“The girl is infectious human waste, and she's confused and afraid to commit to the wrong thing and so she won't commit to anything.”

I've started wearing loose white t-shirts, black skinny trousers, red lipstick and my hair high up in a ponytail. Sometimes I feel so boring I'd rather die, sometimes it's rather liberating. What you see is only me; black or white doesn't obstruct anyone's vision. I don't hide behind quadruple denim or try to impress people with five-inch platform boots. It's just me. Black. White. Me. If there's anything in me to shine through it will have no obstacles, no layers to get past.

I saw Fight Club at Prince Charles Cinema in Leicester Square and walked home via Wardour Street and Old Compton Street. I was feeling odd and panicky and strung out - I couldn't breathe. I got stopped in front of Balanse by a young man and he wouldn't let me pass. He was wearing a puffy jacket and had a friendly face but he was too high for it all to be charming.

On the corner of Dean Street I felt like giving up on love even though I haven't really given it a chance after I lost in a battle of love against drugs. On the corner of Soho Square I felt like fighting. Something about violent movies always revs me up. By the time I got home I was already exhausted by the wind, the constant flow of black cabs, the party-goers and the tramps.

I want to learn to write like Palahniuk or Bukowski or Kerouac or Hemingway. Someday I will.