Notebook 003

7.32pm 04-02-07

Punk girls on a train. Corsets, plugs and wood-glue mohicans. more metal in their face than a scrapyard. The old people have quietened already. Brash lesbians use their sexuality as a bravado to ward off any offence towards themselves by producing it first. Ironically they're the same people who fight for women's rights and feminism whilst also making this the only recognisable feature about themselves. I hope they don't see this, yet I doubt they'd realise it's all prejudice and elaborate extreme stereotype, and in getting worked up about it they'd be admitting I'm right.

Give me no title. Give me no name. For then I have the right to never be exclusive (excluded?). Already put into marks. Phone signal more up and down than the punk's profanities. They probably think that word's about female genitalia.

Moaning about the solitary walk to the on-train bar for tins of cider. "I'm not doing that again!" Whether from the buoyancy of train gangway or the shining eyes that move thricefold more violently. I believe it's the latter. Why profess disgust to attention to a harlequin-esque wardrobe when it's obviously designed to be a middle finger to unweary eyes. Or am I missing the point? Is it a statement that modern femininity isn't the curves and sophistication that it used to be. No aprons here. She'll drink you under the table then smash it over your head. You cannot question her reason. Backlash from the womens liberation? What. Surely that'd be extreme housewives? Maybe not. Maybe their contradictory uniformed solitary war against life is what their beliefs are: nothing. They fight for nothing because they believe that's what they are. They fight for nothing and hence fight everything. Oh well. At least they give a semi-submersive rationale to their unique uniform. Patches, neonity and vulgarity bordering on illegality.