Whoring for fun and profit
I used to be a quiet, self-effacing boy who wouldn’t put myself forward for anything, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Who wouldn’t even goose a goose, quite frankly. Yet maybe as a consequence of having a rather difficult year in 2006, and now having too much time on my hands and not enough time on my leg(s), I have turned into a black-hearted figure of self-hatred. I used to have principles. I did. Even as recently as a couple of weeks ago, there were levels I would simply not sink to when it came to prostituting myself. I refused to debase my (cough) art. No more, though.
Deep breath.
okay so there is a weblog awards thingummybob going on somewhere on the world wide web and I would be ever so grateful if you would consider voting for me in any of the categories you feel most appropriate like best written that one would make me very happy because all I care about is the writing after all but then again there is best kept secret because no one has heard of me or best in the UK because I live in the UK however I am not going to link to the site because I want to try and keep hold of some of my fast dissolving standards oh god I hate myself and I want to die because I swore I would never do this but thank you if you decide to vote for me and thank you even if you don’t because it’s not the winning that counts it’s the taking part and isn’t that the biggest load of rubbish you’ve ever heard I don’t know when I started to need the adulation and approval of my peers but I’ve always had self-confidence and self-esteem issues don’t worry though because I have often talked about thorny subject with a nice woman who wears spectacles looks pensive and sits in a book-lined room and she assures me that it’s entirely normal for a screw-up such as me
Yesterday, in certain social circles, I was calling myself a Complete and Utter Web Tart. It was pointed out to me, with some relief, how lucky it was that I hadn’t instead chosen the title of Complete and Utter Net Tart. But that’s what I am. A Complete and Utter Net Tart. If I had the nerve, I have no doubt that I would adapt this site so that when a visitor first landed on these pages, a huge pop-up window would appear containing the logo for the awards that dare not speak their name, accompanied by a blaring trumpet voluntary and a flashing marquee proclaming “VOTE FOR ME! VOTE FOR ME! VOTE FOR ME!” I would probably stick a few animated gifs of dancing squirrels in there for good measure too, simply to hammer the point home further. Fortunately for all of us, I have yet to reach such sickening depths, though it can only be a matter of time.
If I’m brutally honest with myself, this is probably not the moment to come grovelling for your love, because I only tend to foul up the whole plan somewhere else. Last night, for instance, consumed by a bout of insomnia, I wrote an entry about Jesus riding a bicycle up and down the main corridor of my flat. I sense that such a post will be greeted with a bewildered silence by all but the most equally bewildered few. But if weblogs are about anything, they’re about uniqueness. Aren’t they? And I am as unique as everyone else. Indeed, when it comes to being unique, we’re all exactly the same. I love blogging, I do, with a passion bordering on insanity and violence.
I am currently running a sweepstake as to how long this post will remain here before I quietly creep back, embarrassed and shame-faced, and delete the whole bloody thing. For now, though, I am merely going to crawl away under a rock and hide, whilst gnawing at my fists and weeping salty, stinging tears of self-loathing.