December 11 (Saturday): Today personally September 11th turns into December 11th for me as I experience some kind of personal disaster (exaggeration-a-go-go). If ever it is wondered why I can be such a mean spirited, miserable, people hating bastard, then it should referred days like these.

As much as experience teaches, I remain horribly naïve and hopefully that human race is not as self serving as all facts add up to it being. It seems every time I reach out and place some faith in people, those are the moments that I get burned the most.

Cutting to the chase, today is/was supposed to be the big day that I finally get to see a West End show and that I hook up with Sara (Haslett) after a year and a half and finally see her again. However to quote Hunter S. Thompson: “you can turn your back on a person but never turn your back on a drug” and when I wake up this morning, we have still not touched base or made arrangements and things look bleak.

The day does begin/start healthily. I head out to do the Saturday newspaper run (and to post an Ebay to Austria) and as I do so, there are a number of sirens heading towards town. When I hit Southway, I can only see several flashing lights in the distance and a hold up of cars and when I finally get through and pass the wreckage, there is shredded car turned over having crashed through the wall. Its horror show and looks like a bad omen.

I return home to the post and I have received my first Christmas card of the year/season. The card turns out to be from my aunt in Brightlingsea whose husband is also my dad’s boss at the firm that is currently smoking him out with regards to employment and refusing to pay him any redundancy it seems with the hope that dad will just resign. Yes, I am most certainly my father’s son when it comes to problems with employers. I’m all right Jack, I think me and him might have actually made could union members after all. So, to have such a person send me a Christmas card really doesn’t register highly in seasonal goodwill.

Speaking of Dad, earlier on he came online on MSN to speak and I only found myself switching to appearing offline in an attempt/desire not to speak.

Around this point I attempt to phone Sara (Haslett) for the first time and I get nothing. I text and await some kind of fucking sign of life (hey, she’s fond of the powder, perhaps she OD’d and is incapable).

I pick up the WWF game on the Playstation again and set about unlocking the legends (Brutus Beefcake and Bret Hart first methinks). The game is great and takes your mind of your woes but I also realise my posture and expression begins to resemble after a while Andy off Little Britain, so I drop it as soon as I can (which is hide in the light of this current addiction).

I attempt Haslett once more and again there is nothing. We have now headed into the PM and it has become evident there is something up. All hopes of spending the day together in the city now seem a bleak wet dream, a distant memory. I text again, this time asking her to confirm whether I have had the (inevitable) “heave hoo”.

Once more today, Dad comes online and this time he catches me. We exchange a dozen lines before I shut up and eventually he disappears. Things are now officially up with her and I am concerned and growing pissed off with the day.

I begin attempting Haslett regularly now, leaving messages on her voicemail of anger and concern (but all still in a wimpy fashion), ringing regularly and sending text message after text message, none of which get answered. The day now is obviously doomed.

On TV this afternoon is A Streetcar Named Desire. I have never seen this movie before but have been often told that I’d like it, to the point that Coogan once compared to me Stanley. Really? I watch the film with one hand on my mobile phone. Occasionally, in boring moments of the movie (and there are quite a few) I dial the phone and/or send another text message to Sara. I however watch the movie intently, considering what is making Blanche tick and I find myself drawing comparisons to her and Sara in an attempt at empathy.

At my most pissed off point in the afternoon, I grab a bottle of wine out the rack and proceed to have a drink (1996 Trio chardonnay, any good?). I fuck up and cork it and by the time I get the bottle pouring, the wine has pretty much gone to shit and I don’t really feel like drinking (getting drunk) anyway. Instead, I probably Sara (or attempt) and/or send another text message.

Eventually on the phone front, when A Streetcar Named Desire ends and I once more become bored, I keep phoning and occasionally the phone does not go to her voicemail after ringing, it straight ends call. This suggests that the phone is being turn off (call rejected) at the other end. Here is the first actual sign of life I have had all day and, almost stalker-esqe, I immediately proceed to call the phone again. Eventually, the phone stops ringing at her end altogether and she has obviously switched her phone completely off. Coward.

I’m fucked off really, with notice I could have got someone else to go with and/or I could have gone up to see Millwall v Brighton and then sold the tickets to a taut. By the way (for the record), Millwall beat Brighton 2-0, Dobie scored his first goal for Millwall and Paul Ifill came on as a sub and scored not for the first time this season.

As the evening gets older, my text messages become more frequent as I begin to act with reckless abandon. By now it is absolutely obvious I am not going to be speaking to her on the phone today but I figure best keep calling, occasionally leaving a message on her voicemail even if it is just a grunt (pretty much all/what she deserves by this point). Today is one of those days when you do something (me hassling her) which/that you realise is so thoroughly wrong and out of order but you just do it anyway without care.

For dinner I pop out and go to the chip shop when tonight I had hoped to be dining in one of the finest eateries in the West End. How the mighty have fallen.

I watch some TV show about the music of Bernard Hermann and it reaches Psycho and I begin to draw comparisons. Scary scary scary. Good soundtrack though.

Tonight poor old mum makes the biggest mistake of recent weeks by calling me on the phone while I am at the eye of the storm. When she rings (me stupidly half thinking it might actually be Sara) she catches me at the worst point possible. I begin grunting down the line like a teenager and when she gets arsey with me, I let rip down the line, her being an innocent bystander in my car crash weekend. I shout down the phone at frightening proportions, I really hate getting in this state and it is the time when really I need to be left alone to just blow off steam in my own way. I feel really bad in doing this but it feels like interference. And then the lay in the boot, akin to the ring phrase of Sara telling me that I am an “arrogant self absorbed prick”, mum goes “well, we all have our problems” and she proceeds to tell me how the Inland Revenue have begun proceedings to squeeze the £7,000 tax credit out of them, by way of an £80 direct debit a week. Suddenly my parents moving house is in jeopardy and it is really not what I want to hear at this time. The phone call only serves to make me feel worse, I now worry because I know they (the parents) will be worrying about me, which is why I never tell them anything that happens to me in the first place. Sometimes happens all the time.

As soon as I get off the phone, I grab it and throw against my wardrobe pretty hard as it smashes to pieces and leaves a dent in the wardrobe. That’s a good way of letting off steam, even if it points towards a possible necessity for anger management. I continue to stomp it into the ground just to work up a brief sweat and make the heart pound faster to match the emotions in my head. Poetic.

I continue calling and texting (pretty much hassling) as the movie of the evening comes on and it is Notting Hill. This film is the fucking pits. I don’t understand Hugh Grant and why girls fantasize about him because he is the ultimate wet bastard seemingly conceived with a weak sperm. I bet girls don’t blow him out though.

The film sends me asleep but unfortunately I awaken around midnight just wanting the fucking bad day/night to end so that I can have a fresh restart to my life in the morning. As I say, this is the eye of the storm so exaggeration goes.

I spend the night in hell. I can’t sleep so I lie awake thinking too much, much more than is safe for a person. I contemplate and analyse far too far into why Sara has done what she has done to me and ultimately, resoundingly I am only able to come around to laying all the blame on myself. I beat myself up as I enter into a domino effect of falling emotions, the typical type of bullshit a person (everyone) goes through when they get dumped on, akin to: anger, denial, acceptance. And the anger remains as I continue to call and text in futile efforts like firing a gun into the air. I send nasty texts which gradually get nastier and nastier but generally all with a level of censorship to prevent absurdity. When I text the word “coward”, as I clear the text and come to the word “cow” I figure I’ll send that too. Pathetic times call for pathetic measures I guess. I fear seeing my phone bill month now, its going to be horrific.

And it al goes to show the measures I will go to for £80.

Eventually there is some late night film called The Broken Hearts Club: A Romantic Comedy on Channel Four starring your boy Zach Braf, which I actually really enjoy and get into until I fall asleep without really knowing what is going on in the story.

Luckily, I am finally able to put an end to such a shitty fucking day.

np: Neil Young – Don’t Let It Bring You Down