The Notes of a Millennial Blogger

The Notes of a Millennial Blogger. 

Post #1 I Heart Symbolism.

Friday, November 4th, 2000. 

The leaves are going crisp on Maple Drive. All the trees down here will soon be naked like bony amputees following a Humanitarian Crisis. 

The lava lamp is not yet blobbing. The green wax stays brittle for longer when the nights start drawing in like Nan Phyllis' right knee joint. The arthritis people could use this information. I might sell it to Nan's osteopath when he visits next Thursday in exchange for Rich Tea. 

I switch on the PC tower. The code of MS DOS gloops down my screen like rainfall. I find this jargon suspicious. I swear the nuclear codes are buried in there for if the Prime Minister suddenly needed to wage war from a civilian's Hewlett Packard. Once, when Dad was watching me, I actually pressed '~' following by 'Enter' a couple of times to make him my ICT aptitude was greater than it was. 'Well I never' he said, as his eyes widened like Sherbet Saturn Rings. I am an arch manipulator. I could fool anyone over the age of 25. 

Mum's still ill, by the way. Apparently her tumour looks like a Forrero Rocher, but only bits of it contain the cancer. The other bits are just thinking about defecting to the Cancer Camp like The French Resistance in Vichy. I know mum will hold out.

The Windows 95 Desktop looks fresh today. Only the bare necessities in the way of icons: "My Computer", "Recycle Bin", and "My First Amazing World Explorer" (Do not be hoodwinked by that title; MFAWE is a excellent software programme, and was dirt cheap - only 11 quid from PC World. The advisory team must've consisted of precocious 14-year-olds like me.

That reminds me. I must get a present for Auntie Sam. She's a kind of World Explorer because she married a rich older man so doesn't have to work much. She once used a £20 note to pick up a dog turd because she'd left her house without a poop bag when walking her dog. £20 is a small price to pay for picking up after your hound in Wimbledon Common. Had she left it, her thwarted pride would've been worth at least £10,000 to The Wimbledon Gazette. Auntie Sam knows about media and PR: she's been known to read "Hello" over Breakfast.

I recline in my swivel office chair, and double-click AOL. I hear the modem relay pick up the telephone line and begin pulsing its 56k dial-up digits down the line. Seconds later, I faintly hear my brother's voice reverberating within the bowels of the computer tower talking to his pal Carl about the merits of WWF Wrestling over the far more inferior WCW on Channel Five. 

-- Fuck off Bo, you fishmonger!

"Fishmonger" is an avant-garde insult that's suddenly in vogue among my brother's third-year classmates. It's a lame word. My brother uses it to fit in, in the hope they'll not notice that he's starting to get spots along his moustache line where he still refuses to shave. My favourite insult word is "arse-bandit". Arse-bandit was first used by Brian Blessed in the the seminal first series of Blackadder. You can tell a lot by someone's choice of insult. That's how I know me and my brother are fundamentally different: he channels trends in his insults; I, on the other hand, channel bearded geniuses. 

-- Okay, okay! I say and click cancel. The computer tower is no longer anthropomorphic.

I'll have to upload this post later. Shame; I was looking forward to seeing if I had acquired more than one follower. That's the problem with being a teenage internet blogger in 2000 - people still think this internet thing will be a fad, although I know full well that by 2010, we'll be flying drones directly from out mobiles which will have Tamagotchis and Digimons built in. They should listen to me. I'm small but have an accurate eye, like Goliath. They ignore me at their peril.