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the last yada
31/10/02 @ 7:42 p.m.
Tears will be shed, hearts will be broken, the tides will falter and the world will stop turning as we face the terrible news that this diary has come to an end. I need more energy for my AYME work, more brain for my writing, and more wrist for talking to friends on MSN. Against those priorities, trying to entertain a small bunch of strangers doesn’t stand much of a chance. In the sixteen months that I’ve been here, I’ve slagged off crap world records, misplaced pride, the jury system, tennis players, patriotism, clichés, swearing, etiquette experts, the Queen Mother, Christian movie reviewers, lookalikes, boxing, fate, hooting pacifists, the social security system, my intense stupidity, the feebleness of the anthrax scare, the evil of public domain sarcasm, lazy jokes about Michael Jackson’s face, my complete absence of talent, punning movie reviewers, celebrity sextuplets, polite porn, people who read this diary, clothes shopping, IMDB idiots, swimming cats, perfume adverts, professional streakers, Sylvester McCoy, exaggerating menus, the Oscars, Liz Hurley’s pregnancy, Baz Luhrmann, National No Speeding Day, Burt Ward’s charity, effeminate urinating, Hollywood script readers, sloppy vandalism, the misrepresented popularity of Madonna and Kylie, Amazon’s search engine, football, pop music, the cruelty of wrestling DVDs, celebrity yawning, Victoria Beckham’s writing skills, Ronan Keating’s lyrics, and inappropriate wordplay from Incontipants, Anusol and Vagisil. For now the rest of the iceberg will remain submerged. I invented some new swearwords, made some atheist leaflets, started some sick diary rings, had my faith tested by Jacko’s new album, organised the decimalisation of time, opened up a national network of boob depots, discovered that cavemen ate their own shit, had problems with the concept of nudity, raised awareness of Ben Laden’s misery, uncovered the mystery of the polite pornographer, celebrated Georgia Pecan Month, found Jordy Balinko, had my diary burgled, lived in a cave, tracked down the inventor of the cold, eventually stopped someone joining my Seinfeld ring over and over again, predicted our pubic future, made a parking sign for able-bodied assholes, solved the problem of teenage pregnancy in Britain, became a serial killer, found heaven with eighteen movie channels, incriminated minor celebrities, uncovered the Timberlake Equation, had a vision of mankind’s miniature future, and taught you how to get prescription painkillers. I became a metric martyr, saved the pound, campaigned against equality, read a book, became Ron Kovic to the short-sighted, lost a good friend, turned into Gordon Gekko, Nixoned myself a list of enemies, accused Bethlehem of being a has-been, and found the roots of arrogance in the medical profession. I wrote 13 entries about the Daily Mail, 6 about my loud neighbours, and 8 about the evil of Independence Day. I feel like we’ve all grown, we’ve all become a little wiser, and we’ve all learnt that bitterness and sarcasm are the paths to enlightenment. When my health improves, Yawner will be reborn at its new location. If I’m on your buddy list, or if you’re on my notify list, we’ll be reunited when the time comes. But for now, cry yourself to sleep as we go our separate ways, and remember me as I will remember you: vaguely, and for a very, very short time.
	b o o k m a r k s-----r u d i e s-----u p d a t e s-----m y--i l l n e s s -----m o v i e--r e v i e w s
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