don’t fuck very much. Barely ever, in fact. Possibly doesn’t help that I don’t go out in the evenings if I can help it. See, I’m too chickenshit to leave the house, and probably would be even if I didn’t live in a really shitty area where everybody likes to get violently drunk and beat hell out each other and occasionally stab people. Perhaps this doesn’t go on as often as I think it does but I paranoia and timidity are deeply ingrained in me, why take the chance. Chicks like to do this thing where, before they’ll fuck you, they ‘need’ to see you in a public place just to test how you’ll get on, and they correctly surmise that if you won’t go out you’re not a very good candidate for de-spunking. It’s not them ‘making you wanna die’ – like, who cares what ‘you’ want? – they just go ahead and make you die, in a sense. By pre-aborting your descendents. “You’re insignificant/ a small piece that isn’t”.

I lie – I do go out, sometimes. Only because lately my confidence has bottomed out so spectacularly that I’ve taken to reading shit like ‘How to Become a Human in 10 Easy Steps’, and one phrase that stuck with me was “Isolating yourself is dangerous because it leads to perversions”, and as I’m drifting toward the wrong side of the R. Crumb>>>J. Dahmer continuum I realised I’d better start answering some of the few invitations I get before it’s too late. So that’s how I found myself wandering around Notting Hill after the last eastbound tube had gone and unfortunately discovering that there wasn’t a night bus going directly to King’s Cross, I thought I’d self-helpishly ‘turn a negative into a positive’ and ‘re-frame the situation’ by taking the 28 to Camden and buying some weed down by the Lock. Always good shit there – true! Never been ripped off ever. Except by white people, whom I now avoid when making street purchases.

No dice, Camden crawling with filth. Of all the goddamned times for the normally invisible pigs to start truffling. Still dealers out, of course, but I’ve been stopped and searched more times than the average upstanding resident of St Paul’s, and Immigration is just looking for a reason to tell me to “get orrfff their laaahnd”, so that’s me non-high and sadly dry.

Fuckin’ pigs. Why don’t they leave the pot traffic alone? Oh I forgot (potheads do this a lot), this is England, anything that would possibly make life mellower is frowned upon as un-English and turned into a fucking obstacle course which is what makes this sewer-rat cage the pleasant place it is. Enough already. Moving back to Canada as soon as possible, they’ve replaced that red leaf on the flag with some green thing recently. (Shit, maybe I should’ve got myself arrested and deported! Why didn’t I think of it then? Oh just GUESS why I often forget to think of things.) (As for everyone who is going to tell me “well if you KNEW the right DEALERS” – hey I’m not into ‘getting to know’ people OK? Did you forget the first paragraph already? Are you high or something? “You wanna own the universe/ you can’t even converse”.)

Camden to Caledonia Road. I’m lonely and weed-less and frightened and filled with my own unspent reject genetic material turning into pathogenic toxins attacking my brainstem making me wanna die. Nobody else around me is, because they’re all drunk, as is the custom in Vomitorium Londinium. Somebody just spat in a minicab driver’s face, punches exchanged. Noisy bumping-of-uglies taking place in a dark corner, except it’s lit up and it’s not a corner. “Love is blind” I guess, and by this point I kind of wish I was too. Nobody seems to be able to board the 214 without commenting on the bus driver’s ancestry, and understandably the driver argues his case in spirited fashion with each successive loudmouth. “If I change my stride, then I’ll fly.” If somebody will change my bank balance for me I’ll fly even quicker. Anybody need any ass-kissing press releases done? Strokes, Coldplay, Starsailor, anyone? I don’t give a fuck, I want out. This place makes me wanna die. Ooh-arrr, the West Country. Lovely place, which comes to mind as soon as I step into the lift of my building, as if I had a pair of wellies the three inches of urine in the elevator wouldn’t bother me so much. There’s some roaches floating in the piss but even I’m not that desperate. (Yet?) Maybe if it was “hydroponic”. Nah, this is London. Everything is shit-quality even if you find it in a puddle of piss.

The lift ascends about as rapidly and steadily as somebody getting up to switch off the Cartoon Network after a few bong hits, but eventually I’m safely behind the door and in the absence of herbaceous tranquilliser some desolate tuneage is needed. What makes “MMWD” ‘desolate’ and not just ‘mellow’? For me, three things; Martina’s voice getting progressively scratchier throughout the tune, the way the (muso talk alert) the intervallic shift in the melody ALMOST but not quite rises to the expected ‘minor-third’ tonality and stalls at a major-second instead (“wan-na die” = “C#,B,B”, not the usual “D, B,B”), and that this is a rare ‘soft’ track that benefits immeasurably from having a repetitive drum-loop instead of some tasteful jazzy shit. Makes it more claustrophobic but when you’re an agoraphobe like me being buried alive is no punishment. Plus it’s a chick voice sort of explaining to me calmly explaining to me why I and my nonexistent progeny have been sentenced to extinction, and since I’m a reasonable person that makes it alright. And I like the way the track just stops mid-beat, which is how most people ‘die’. Get orrff my earth.

CD in player. Player fucked. Z-z-z-z-z (helicopter noise, whine) click click nothing.

Makes me wanna kill.