PICS
It's actually one of the rejects...
1. Who is my favorite question mark? Well.
Both the second and third are quite bland, the only one with remotely any of his own personality is the first, which, in turn, can be quite annoying since it makes him the supermegaknorke question mark, completely superior and equipped with everything outstanding, mind~wise. Photographisches Gedächtnis, rasierklingenartiger Scharfsinn, superb intellect. It's like Mickey Mouse is irritating because he's so fucking infallible, especially considering he chooses his friends by their sophisticated retardedness. Next to Goofy, he shines even brighter. Attention~whoring, egocentric confirmation~seeking asswhipe.
2. Have I ever gone fishing, considered it, and/or are there decent places to fish in my vicinity?
...err, no. 
Observe my completely blank stare.
Since I haven't eaten meat or fish in 13 years, obtaining either on my own is pointless. I realize people go fishing to experience tranquility, but that strikes me as really, really boring. Not because I don't like nature or something, but I'd rather deal with dirt and woods and streams on my pony's back, or on my bike. Because both enable me to go fast. I prefer fast to slow. I hate stagnation. Plus, I'm too busy for tranquility. Please ignore the just stated paradox, but the only time I am ever quiet in life is after sex.
It makes me look like this:
3. When I was little, what did I want to be when I grew up?
I'm still little.
I'm a spoiled, immature and demanding brat, and, after some pondering... yeah, I live my life exactly according to that. I remember being slightly confused by needing to answer job~choice questions when I was younger, I couldn't wrap my head around anything clear and consice or definite. I just uttered completely obvious statements like: "I'll draw, and make things, but not all the time, cos I wanna do things, and I don't wanna have anything to do with people!"
And basically.... that's remarkably close to what I do. 
4. How many pieces of popcorn fit into my mailbox?
That, dear friends, I don't know. Upon initially reading that question, I prepared myself to write a huffy "... and I'm not gonna try and find out cos that's stupid and you're stupid and I'm not stupid!" but I have to admit... it's sort of occupying my brain. I mean... yeeeeeah, how many exactly? *sideway glances*
I have absolutely no inhibition threshold about purchasing the corn to pop, popping it, and stuffing it into my mailbox, kernels flying. What I'd like to delegate is the counting, obviously.
Now, if anyone volunteers to pay the shipping of a carton of popcorn formerly in my mailbox and take part in this amazing experiment, just yell. We can make it a project. I promise bizarre and senseless video footage.
Anyone?
5. Can you lick my eyeball?
I don't know if you can, bloodspider, but in the odd case that you come to Berlin, I find the time, extract my contact lense and don't find you repulsive in any way, you're welcome to give it a try.
6. Can you keep me?
Only if I'm fed berries and milk.
7. What do I think about religion?
.... remind me to tell you about Krassgott in my next journal.
8. What do I think about girls who do or don't shave their... vajayjay?
So... basically you're asking me what I think about every single girl on the planet? Viewed with simplest logic, all girls either do or don't shave. Except those that trim. Now, would it be more precise to ask what I think about girls that trim, as opposed to the vast majority who fall into the other categories?
Either way, I have difficulties answering the question, since I don't know every single girl on this planet that does something to her pubic hair besides trimming. 
Especially since personal opinion or preference wasn't requested in the question.... hm. Mike! Ask me something normal!
Like 9.
9. What do I think about girls farting?
I think that whoever farts should have the courtesy not to do it in an elevator or car.
That's all I think about anyone farting, anywhere, anytime.
What I love about farting in public is that it induces an immediate regression into fourth grade in everyone.
Immediate reactions include giggling fits, yelling and embarrassment. This, like any other socially aquired behavious is inexplicable to me, and somewhat amusing.
Meaning, the fart itself will not cause me to smirk, but the collective kid reactions in all nuances by people who claim to be grown up will.
Since it's such an easy way to unnerve people, it gets a lot of plus points in my book.
Paradoxically, I prefer the men I sleep with not to fart when we're alone (besides not while having sex, duh. This doesn't apply to girls, though, since tensing the muscles that may spurt out a gas cloud will also increase the intensity of their orgasm. Everything is ok if it increases the intensity of an orgasm.) Not because I'm grossed out, but because it makes me feel I'm spending time with my brother instead of the insanely hot sex god I want to sleep with.
10. Do I ever cut myself with razors?
No.
Not anymore. I haven't intentionally cut myself with anything in years and years. We all gow up at some point.
11. Why the name Temper?
That is a very unsexy story. It was coined by my grandmother.
I was what you'd call a difficult child, and when I visited her and threw my tantrums, she'd just stand there not knowing, or willing, to really do anything, with a dishrag in her hand and both hands in her hips, going: "Jeeeesus, the temper!"
It stuck.
Also, I adore the girls' names on here that play with the surname 'suicide'. Committed is the prime example, along with Serial. I'm drumming my fingers for Assisted Suicide, Social Suicide, Contemplate Suicide, Attempted Suicide and my all time favorite: Botched.
So now and then I google my name and smile about all the things that temper suicide risks. 
12. If I can only choose one type of drink, and one type of food, what would I chose?
Oh, easy. All I ever eat is pasta. I love salad to death, but it's too elaborite to make since it makes you stand there, and cut things into bite size, and toss and.... naw, lost any interest. My idea of cooking in general is making toast.
Pasta is less time consuming, plus, I need fattening food.
Drink? I live off coffee, bubbly water and whisky. I chose all three, without contradiction. One alcoholic drink, one to keep my energy level, and one to prevent dehydration from the others.
13. James Spader or William Shatner?
Ew, I um. Neither?
Seems my lack of tv~consumption has an immediate counter productive effect on the capability of serving a satisfactory answer.
14. What's the story behind my scars?
Some are indeed self~inflicted, but my cutting days are long, long over. Those are really the least visible by now.
The most severe is a 10 inch scar on the back of my right calf, where they opened it to twist the bone around when I was ten weeks old.
There's a prominent one on my hip from when I wrestled a car with my bike:
The one on my left shoulder is from some asshole with a knife:
And my newest addition is the one on my forehead, as can be seen in this gem of a picture:
There's a myriad of smaller scars, I can't even go into that. I'm just not a careful girl. 
14. What's my favorite restaurant?
The indian place up my street.
15. Do I want to hear about things being crazy in a literal sense, with an arrest and a real pig?
Zak! What do you think?
16. Can Mimmi pay for the skirt with tape or sexual favors?
No! Unless I can keep her in my drawer and use her any way I deem best. 
17. Are orgies as much fun as you think?
That. Really. Depends.
18. Can you create a comic book based on me?
Yes, if it's any good and I have all the rights.
19. What must you include in it?
Myself, hot boys I pursue, an arch villain who is some overweight christian right wing fanatic, lots of ice cubes, alcohol and drugs, decadence, hedonism, duct tape, candy, improvidence, awesome clothes, parts of animals in random places, like a pig head on a stick in the middle of nowhere and an elefant trunk frozen into said ice cube, brutal and pointless violence, band~aids in a perfectly assembled row down my arm that form in pretty patters when I grab things, unrealistic weapons, and irrational causes.
Obviously, I need a tail.
20. What kind of work do I do in the theatre?
Costumes. Sadly, there was a lack of time, more so than budget, that forced me to reduce until nothing was left of original ideas. Alas, so is work life... 
21. A severe lack of nightlife? For me? Am I sure I'm okay?
NO! course not. *pout*
22. Novelty fatigue?
Yes, novelty fatigue. One of Zak's most brilliant and to the point word creations. It describes the boredom felt by those that are spoiled by sensation.
23. Scorned morning circles?
Ugh. To centre the energies or some shit. Theatre people are hippies.
24. Do I have a portfolio of my design work online?
Wish I did. What I've learned is that people who do websites are unreliable. 
25. Do I have a store? Or did I?
Yes. That's a whole entire horrid story in itself that would take up too much time though. Lets just say that instead of having a store right now, I have a lawyer.
26. Have I ever been in a 'serious' relationship?
I have only had one 'boyfriend' in my life, for seven years. Not monogamous, naturally. I don't function in the usual relationship-mechanisms.
There is another boy that has just crept into my life. I'd never admit it, but it doesn't look like he's leaving yet...
27. 1 lion and 13 dwarves have a gladitorial death match, who wins?
The dwarves win, in a matter of seconds. It may be a pyrrhic victory, but the dwarves win. Theres 13 of them, and they have axes. In both hands.
28. "What are you guys doing; it's too abstract, is it art or a horror picture show?"
Good question. Uh, next question? 
29. Does the guy have the same tattoo as me?
Nope, but similar. He's a good friend. Here we are showing them off to Noraly:
30. What about that scar across my chest, new ink?
No... although I've debated it. It was just an autopsy scar for a night. Although it would be an awesome tattoo, I won't do it. It lacks any sort of reason besides looking good, and that's not enough for a tattoo on me.
31. "I'm curious about your clothing design process. Do you draw it out and then make a pattern, or just put it together as you go along?"
Both. I start with sketches, but as soon as I begin working with the fabric, it develops it's own dynamic process. A symbiosis.
32. If we had twenty minutes of unsupervised alone time what would we do?
Shayne! I'm not telling. 
33. Why don't hotties like I hang out at any of the clubs where you frequently spin / hang out?
Because you're not in Berlin!
34. How am I?
Dead tired! That was too much thinking up there. My brain hurts. I go away. My shoes are fucked up, by the way. I need a cigarette.
Till then, I'll continue being extremely busy in worlds of theatre, degenerates, scorned morning circles, day-trips to Prague and Cologne, photographers, pathologically beautiful pictures done by the mentioned (this statement excludes the one below), clothing creation as usual, a severe lack of nightlife, and general novelty fatigue.
This is merely a short interlude.
Ask me a question. Any question. I allow no comment sans inquiry ~ be it on any of the above, world affairs, my affairs, autopsy~scars, this thing you've always wanted to know, or skinned pig heads frozen into overproportionate ice cubes.
Proceed.
Aaaand alright... just for the hell of it.
I've been awake now for 92 hours.
I'm not sleepy in the least. I'm not on drugs.
Let me tell you a story...
My last entry was written only hours before the abortion appointment. When I add appointment to that sentence, that's what I mean. Saying only '...before the abortion' would've been a lie. Since it didn't happen then. It happened later, after they had firmly suggested I leave, and I was back home again... halfway.
Confused?
Yeah, me too.
It's pretty much established that I'm not exactly an amateur in these things, but in retrospect, I am astonished by the vast amount of mistakes that can still be made in routine procedures, I am also astonished by the vast ability of oneself to overlook these mistakes, and let them slide...
Because even if I answer "yes" to the question about previous abortions, whithout further clarification that wasn't requested, it doesn't mean they weren't years ago, and it does mean that the brain forgets details. Lying in the hospital last night, I realized that, for example, that while I intellectually knew I'd had two abortions before ~ I could recall nothing concerning the second one.
Even though the entire first one is clearly available, I was incabable of producing one single memory of the second. I didn't remember when or where it happened, I knew nothing of who was with me, what the rooms looked like, the pattern of the bedsheets, the procedure itself.
This is just an example, unrelated to the current case in which the things forgotten involved paperwork, legal steps and the resulting repercussions, but it illustrates the point.
If certain details just completely slip your mind as if they never existed, then in logical consequence, it's impossible to adress the issue.
And even though I abhorr pushing away responsibilty, it should be the doctor's job to remind you of these things to avoid complications.
The first time I went see the doctor was tuesday of last week. The usual procedure, uneventful, except that it seemed unusually rushed, and slightly disorganized. Whithout me pressing the issue, he chose the earliest possible date for the abortion, which left me with one week exactly for arrangements.
* I needed to get my insurance to cover the costs.
* I needed to make an appointment for the talk that gets you the papers that say you're allowed. The term for this translates to Educational Interview, and is required by law to make sure you know all about what you're doing.
* I needed to make sure the boy rearranged his shift so he could be there as the required person to drag me home after the operation to take care I don't fall over and break my skull on the way.
* I needed certificates and attestations.
* I needed to figure out details, like where exactly the clinic was, the most efficient way of getting there, I needed to schedule things and have everything under control.
Before I left his office, he handed me two pills that 'loosen up the uterus' and advised me to take them the night before the op, and mentioned I should give him another call before the date. Talking to the receptionist, she gave me another pill to 'take before the operation.'
I gave her a confused look, showed her the others, and caused a case of fluttery confusion which at some point cleared with the explanation to take the single pill two days preceding, and the doubles one.
U-huh.
It was only a week later, when I stood there at night, too late for further inquiry, that I scratched my head and wondered: "Uh... are these taken oral or vaginal?"
Okaaaaayyy.... Now the fuck what?
Just another detail of obvious questions that are omitted in hectic situations...
So what do you do? You squint at the back of the cellophane wrap to try and decipher the products name, you check what you can find on the internet since it's too late to call anyone, and you wouldn't know who would know anyway, and shove them up your cunt. It was doctor's orders, after all.
Skipping to day zero...
I hadn't slept that night, and waited for the boy to come from work to pick me up at 7:00 am. The appointment was at 8:00, we where punctual, I had all my papers together, the only problem was ~ there was no doctor.
He simply hadn't shown up.
The clinic knew nothing of the appointment the doctor had clearly and unmistakably given me, and they where unable to reach him.
He had no cel phone.
He was due in his practice at 9:00, but after waiting the hour in increasing agitation, he wasn't there either.
He wasn't there at 9:30.
They finally reached his wife through repeated pleas to his receptionist for his home phone, and she didn't know where he was.
The outcome of this was entirely open. No one knew what was going on. Another doctor volunteered to do the anasthetics, but it is illegal for them to just go through with the operation without the original doctor's permission.
Meanwhile, my nerves where wound up so tight I was twitching, the boy was completely helpless and snippy with desperation, which led to a silent, ice-cold figth between the two of us, while all the time I was called from the waiting area to the desk and sent back again by completely flabberghasted staff.
And this is where Unsolvable Error 1 was discovered.
"Please fill out these forms," the nurse had said, and while I was doing so, "would you please hand me the necessary certificates?"
I did.
She shuffles, nods, m-hm's, and halts.
"Miss, when, exactly, was the Educational Interview?"
In my altered state I need a moment, then answer: "Yesterday."
"It is required by law for a length of three days between the Interview and the procedure. We cannot undertake the operation today."
It was like she dropped a bomb. I don't know why this was so intense. It's hard to describe the general atmosphere, but I was nearly hyperventilating at that point anyway, and when I tried to process what she had just told me, she shutters just rattled closed. I felt tears shooting into my eyes with a violence, I just inhaled, turned, and fell into the hallway.
I never cry. Crying is ethologically senseless, there is no biological reason for a stream of tears released for emotional reasons ~ basically, crying is an aquired social mechanism of attention-seeking, and solves no problems.
So when I cry, it means my nerves are shot. Worn completely through. I can't even associate it with myself ~ I feel my face is wet, I hear a sob, but it all might as well belong to another person.
This is where Unsolvable Error 2 is discovered.
The nurse takes me to a seperated area and asks me questions. She was, actually, the only one interested in medical details.
I told her how far along I was, I told her I didn't understand the rushed and insufficient way things had been going, I told her about the medication I had taken the last two nights, and that they must have some sort of effect on my body that...
Suddenly, she looks alarmed. "Was this Cytotec??"
"I, uh... I don't... he didn't tell me the - "
"Are you bleeding!? Do you have pains!?"
"No, at least not a lot, I was blaming it on stress..."
"Wait right here!"
Turns out... the pills he had given me where not just to 'loosen up' the Uterus, but open the cervix and induce labor contractions.
From a medical stand point, I needed to be operated on, and immediately.
From a legal one, I couldn't.
------------------
In the meantime, the doctor had finally returned the calls, and the clinic doctor, who had politely and willingly offered assistance before, had spoken to him.
He returned from his office, and without a glance in our direction, conversed with staff. After another tedious wait, in which the boy and I ~ with this new information ~ where seriously and quietly freaking out since I had no idea what these substances would do to my body, the clinic doctor cites me to him and closes the door.
His very first, and only question, was aimed not at gathering information by my answer, but at an introduction to rejection.
"When was the Educational Interview?"
He knew this... "Yesterday."
His posture was one of distance. "We will not operate you."
"Excuse me?"
"There are laws in germany. We will not operate."
"Do... you know about the circumsta-"
"I am not interested in the circumstances. Dr. P. explained you acted against his orders, and we will not operate."
I acted against his orders??
I just stared at him. "What did Dr. P. say to you??"
"That is not of any importance! I will not discuss this any further."
"There is medication working in my body, how can -"
"There is the door."
He opens it. The entire waiting room is staring. The only thing I could do was quietly say: "This is extremely unethical. You swore the hippocratic oath."
And leave.
I was a mess. We were a mess. I was in pain.
When I got home a light bleeding began.
We went to lay down, hoping it would just pass until we could see a different doctor the next day.
Even thought the bleeding remained light, the pain grew gradually until it was a constant sharp throbbing in my whole lower belly.
The boy called his mother, a nurse, who strongly recommended waiting a little under the cicumstances, keep the area very warm, and a certan painkiller.
I don't own anything to 'keep areas warm', so the boy put me in the tub, and went to the pharmacy.
It helped, it really did. Everything was soothed, it was so much more bareable. Even though I had contractions, I ignored them since they where nothing compared to the intensity of labor pains I knew from previous terminated pregnancies.
I tried to relax.
The boy returned.
The water was light pink.
And then, it just went plop.
All it did, was go plop.
Lying in the tub, with just another minimal contraction, in a sudden cloud of blood bursting into the pink water between my legs, I felt it pass through me so fast I yelped, it was firm, like rubber, I watched it swirl into the water, my foetus of ten weeks I had just aborted by myself.
And then, I jumped. I yelled. It was just so unexpected I couldn't deal. The boy had come running, and while I kneeled over the bathtub, shaking violently and shallowly sloshing soapsuds away to find it, he wrapped a blanket around me, rolled up his sleeve and just fished it out. It was a dead presence at the bottom of the tub, it had simply, lifelessly, sunk. It was turning squishy so quickly in the water, the membrane, the tissue that had come with it just started to dissolve into each other, it was hard to grasp.
You know what it's like fishing things out of the tub, they slip.
What do you do with it? My only experience was with much earlier miscarriages, when they simply slide out in little chunks with the normal blood, I had never had something... solid to... accomodate.
Tiny plastic container.
Lid.
Put it in there. Hold it in your hand.
The boy sat me down on the bed.
He had brought food with the painkillers. I didn't take them. I sat in bed, surrounded by cartons of food and a foetus in the bed with me.
In some situations, you are so baffled that the only thing you can think of doing is continue like nothing happened.
It was indian food.
An hour passed, and we looked at each other and said: "We should go to the hospital now."
Got dressed, clutched the foetus, hailed a cab, and went.
All situations aquire an acute bizarreness when you are holding your own dead baby parts throughout them.
Telling the cab driver the name of the hospital and noting his glance to the container...
Passing the entrance guy who directs you to where you need to go and saying: "I have a slightly ocscure concern..."
Waiting to be admitted and directed further at the reception, and suddenly having a lot of free chairs to chose from...
Anyway.
After this, everything pretty much went smoothly. The head nurse, after being informed, greeted me with a sympathetic "That's not the way to treat a lady." and that's when I knew things would simply work out from here.
The boy said The Chair was an intense sight after I was on it, with a generous splatter of blood right down the middle of it down to the floor, right in the middle between the stirrups. I thought that was sort of hot.
I still had remnants in my uterus, they kept me there for a night and sucked it all out at noon the next day.
The only thing that really made me suffer now was my cigarette withdrawal. Staying sober prior to operation should NOT include a smoking ban, in my personal opinion. ( )
I had a special sign hung from my bed to remind nurses to not let me eat or drink. A broad white square with bold SOBER written on it, nothing else. I had to steal it when I left since, in conjunction with me, I think that's pretty funny.
When I woke up from anesthesia after an hour, I was wide awake immediately, clear and fully aware. I felt like I was completely new. Relieved, and couldn't stop grinning. Yeah, drugs, I know ~ but no.
That was this afternoon. It's night now, and I feel no pain at all, even the bleeding has almost ceased.
And you know what I found out with all of this? When we called the sugar cube The Mutant before we ever saw it ~ we were right.
I heart the TempIngeMutant. Really, he makes me smile, even more so since ~ when he could've just silently been done away with ~ he left with a ferocious bang.
Some abortions are pleasing. Some you can't remember at all.
Others are complicated, because even though it isn't a problem to seperate the rational thought and logic knowledge from the emotion, the point is that there is emotion at all.
What the hell kind of emotion am I talking about? The term is completely insufficient. It suggests annoying quiveryness, shitty music, melodramatic self-absorbance, an inferiority, a weakness, a softness that I am not willing to accept and nevertheless, can't really deny. However, the softness is centered entirely around the boy in question, and not the foetus.
Naturally, this is easily explained in cause and effect ~ I don't want to admit it, but I am fond of him, which leads, when adding an overload of hormones suddenly tresspassing your synapses via bloodstream, to an acceptance of the foetus, and in turn again, to an extremely exxaggerated attachment to the boy.
I know this is temporary. I knew so and said so rationally from the very beginning of this erroneous and strenuous development.
My body and psyche are being manipulated severely, in a way that is terribly and insufficiently explained. The physical onslaught and mental retardation to tunnel-view aren't comparable in the least to any type of illness or the effects of any drug I have ever known, and the part that fucks you up the most is that there is
Nothing.
you can do. You can't 'cure' it or lessen the symptons by sleeping out the hangover, or swallowing the medicine, or even just waiting. You know this condition that, by no agreement of your own, morphs you into a person completely different than you'd EVER be, and over which you have no control whatsoever, will not just go away.
You are entirely at mercy of this entity that manipulates your body and mind in every second it wears on, and the downright mean thing about it is the tearing between two contrasting points:
The body, besides the obvious visually noticable alterations, will on one hand make you practically immobile by fucking hibernating, make you puke and shake and gross yourself out, and on the other hand release the rediculous amount of endorphins necessary to trick you into believing it's somehow worthwhile.
The mind will make you vulnerable, aggressive, trigger-happy and needy, and at the same time release the rediculous amount of endorphins necessary to trick you into believing it's somehow worthwhile.
Let me make this entry light and entertaining by giving you nakedness to illustrate.
Observe my normal boobs and belly, this is what I look like any given day:
I'm skinny, man.
These, on the other hand, are my boobs and belly when pregnant.
Do you understand that my belly is plump, and my boobs suddenly able to be perched? Look at those two pictures, and imagine WORSE. Because in those examples, it was very early, as opposed to now. My belly has a new and improved sphere on it, and my tits are so huge they rest on top of each other when I lie on my side. My tits Never. Rest. On top of. Each other.
And yes, this also discloses a fun fact about my last set...
Obviously, this is not my first pregancy ~ in fact, it's my fifth.
I've had two abortions and two miscarriages. During the first, I felt pretty much the way I do know ~ which is, primarily, unnerved. Albeit a latent rationality.
The next three where marginal, there was nothing to feel besides mild disgust, at most. It was just a procedure, detached from anything of importance. There was an usuriousness in my uterus and it needed to be removed ~ slightly annoying but necessary.
The miscarriages cannot be blamed on anything physical. I was healthy, I did not pollute my body with anything, and I was far along enough for them to actually have passed the critical stage of the first month.
I just despised them so much with all my heart and soul and body and mind that they left.
Having pieces and bloodclots and objects slopping out of your vagina in labor pains in the bathroom is not necessarily a good time, but hey. Whatever works.
By now, what we have lovingly titled the TempIngeMutant (Inge is the boy's name, in case you couldn't guess) is ten or eleven weeks old, about as large as a grapefruit and as an alibi, looks something like this:
... although I'm pretty sure it looks more like this, and quite happily so:
It's the first time I've ever thought about the cell-accumulation as a he (rather than a she (since I could never breed anything besides a girl) or an ew) due to the fact that mutant in german is a masculine noun. He forces himself into my awareness in every single moment. Right now, he's a grainy warmish presence in my lower belly.
Which is natural, there's a cocktail of oxytocin, melanocyte, oestrogen, progesteron, Human Chorionic Gonadtrophin, Human Placental Lactogen and Relaxin taking care of that.
These cheery hormones, depending, are produced by the pituitary gland in the brain, the ovaries or the placenta, and busily enlarging nipples, increasing joint flexibility, dilate blood vessels and a bunch of other stuff that bores me into not writing about it. I'm not your textbook.
The Mutant, however, triggers other things.
* He points to the sperm donor going: "WAAAAAAANT HIIIIIIIM!" and makes me roll myself into a ball on his stomach, with nothing as imperatively significant as his one arm holding me and the hand of his other stroking my remaining hair.
Where. The Fuck. Is my integrity, self-control and regular personality?
* All I do is sleep and eat. Eat healthy, for one, and eat sweet. Bizarre, and somewhat disgusting. Whith threats of violence, metal cruelty and general barbarity, I force the donor into the kitchen to cook me "something I can put maple syrup on!" from mysterious ingredients I... err, find in my kitchen. (Check my last entry to see why this might be dangerous.)
* I can't concentrate on shit, and I get nothing done. I'm a working girl, dammit!
* My boobs are what midwives call tender, and my nipples hurt like a bastard. It makes me yell: "BE CAREFUL WITH MY MILK GLANDS, ASSWHIPE!!" while being fucked.
* I need so much sex I wear out the boy.
* I sporadically puke fountains of half digested food or bile, whatever's available.
* Suddenly, I have fingernails. Pretty ones, that are solid and don't chip even though I work.
* I come to my senses in random moments thinking: "... the hell am I doing eating yoghurt?? What is all this orange juice drinking about??"
* Cigarettes don't taste as good. Alcohol is processed by either drinking like a hole to no effect, or passing out by glass two.
* Loud noises, music at shows, makes me shaky.
* Everything makes my blood pressure drop.
Which is bizarre, since considering the genes, the mutant should be screaming for drinks and drags, spend his remaining time kicking me in the gut and demanding Depeche Mode and Bikini Kill.
He has another few hours.
I'll bleed and have cramps and feel like something the cat dragged in, but I'm glad, because after this slightly physically painful ritual I can feel cleansed and free of any controlling element besides myself. Even though right now this is still an intellectual knowledge and not an emotional one, I know from experience that I'll finally be able to just be my old self again.
Which is, quite frankly, what my highly established instinct for self preservation finds to be the most important thing.
* I boycott christmas, and have been successfully doing so since the age of 18, I believe.
Listing the reasons is futile, you all know what you hate about it. So I let the natural path of destroy-what-destroys-you take it's course and abstained from fattening dinners, relatives that are less than formal aquaintances (aquaintances that nevertheless feel free to demand, criticize, and project their own inferiority complexes), the exchange of gaudy materialistic objects that lack any sort of emotional value, forced merriness and avowals of affection that are pure cosmetic, rather than anything of substance and make you cringe with embarrassement for the person they came from.
And yeah, it is obvious the economy is fucked ever since paying with a 20 is accompanied with "I'm sorry, can you change a large bill?", but quite frankly, I'm not the one to help out the fatherland's monetary deficiencies by spending a shitload of money I don't own on things I don't feel other people deserve. All I'd think is "That 'present' was the equivalent of 4 packs of cigarettes." ~ "That one was what I owe the electricity people." ~ "This was my food for about a week."
No way.
Naturally, I don't expect gifts either. That would be too hypocritical even for me.
Over the years, this has led to a condition of pure bliss while the world around me goes berserk with holiday stress. Everyone else is developing ulcers and heart-attacks, I spend three days in bed with a boy.
We fuck, we doze, we draw nonsensical pictures and plan decadent hedonistic events. I get up to watch him cook, sporadically we take a shit. Seperately.
Then smoke.
Our most severe occuring problem is vocalized after dropping back on the bed: "Ugh... I'm thirsty! ...*pant*... get something to drink!"
"You ...*wipes off sweat*... don't have anything. We're at your house."
"Oh right. What about.... *shivers with aftershock*... waaaaaater.... *crawls to boy* .... neeeed fluids... - Not those, you perv! *rummage through debris around bed* Wait, look, I found a glass!"
Ah, devine.
BUT. I did get one present from my gay boy, my Marcel, my best girl friend ~ a bundle consisting of a pair of black boxers with cool red demons on them (since everyone knows I am a professional boxershorts-wearer!), his one old spiky-bracelet-thing I've always adored, and half a gram of speed.
I heart my friends.
And, Miss Myra really did it. She went out and got me these!
Why? Because I'm a Tough. Chick.
Me: Tough chick.
Everyone else:
* Gay Boy is hot. Even when holding a sequined fish.
Especially when holding a sequined fish.
Oh, that reminds me! I'm ashamed.
Sorta.
We were going through his pictures and stumbled over the following:
And I go: "Huh. Who's that? He's kinda hot!"
And inevitably, Gay Boy says the classic words - imagine this in slow motion: "Temper. You fucked that guy already."
And gives me The Look.
Okay, okay.... I know now... What was a little precarious about this was the fact that not only had I fucked him, but I had fucked him with Marcel. Oops.
But really, who can remember everything?
* Here's some candy for you. I was seventeen at one point.
That isn't a third nipple, by the way, but a scar that was fresh back then. Just so you know. And no, it was not the scar from removing the third nipple. Sheesh. The things you're forced to think about round here...
* I'm making a lot of clothes. Glammy androgynous unisex, black, sparkly, silvery, gold and dark green.
It's my first time creating men's clothes as well ~ the point here, which is excruciatingly difficult, is to make them so they fit both sexes.
It's moments like these when you realize to what extent men don't have hips.
It's also moments like these that you realize how tiny your boobs are ~ when taking a woman's measurements, you put the tape around the strongest part of the breasts and also around the ribcage, immediately underneath the breasts. This is not really neccessary with boys (duh) but I did it anyway for shits and giggles.
And found that the discrepancy between the two measurements was more than mine.
That boy is skinny as a rail, observe this picture from a job in shitty clothes:
and he has more boobs than I do.
* This is a dog at my house eating her dinner. Or, err... my ferret? Wait.
Lookit her! She's so damn courageous, she's like: "Fuck you, dog who's twelve times bigger than me. Mhm, delicious, good food, good food... good my food ~ you wanna take this outside??"
* So I took my annual bath...
Ok, I lied.
The truth isn't any less gross, though.
That was actually the outcome of the following story.
For a number of reasons, I decided it was that time of year again, and began mild attempts at cleaning my apartment.
For this reason, I sat squatting in a pile of laundry on my kitchen floor and merrily chatted with the boy. Until.
Until I saw something crawling from the corner of my eye and realized that I sitting amongst not one, not two, but a pack of maggots! A PACK, says I! Surrounded! Closing in! And those pieces of shit are so stupid ~ they're llike "Meh, meh, I'm a maggot, squish, squirm, I have no limbs, meh, meh. Look what an awesome maggot I am"
Disgusting.
Really, I'm far from squeamish, but the drama of the moment is only inadequately conveyed in words. I let out a howling, siren-like noise as I jumped, in a single flowing motion upon the lap of the (standing!) boy, maggot-rain splattering off to all sides.
Never. In my life. Have I wished so bad for a pair of rubber boots. Just to not step on anything organic again. Or even more pragmatic, an entire full body rubber suit. I'd look hot, and be invincible. Not even The Pot could faze me.
The Pot.
The Pot was my special research project that has been going on for about... 3/4 of a year. Back then, it's content was spaghetti. I'm pretty sure.
Then a landscape of rolling hills.
Then via dark swamp and cratery moonlike surface it morphed into a suprisingly thin layer of pure black tar, moistly shimmering and interrupted by sporadic solidified bubbles of gas-eruptions.
You think I'm exaggerating.
Question: Can, in an average pot, that is never opened, but perched in various positions a diverse kitchen area, can there develop an autonomous, self-sufficient microcosm?
Yes... yes it can.
I felt like god watching the invisible, yet assumed subterrainian population get washed down my tub drain along with it's entire universe.
But the dirt was gone. After swinging vacuum cleaners and mops and sponges in an amok run, even a normal person could recline and only be mildly uncomfortable.
Thank you for your attention. Chapeau.
Hear the sledges with the bells -
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding bells
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight! -
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! - how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
hear the loud alarum bells -
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now - now to sit, or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Dispair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror theiy outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
by the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
In the clamor and the clanging of the bells!
Hear the tolling of the bells -
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How they shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people - ah, the people -
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffle3d monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart of stone -
They are neither man nor woman -
They are neither brute nor human -
They are Ghouls: -
And their king is it who tolls: -
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells: -
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells -
To the sobbing of the bells: -
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells: -
To the tolling of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells -
Bells, bells, bells -
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
Yeah, it's Poe.
That isn't, I don't think.
Observe my goofy face with the enhanced black eye in hues of purple and blue, and what bandages are best abused for:
Let me recapitulate in spoilers, since repetion sucks.
The stitches, by the way, where removed by me two days ago, since I absolutely couldn't be bothered to march all the way to the hospital again. It went surprisingly well, considering all I had to pull those threads from my face was bad light, an old syringe and a pair of pliers.
Anyhow, details. There was... wait.
You know, I await the day when I can write things like "Cyclopses and juggling dwarfs, ice-statues and serpentine nitroglycerin" in the There-Was-Section of my nocturnal adventures. I swear to god. This is not made up, spur of the moment. I really, really want to be able to incorporate that sentence in a valid context and have it be true...
So if anyone out there has a talent for certain arrangements... cycplops. Ice. You know what to do.
Until that fine day, I waste my time in the 'Admiral's palace' ~that sounds so good translated~ which looks as if a nuclear war had taken place, to watch Es fährt ein Zug nach Nirgendwo. If you crave a night of sheer absurdity, incedency, trash, and... No, this will NOT monopolize my entry. Just go watch it. All the ingredients to this thing are wrong, it's so bad, and it succeeds in being brilliantly entertaining.
As an interlude that night, the after show party was sheer hideousness. Infallibly, there was The GuyInSuit that leisurly positions himself next to us to ask: "So what are punkrockers doing in a place like this?"
"Leaving." I say.
"Ahahaha.", he chuckles confusedly.
"Well in the quite possible case that you are security," Marcel answers, "believe it or not, I am a necessity here, and these girls are my entourage."
Us girls are his entourage? Marcel's, Gay Boy's entourage? I raise my eyebrows and make a pointy-mouthed expression of surprise in Marcel's direction.
"I'm just asking," GuyInSuit continues, "since I used to have a mohawk."
Oh, the pain.
Why, oh why, does this always have to happen?
"Oh you." I say, "You know whats funny? The minute we walked in here, Verity and I discussed the fact that we were merely counting the seconds until someone approaches us to explain that 'I was just like you ~ before I went to law school.' You're a champion."
"Let's go?"
"Let's go."
We go.
Oh well. At least we got free drinks, free drugs and Thomas Hermann's father told me my outfit was daring, but nothing for a Beamter like himself, I would understand.
The remaining night was relievingly normal. Darkness, electro, obscurely shaved heads, elongated silver statues, warped paintings beamed onto walls, substances, tattoos, semi-nakedness, bizarre, somewhat nonexistant clothes... I was the dirty old man. I hadn't had sex in a week. My current fuck needed to suffer. He survived.
Besides that...
"Marcel," we would ask, "why are you wearing a sweater with cut off sleeves under your twisted suspenders that has a beaver on it and a weird caption?"
And he would explain the obvious: "Well since, if you look like shit ~ you can always blame Canada."
Duh.
And besides that...
All I do is work. Like always. I have amok-sewn 30 skirts, they are destined for greatness.
You will agree when you see what I mean... *mysterious look to cryptic comment*
And since my work there is done ~ on to glammy androgynous unisex clothing projects!
