#1: 9 June, 2013

Plans for the year are to get buff, discover myself and increase my sexual experiences to double-digit or at least single-digit status. Unlike my peers, I have been planning this for a long time. Whilst they are going off to University, or wasting their gap years on trips abroad (I think Africa doesn't need any more schools now guys, there is such a thing as grade inflation), I will be making myself into an Ubermench.

My interest in becoming a Nietzschean superman began just after Harriet turned me down. Whilst I was reacting to that with basically just indifference and boredom if anything I realised that during my time at sixth form I needed to focus on a higher realm. I bought a copy of "Beyond Good and Evil" and read almost all of it in a month, it was so engrossing. And I realised that there is so much more to life than the petty pursuits of Willsdean Sixth Form, as became clear just from the bit of the blurb that I glanced over.

My knowledge of humanity's ultimately humble place in the universe made me realise how much better I am than all of my peers, some of whom have not even read Nietzsche, and who remind me a little of me when I was like they are (about three months ago when I hadn't read Nietzsche).

So now, with a gap year to await my arrival at university (whichever esteemed centre of learning accepts me), I will use this time at my mother's house to become a true Super man, disturbed from my monk-like meditations only by my mother's screeching insistence that I unload the dishwasher and by my body's need to expel itself of all the different coloured substances. 

This blog will by my yardstick, my measurer, my yardstick of how far I have come, and perhaps (the spirit of Socrates whispers to me) how far I have to come yet and still??

Wanks: 3.

#2: 13 June 2013

My second missive! A word about the site of my year-long journey into myself. Willsdean is a commuter town thirty miles from London, and full of potato-sack wearing simpletons. I have finished my A Levels and am taking a gap year whilst I await my results. 

My plan is to use my burgeoning knowledge of Nietzsche to write the last great American novel. I have a title, I think - "The Poet, The Poet". I got the idea when I saw Iris Murdoch's "The Sea, The Sea" on a shelf - that's easy, I thought - Control-C, Control-V. A title. The plot, character and my major themes are yet to be worked out. I think one theme will be Reality, as I've wanted to write something on that for a while. 

I also want to have a character in it to stand in for Harriet, not because I'm in love with her still, just because someone that boring would be interesting to write about. I remember how much I used to hate her, as I jerked furiously to memories of her tits (hidden beneath her Debating Society polo shirt) - annoyed that I should be compelled to waste my seed on my memories of her. Tens of thousands of potential poet Laureates massacred on a tissue, like a literary, jizzy holocaust.

I had first really connected with Harriet when I spotted her across the common room and watched her from a distance. I tend to over-romanticise women's bodies in description, I know, but these tits really were really big. She had a sultry, knowing, temptress-like face, which others describes as "sort of normal, I guess" but which I knew to be like that of Eros herself [himself? check reference].

I want to immortalise her forever in my novel, to show how little she meant to me. Looking over my discussions with her, the little chats we'd have, the soul-pouring over so many topics, I estimate we spoke to each other for around 45 minutes - including the time in Debating Society when we clashed over the return of the Elgin Marbles. But if we were to read out all of Jesus' teachings, it would take only two hours [check reference]. Are we really to say that Harriet and I's soul-mating is pathetic, because it has only half of the potency of the teachings of Jesus? Be not I to judge, lest yee judge before thee.

Wanks: 4. Must turn more of my energies to physical exercise.

#3: 16 June 2013

My fitness regime is finally getting into gear. Did eight sit ups this morning, then two without having my feet under something. Did thirty seconds of running quite fast on the spot, two minutes buttock clenches, two minutes buttock unclenches, then wholesome breakfast of five pieces of toast, two fried eggs and only one sausage (healthy one with garlic and herbs in it). 

I don't have to worry about my weight or body, of course, because I'm not a girl. I figure until I get proper buff I will channel a Tony Soprano-style larger man with sexy confidence thing, maybe think about wearing a vest. As a man I can also look forward to becoming sexier as I age and enter into my Geroge Clooney years, unlike women who wither so tragically as they approach the 24 landmark. I look at my mother's pendulous breasts and despair for the lot of women, I really do. I guess this makes me a feminist?

Wanks: 1 (very hot today).

#4 17 June 2013

The objective of becoming a superhuman is going well I think - I've started going "hmm, interesting" when people use a word I don't understand but I don't want them to know that. It's actually developed into quite a performance now. I'll look thoughtful and nod a little to myself. Then a small smile will cross my face, but with an exhalation of breath from my nose, as if the cosmic absurdity of it is almost too much. Then a look of sudden sadness, eyes lost to memory, reflecting on the ultimate meaning of it all. By this point they generally look a little embarrassed at how much I seem to be feeling the intellectual weight of their point, and they move the topic on, forgetting they ever uttered the word "paradigm" in my presence. Then I can say I'm going to the bathroom to take a big dump, straight onto the phone and dictionary.com - and blammo, I come back and use the word back at them, plus maybe a synonym or too I've memorised. The idiot is left in the wake of the uberness of my mensch.

#5 19 June 2013

Real paradigm of a day - got an invite to Jack's 18th tomorrow, but Harriet will be there - and there's the rub. Literally - the thought of it sent me straight into a wankspasm. I wonder whether if you wank enough to the thought of someone you kind of actually are going out?? How am I going to deal with seeing Harriet? I'm so indifferent and basically just bored by her that whenever I think of seeing her I start to feel sick and like a big hole is opening up inside me (but then I also kind of want to put my dick in that hole).

I've been thinking really hard about it and I think the best thing that could happen is that, just before the party, I die. I was thinking maybe I see a kid about to get hit by a truck and I dive out to get the kid and fling it away, but the truck hits me. Maybe 'Search For The Hero' by M People is playing from somewhere, I don't know. The truck driver gets out and holds my body, screaming "why am I such a stupid truck driver!?" My body is limp but still fit. I look at him and simply say "I forgive you", even though his only job is to competently drive a truck and not hit people and he's overpaid and probably a union firebrand. The crowd around him tell him he's a stupid idiot for hitting me, but I say "forgive him, he did not knew not what he did". "Wow", says a brunette, 19, pleasingly curvy.

Then at the party Harriet is talking to Jake or Chris or one of those prick guys from debating society. And the rumour starts to spread - a whisper at first, but then someone turns the music off, makes an announcement. Will Strobb is dead. It hits her like a wave. A wave made of ice. Then it dawns on her, like a dawn, that I am truly gone forever. She goes to the garden whilst someone puts that loud sad song from 'Amadeus' on. Beyond tears (though actually no tears would be good) she thinks, numbly, "I should have sucked him off". But it's too late. I'm dead. She can't suck me off.

The wind moves through the grass, the trees sway. The last movement of my soul before its ascent? She feels a presence, a familiar inkling of piercing intellect and Lynx Africa...maybe the wind slightly brushes her tit, she loves it. She realises what a dumb tart she's been and maybe she thinks about ending it all and joining me in the fields of Ambrosia...but actually no it'd be better if she lived the rest of her quiet, chaste life in lonely regret.

But I need to develop a backup plan in case I don't die...

Wanks: 4 (the wind-spirit tit grab was good for a couple).

#6: 20th June 2013

Party is tomorrow. To take my mind off not caring about Harriet, I've been working on my novel. Mainly working on the first prologue (I intend to have three), which I am writing in the fourth person. That's right, FOURTH person. Feeling challenged? There's "I". There's "You". There's "He/they". And finally..."that". That. My opening line of the first prologue is...

That walked across the room, and that sat down. That was tired. 

My next line was going to be "that was why that sat down", but I've already stumbled into difficulties there. In any case, it's only the first of such literary adventures. Prologue 2 will contain no vowels other than A and no consonants, and prologue three will be written with Wingdings. I've only got one line so far, which is I guess is inspired by Harriet...

☠☠☠☠☠☠☠☠☠☠♥☠☠☠☠☠☠☠☠☠☠☠

Wanks: 2 (at one point I wrote the word 'nipple', which set off a train of logic.) 

#7: 21 June 2013

Think seeing Harriet at the party went really well. Feeling quite confident, I approached her after a couple of hours of being near her, looking quizzically at things in her vicinity and one bolder gambit where I tried to open the door whilst she was in the bathroom just in case it could have been a funny story we'd tell our grandchildren, sort of thing. 

But then, around 11pm, the conversation happened. 

I've already thought a lot about the first biopic of my life. This conversation would come about a third of the way through, when portentous references to my tragically early death have yet to be seeded. All is confidence, lightness and golden joy - though there is a sadness in my eyes which makes the audience sympathetic but also sort of impressed I guess. 

I've made a draft of the scene, to help future negotiations with Dreamworks. Obviously I've had to "Hollywood" it up a little. 

---"WILL TO POWER", SCENE 7---

INT [film for 'in a room']. EVENING. A party of sixth-formers. The braying of 'indie' rock music pierced occasionally by that promotional message from Spotify.

WILL approaches the drinks table, next to which stands HARRIET (looking attractive but not as attractive as the actresses that play future lovers). She definitely notices him first, he's basically not bothered by her.

HARRIET: Hi Will how are you enjoying this party? Given that I was invited after you were invited I justifiably feel less comfortable here socially.

WILL: The only thing worse than being invited to a party is not being invited to a party.

Harriet throws her head back and laughs, but then realises what Will said was not only witty but also thoughtful so she suddenly looks down at the ground, trying to ponder the deeper meaning (but failing).

Will throws an M&M up into the sky and catches it in his mouth but doesn't even really reference doing it.

WILL: Last time I saw you was in debate club. Changed your mind about the Elgin Marbles? 

The air is suddenly sexual.

HARRIET (steamy): Why do you have to bring that up?

WILL: I feel like it's the elephant in the room. Which is also what I call my penis.

[Note to Dreamworks: I'm not married to the penis line, I guess we can discuss what rating we're going for, I know in the Indian and Chinese market (growing sources of revenue) getting a 13 rating is best practice, but I'm genuinely happy to go with you guys' gut instinct on this one].

CHRIS, a quite wet-seeming boy in bad trousers, comes over to Harriet and mutters inarticulately about the lift home he's going to give her.

HARRIET: See you, Will.

WILL: I'm fine with you returning to your home, given that you've not become a source of educational value at the British Museum and your original ownership is not in dispute. 

Harriet, who probably heard this and was wounded by it, leaves. 

---

I want 4% of global merchandise revenue and an executive producer credit. 

Wanks: 1 (post-party, not my finest hour...literally, an hour - I get this thing when I'm drunk where I can be rock solid but it's like milking jizz from a stone). 

#8: 1st July 2013

Stop all the clocks. Cut off the telephone. Cancel my premium Porn Hub account. Harriet belongeth to another(eth). Let me tell you, dear reader, how this noble stag gained an arrow in his heart...

Personally I think Facebook is a sad expression of modern man's inability to truly connect to others – but then there is Harriet's Malaga 2012 album with the bikini shots. You have been a source of comfort to me in the darkest hours, photos 23, 28 and 31-34 inclusive.

But the site has largely been a cruel mistress. My 'most liked' status is still the one from October when I foolishly trusted that troglodyte Rich from ICT class with my account as I went to the bathroom. I cannot abide having my most popular writing output to date being “bums men” (174 likes). How's that going to look on the CV, alongside the last great American novel? Also, a classic example of double standards. Rich didn't have such a sense of bonhomie when I posted to his wall the simple observation that even if I did bum men, at least my mum isn't dead.

But such slings and arrows are as nothing compared to what happened this morning. “Harriet Snibbens is in a relationship with Chris Jacobs”. Chris – he of bad trouser from the party. 44 likes. If Facebook had a 'universe imploded' button, I would have clicked it.

I went through all the stages of grief, but with 'acceptance' replaced by 'has sad, sad wank'. As a small dribble of semen spurted out of me like the tiny poo of winter's first robin, I thought to myself “that seed could have been our child”. I was filled with thoughts of the son we shall never have – inheriting intelligence, wisdom and courage from me; from her, brown eyes and family wealth. But Ezekiel Agamemnon Socrates Strobb shall never walk the earth...Instead, some squat little gremlin with the Jacobs name shall roam about in all the bad trousers he likes. The joke's on you, 'survival of the fittest'.

This is my darkest hour. Much worse than “bums men”.

Wanks: 2 (the aforementioned lost son wank, and then Malaga 33 to cheer myself up). 

#9: 2nd July 2013

I have decided to wear only black and to speak only by quoting Shakespeare. When mother asked me to unload the dishwasher this morning, as I was trying to look out of the window and consider whether metaphysical evil can exist in human form (yes - Chris), I told her that I wished my flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew. Slight problem I will have to deal with is that I only know that quote, and my one pair of black trousers has a hole in the crotch.

My one great solace, as ever, is that goddess we call Art. My novel is now partly an existential probing into whether goodness can flourish in this world (no – thanks, Chris) and partly about the sexual adventures of an intelligent but misunderstood sorcerer's apprentice with good trousers.

If I were to name the author that's inspired me the most, I'd have to say it's thesaurus.com.

Everyone was shocked the day that Princess Haryatte married Lord Badclaw Darkfang. But Willymm Goodtree was not shocked. Nor was he revolted, scandalized, horrified, outraged, perturbed, agitated or disquieted. 

He felt no element of stun, nor was he staggered or confounded; there was no sense in which he was dumbfounded or shaken on this occasion. But he was also not bewildered or disconcerted. 

Or discombobulated.

He knew that Darkfang had used evil magic, hidden in his ill-fitting green cargo trousers, to trick the lovely but dumb princess into loving him...

Willymm knew he faced a choice. He could let Haryatte be ensnared by a man who thought having blonde highlights constituted having a personality. Or he could take up his sword and fight. Fight for their love. Battle for their love. Do combat for their love. Engage in a confrontation or struggle for their love.

Willymm had made his choice.

(The second one). 

#10: 18th July - The board is set. The pieces are moving.

Willsdean Sixth Form have invited me to their summer Model United Nations debate, to represent the great state of Belgium. And who should lie to my Western flank but France...fronted by a certain raven-haired Goddess of treachery.

Of course the idea that Harriet could actually rise that far up the diplomatic career ladder is absurd. I don't think that C grade in Politics Unit 3 would sit well on the CV, dear. I recall how she would often get annoyed or disinterested with me when I pointed out the gaping holes in her CV. As if free career advice grew on trees! And yet I still crave her... even if the French civil service rightly would not.   

I shall rule her heart one day, just as the Merovingian kings of old ruled the Frankish tribes that settled on my lowlands. As her boyfriend, I shall combine the strength of Dagobert II with the quiet philosophical nature of Chilperic I. I will defeat Chris, armed only with my love and the Wikipedia entry for Belgium history.

Harriet's current lover of choice has been assigned Luxembourg. Trade pacts notwithstanding, I shall not stop until the sombre businessmen from Oesling to the Gutland live in the shadow of nuclear ash.

And like a wind shall I one day blow amongst them and with my spirit take away their soul’s breath.

- Nietzsche, (Friedich)

Wanks: 1 (have to be careful – the thought of a Luxembourgian bank manager having his skin burnt off through radiation shouldn't make me so horny).  

#11 - Upping My Game

Of course, my key strength over Chris is my free-spirited nature (and my near perfect attendance record at A Level). I will wow the General Assembly by throwing myself unapologetically into Belgian culture. I will show the gathered dignitaries that I know the difference between 'having a topless Facebook profile pic' and 'having a personality'.

As such, I have ordered the below traditional Belgian folk dress with matching hat and tassels.

Well modelled...hats off to you, gentilhomme.

£69.99 with £7 post and packaging to show the strength of the Belgian Volkgeist? I know which of us is winning, folkdresslover.com.

Wanks: 1. You are a knowing temptress, related Google Image results...

She has breasts under there, you can count on it...

#12: Poor Chris...

14.2 vs MINUS 10.1...Better luck next financial quarter...