Today I got very excited- spurred on by the sheer adulterating joy of the Gay Bar video, I set out to get me Fire and, while in my local Satan's Clit Sucking Compact Disc Emporium I discovered, joy of joys, that someone had decided to get in Careless Talk. Flicking thru and reading True's editorial, about passion and caring, I felt caracteristically elated and then, standing at the desk paying, with my feet sitting happily praising the joy that is overly ventilated, disgusingly cheaply made canvas footwear while the rest of my body crused my tiny little mind for wearing a parka while it slowly tried to cook itself to death, I thanked the man who was taking my money so kindly from me for finally getting it in.
I don't know why I did that. You don't talk to Satan's Clit Sucking Compact Disc Emporium employees, because they do not like you. I once gave my reasons for returning a CD as "It's shit", said with a big fucking grin on my face like I was MAKING CONVERSATION, FUCKER and the guy mumbelled, "No it isn't" under his breath. I learnted there and then never to bother talking to people who sell me music, because they do not love me, the bastards.
But this man did. This was the man who got Careless Talk in. He! Personally! There was a que and I had to go to work, but he was mentioning other magazines he was thinking about getting in, tho it would be a fight because we are but a small store, you know? and CT was only in on a trial basis, to see who liked it.
I left the store buzzing, feeling like I had some how, in some way, made a small Indie Kid mark and I wasn't alone anymore. This buzz is good. This buzz, and all the talk of passion and caring that falls of CT this month, and, let's face it, Fucking Electric Six Motherfucker, will see me thru these four beautiful days off work I have, and out into Fucking Zine Writting.
Oh yes, I'm coming up, so you better get this party started.
I have no idea why I kept my mouth shut and didn’t say anything, why being called sick and vulgar and disgusting, from such blatant homophobes, who capped it all with their lazy, half-arsed conservative pseudo-feminism, why I didn’t stand up for myself and my make-up bag and my Justin Timberlake poster in the face of these Juile Birchill avatars in Catholic drag.