And finally, a couple more comments:
"Preppy, AKA (real name)/MuscleBoy, Scene Queen I also go to that gym occasionally, and really think you are an idiot. Surely showing off your own pasty overdone little torso is enough? I am straight, dont really admire your amateur writing which is really just your vanity written down. Hopefully if enough of us complain at the gym (and now someone passed around flyers letting us all know about the pics), they will cancel your membership"
"The gym manager and head office have already seen the pics, they saw them this morning. Someone took screen shots of your blog and print outs. Vile prick"
Question: Even if all this is true (flyers?! Jesus). What will anyone gain if I stop going to this gym and go to a different one. What are these people trying to achieve?
This is the Monday after Scott and I have seen some new guy that we like in the gym, a new guy that I’ve never mentioned on here before, because that would be a gross invasion of privacy and I don’t want to be some seedy little moron, so on this Monday I dedicate my lunchtime to going out and buying clothes that make me look more like that guy.
And for this purpose I choose to ignore the fact that, in order to look like him, I actually need: four inches in height / 23kg of extra weight in muscle (don’t ask me how I know his weight – that would be a gross invasion of privazzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz) / a spectacular natural tan / the ability to grow proper stubble / generally the ability to look like a real, sexy man, instead of a 14-year-old child taking part in the local school gymnastics championship (my current look).
And to achieve the guy’s look I decide that I need to be wearing t-shirts in the gym, not vests anymore (too gay) even if that means that I will get all hot and sweaty and won’t be able to breathe. So I go to Sports World on Oxford Street and buy: three Nike t-shirts, exactly the same pair of ugly brown trainers he has even though I hate them, a pair of white socks that got in the way as I was paying.
Then I go to Zavvi where unfortunately I find a Smiths t-shirt, a t-shirt that I can’t help but have. This Monday afternoon though I’m strong, stronger than I’ve been for at least six days, plus I’ve spent too much money already today, so I walk away.
On Tuesday lunchtime I go back and buy the Smiths t-shirt.
This has the cover of The Queen Is Dead on the front, kinda faded, blending in with the shirt and it says “Life is very long when you’re lonely” at the back. I don’t like the back very much. It’s a bit explicit. I am more implicit.
On Wednesday lunchtime I go back to Sports World and return the brown trainers. I get my money back. I don’t like these trainers and this is money I could put in my savings, savings that I’ll waste sooner or later on more plastic surgery. It’s rapidly becoming obvious that I haven’t had enough.
Then I’ll beg, steal and borrow more money, have yet more plastic surgery, fall into horrible debt, get caught and thrown into jail.
In jail, I will lead a life of miserable / wonderful solitude, the life that all my 28 years have been leading to, from the day my nursery school teacher told me off for gluing the confetti pieces on my Mother’s Day card symmetrically one by one instead of sprinkling them on, to the day that
EDIT: I have now put the second and last London Preppy scrapbook on ebay. I'm quite convinced it will go for a lower price than the last one, so feel free to check it out.
Oh yeah, this includes an unpublished story that I'll never put on here.