Once upon a time, I used to be somebody. No one special, but definitely somebody. Of course, that was a long time ago, back when I was alive. I haven’t felt that way in a long time now. Well maybe the occasional spark, like that time three months ago when I was leaning out a fifth floor window of The Savoy, blowing marijuana smoke into the nite sky and watching the boats sparkling on the Thames while ‘For Lovers’ resounded within the suite, possibly the most beautiful song I have heard this year, but on the whole I have been dead. My feelings, my aspirations, my talents - passed away, all of them, wretched out like a late-nite kebab that, upon suffering sobriety, decides to assault the senses once more, replete with the customary carrot that you could have sworn wasn’t there before. What am I on about? I don’t know. Two years ago, that sentence would have made sense and you’d probably have laughed. Hell, I probably would have laughed. But not now, in 2005. Just like the kebab - if it had stayed down for long enough - everything in me has turned to shit. Even my writing, the only thing I was ever good at, is gone. Or at the very least, ‘going, going…’. If my literary talents were auctioned on Ebay, they’d struggle to meet the reserve price. This is all my fault; I created this mess, and if I had a violin I would be playing it right now. My bedraggled bloggery receives a welcome respite, however, in the form of a text that has just arrived from Alex: ‘Celtic lose and the pope’s died. Not a bad day all round really.’ Perhaps I should leave the jokes to the ginger one - at least he’s persisted with his web log, even if his updates these days consist of nothing more than accessing The Trash Whore Diaries and hitting ‘ctrl + c’ followed by ‘ctrl + v’.
Sure, there’s been good reasons for my silence - police investigations, my dubious choice of career and a reluctance to pen anything that could incriminate myself, including my whereabouts on the nite that Kennedy bought it. (Which Kennedy? All of them I guess.)
But for the most part, it has been sheer laziness. This time, however, I’m back, and this time I’m gonna get it right, cos writing is all I’ve got (apart from an executive apartment, 42” plasma tv, beautiful girlfriend and 1,500 sq ft band rehearsal studio). Ultimately, I know I’m just another twenty-something guy writing another oh-so-hilarious web log about his ker-azzy life. But that’s fine with me. Yeah, I know I’ve written a whole lot about nothing today, but like diarrhoea, you’ve got to let it all drip out before you can pull up your trousers and get on with your life. It’s been emotional. It’s been runny. And I’m sure, like me, you’re feeling pretty drained so I’ll leave you with this random thought for the day:
If I-pods are so smart, how come they haven’t found a way to stop the headphones from getting tangled up?