DISCLAIMER: This guy wrote to us asking to do a regular diary entry for Platform. After a chat on the phone he sent over his first entry, we liked it, so here it is. Get to know him – he seems to be more than happy to put his secret escapades into the public domain, so we assume he’s also up for mockery/sympathy when needed. Nice. Oh, and all names have been changed.
Wednesday, 9th September
I know doing something like this is pussier than Postman Pat’s cat, but I also know that if I don’t have an outlet for my perverse thoughts and misconstrued jokes my head will explode and spunk brain mess all over innocent passers by. So ultimately, this is a protection mechanism for the community, a public defence against my dark parts, but mainly just a place I can be arrogant and cockish without anyone ever knowing my identity. It’s the Superman/Clark Kent dichotomy, but if Superman was a spotty little shit who wanked into socks and Clark Kent was an even spottier little shit who’d once made an unfortunate joke so xenophobic and disgusting it would have made Hitler cry. Yep, that’s me.
I have no excuse for laying the sad facts of my life out on internets’ sordid kitchen table like broken cutlery, other than: I really love myself yet also desperately need acceptance and love from strangers. So feel free to reject the sordid and mundane tragedy of my existence – if the cheesy, mouldy sandwich that is ‘my everyday’ offends you, I apologise.
School’s started again, which means itchy trousers, sitting next to that smelly kid in French, and once again pining, longing, and aching for anything female. In my mind, there are two types of women in this world – fuck or marry. Fuck girls are great, they’re the slutty orange ones in magazines with that weird shiny plastic skin, continually wet hair that slaps around their pouty lips, and personalities made up of quotes: “I like knitting, sushi, and threesomes with my twin sister”. Fuck girls are great; they’re the stuff of desperation, pot noodles and rainy Thursday nights. But they’re as nourishing as candyfloss and not much more intelligent. Marry girls are the ones that really get you. They’re real, so everything you take from them – their inky fountain pen, their cotton pants, their awkward virginity – that’s real too.
Lucy Forwith in Lower Sixth is fucking real. If my desire for her could be displayed physically I’d walk around with bleeding eyes, shaking hands and tourists looking for Nelson’s Column would be re-directed towards my boxers. But thank god it remains just a dull pounding at the back of my brain. Anyway, fuck Jack Miller (my best friend), I’m gonna get that bit of real, no matter how impossible he says it is.
