It's enough to make you physically sick. Naively hoping that the general public would sit up and take notice, naively hoping that the general public wouldn't dish out the blatant Dingy Of Champions - ha! What fools we were, Thomas. What fucking fools we were. After all the efforts we made too: the happier marking of late, the smiles we drew on our faces with biros, the friendly outlook on life, love and other people. All for nought, it seems. Like the carbonised remains of a vampire been left out in the sun for too long, the competition breaks away into dust and swirls into the nothingness; but our unsettled wrath remains. WE WANT BLOOD! And blood is what we shall have.

Is there a better way to quench our renewed ire than to tear apart - with appropriate and unrelenting savagery - some poor unsuspecting competition non-enterer? Most likely there is, but damned if I find it. Instant gratification after a month of sheer heartbreak is what Marked Accordingly must have now, it's what Marked Accordingly demands. On the Altar Of Sacrifice - Moon-dusty!

"oh fuck off you silly. little. child."
- moon-dusty

The pressure cooker of love unrequited starts to whistle - at first, a whimper; then a piercing cry as it creepingly dawns on our hormonal chum that perhaps they have other plans. The stud of class; strutting, arrogance drips off him like a putrid sludge, the face oh-so-punchable. They've stolen your lover, your intended... and all you can do is hide at playtime in some reclusive corner, and cry your little eyes out. Remember your lines, now : "Boo hoo hoo! Nobody likes me! Boo hoo hoo! My life's a mess."

I assume that this is exactly the phase that moon-dusty is going through, because it is textbook melodrama - rife with imagery of the heart-broken and grand sweeps of theatrics, disguised in the poorly punctuated capital-letter-free morsels of text. A posthumous for the teenage angst years; but nowhere near as well done.

Harry Potter stares off into the distance, in an almost disinterested fashion as she evokes her own brand of despair on us. As evil as it sounds, I actually emitted laughter here and there. Yes, I am a heartless fiend; laughing at the poor girl's plight - but there was something morbidly comic about it : the mixture of desperation, anger and wasted dreams.

I never meant to laugh - laughing at other people's misery is not usually my cup of tea. A hint of black comedy, however, prevails. Just one that is quite poorly-realised.