Welcome To Gutterpunk Journalism.

So my mother married a douchebag on saturday and I didn't go.

Not as a form of protest, if she wants to marry a douchebag then more power to her. At least he's not a drug addict or violent, so an improvement is an improvement.
Nevertheless, he's a total douchebag and I didn't go.

Since my bar boss has gone to Austria I had to romp around the place the entire weekend with 10~12 hour shifts and honestly, if I'm doing that, and I have a boy and a puppy that need tending, I'm not wasting the few hours I'd have to sleep on standing in some department watching my mother cry tears of joy while her oily haired beau goes: "Hughn hughn I do."

Because that's what he does, go around laughing like "Hughn hughn" at any given moment.
He's from some place I forgot in eastern southern something europe and hasn't bothered to learn either german or english. His whole batch of brothers has planted itself into my mothers café to work, which is fine since every single one of them is brighter than the one she chose, but they still all communicate via grunting noises.

I swear to god.

He's a total douche.

Yesterday, I was sitting in the café with the dogs and the freshly married pack of mother and husband and brothers sat eating leftovers, and this idiot takes a piece of cevapcici and waves it in front of Luna's nose.

"Hughn hughn hughn" *wave wave*

Luna follows it with interest and I say: "Please don't do that."

I fucking hate that. Not only is it such a primitive and shallow behavior to derive pleasure from waving meat before a animal's face, it's mortifying to watch because you know he needs to do that just to feel superior to the dog.
He needs to do things to feel superior to a dog.

I don't like feeling mortified on someone else's behalf, it makes me want to kill them.

Instead of killing, I say: "Please don't do that." and he looks at me, goes "hughn hughn hughn!" and continues waving.

I draw in a breath to urgently repeat, and he gives her the fucking meat.

He's is such a fucking stupid asshole pighead douchebag.

So I jump up, wrestle the meat out of Luna's mouth, who hasn't done anything wrong and doesn't know what's happening, and yell at him:
"Why have you done that? I told you not to and this isn't some fucking joke ~ that's spiced meat and probably pig for all I know and it gives her diarrhea all over the place and I don't think you'll be around to clean it up! So could you please summon some common sense and respect and not behave this way?"

And my mother, who's been sitting next to him and pretends to not have a clue about animal nutrition just to baby him, goes: "Really? Oh dear, Tony, maybe you rather not do that in the future."

"Hughn hughn."

Fucking hell.
Significantly, Tony shares a name with the donkey that lives where my pony does. Tony the donkey and my pony are not friends.

By the way, this is my pony:

But you see why I didn't go to the wedding, right?
I mean, I had work to do, and my phone doesn't work so if anything, I was waiting for their calls to be informed, and then actually the dog had a bad eye and we needed to go to the vet, which was closed when we got there, and you see where this is going ~ this wedding was just the last on my list of priorities.

And then my mother, god bless her, tells us about how it went and says things like:
"Well, there weren't as many people there as we expected, it's like that with Tony's family. Where they come from, appointments just aren't as binding ~ either you're there or you aren't, maybe you cancel last minute..."
And I'm thinking, you know, this doesn't sound like a cultural phenomenon, it just sounds like the entire family constist of huge fucking disrespectful douchebags.

But whatever floats her boat. I just don't see why you'd voluntarily play warden for the mentally challenged if you're not even paid for it.

My boat was floated by not going to the wedding and instead turning my work shifts into something fun.
This weekend, I lived off my almost~forgotten diet of a gramm and a half of cocain (the high quality kind, with pieces of glass in it to scrape away your nasal septum and increase the crappy impact ), alcohol, four packs of cigarettes, some tilidin and paracetamol.
There's no way I'm gaining any weight like that, as I had planned to look luscious this summer and not bony, but hey.
I had fun.
And depending on who you're dealing with at work, drugs are sometimes pretty essential lest you club someone to death with a beer crate.
Astera witnessed him, there's this guy who's completely lost all his marbles and he comes there with his girlfriend, who is a rather poised and competent looking woman, and I have no idea why she puts up with him.

They're both in their early forties, she should know better. He's the... Wait. I was going to say "He's the sort of guy that..." but he isn't. There is no "sort of guy" like him.

He is skinny and his shirt is unbottoned halfway. He has pointy shoes and brown hair that defies any cut or do.
He screams at you in an astoundingly high~pitched voice immediately upon arrival, no matter how busy you are.
A Flanders scream.

But he screams: ""HEY! YOU! YOU! YOU!"

And you ignore him.

And he screams: ""YOUUUUUU"

Until finally, you inform him that if he can't keep it down you're going to ask him to leave, and he screams right in your ear: "RED WINE! AND SHE'S THIRSTY! THE WOMAN IS THIRSTY! GIVE ~ HEY! YOU! THIRSTY!"
Then he turns to her and screams: "DRINK! RED WINE WHAT ARE YOU DRINKING!"
Then he turns to me, who has gone away from the scene, and screams: "YOU! HEY! SHE'S THIRSTY!"

Then he tears open his shirt, rolls his eyes, bares his teeth, forgets his mission and dives over the counter to kiss her grotesquely.

I'm not exaggerating. He's very primal.

I had to get all that off my chest. I'll answer your questions next time, promise.

Ask me a question, throw me some bait, fuel and form my next journal entry.

I feel the ability to grasp ideas and evolve them into concepts have evaporated from my mind since curiously, nothing seems quite important enough to remember.

So give me some substance.

Welcome To Gutterpunk Journalism.

There is nothing quite like internet love...

So guess who finally has her internet access back?

Exactly.

Finally, I can return to frolicking in cyberspace, give and receive valuable entertainment and stop wasting my time with living an actual life.

* Horace of course is brilliant. As per request, I deliver the following pictures, in chronological order of growth:

I don't think I've shown you the babybabybaby pictures, have I?

These where shot by P_Mod back in... december? when Myra got her wtbq set.

He was so tiny!

And we know, it looks like a family portrait. We planned on getting married just to justify those pictures but then though nah.

This one is mini because I'm not supposed to make any of that shoot public yet, so you need to keep this secret with me. The clothes I'm wearing are made by me.



And these are the newest, from about two weeks ago. He's now 7 months old.

He's 19,3 inches tall and weighs 48 pounds, in case anyone's interested.
He'd also be really well behaved if he wasn't a teenager these days... he gets his impertinent 15 minutes every few days when he drives me crazy.
Oh, the wonders of hormones and children discovering their sexuality.

But he constantly invents his own games. The other day while I was brushing my teeth he first sat down in the shower cubicle, and then stuck his nose down the drain until it was completely sealed. The drain, that is.
Following this, he delighted himself in blowing dog~breath down the pipes until it resurfaced through the other drain in the bathroom floor, creating a myriad of surprisingly noisy bubbles.

Like blowing air through a straw into your glass.

It smelled like dead ass, but he thought it was the greatest thing on earth.

Enough on Horace, I feel too mommy~ish already.

* Here I am by BrianHortonArt, with Ronja.



* Going out has proved utterly worthless this winter.

No good shows, no money to spend, and friends developing unreliability.
On one hand, I suffered from severe novelty fatigue while out, on the other I was bored out of my mind at home.
But every single time I summoned the energy to make myself glamorous, it ended with GHB in my drink, worthless fights not even good enough to brag about, unexciting people, unenergetic music, uninspiring everything, no drugs, or worse ~ drugs of terrible quality.

Everything was mediocre.

You go out, you drink, and all around you amounts to utter blandness. I can't even recall anything that happend, which shows how bland it was.
The most dispicable event occurable while going out is not "having a horrible night where a thousand horrible horrors happened", but discribing it afterwards as: "Uh... I don't know. Nothing, really."

So fuck that.

I stayed at home and made clothes.

* I vaguely remember being in London, it was a blur.

I hated it.

I hated it for spending, in four days, the same amount of money I could have lived off a month in Berlin and unable to account for where it went, simply because it went for food and a roof. The boy and I bummed everything else, and I wasn't even pleased with the fact, since mostly we bummed from Zak.
But one day Inge will be rich, and then he can take care of Zak and me, and then I'll be rich and take care of Zak and Inge, and I want to include Adria in this list, when we all meet in Nowosibirsk or Sao Paulo or Algier.

It was just all scrambling around with nothing working the way it should and fading from one clump of drunk people screeching in high pitched voices into another. And art people.

I did, however, cut this ugly guys hair in the middle of the club after Zak's show. I was desperately necessary and I had nothing else to do.

Observe:









He looks so happy! That was probably the closest he got to a woman in years. During the process, he kept worrying what his mother would think.

Charley said she saw him a few weeks later and he looked exactly the same, he had done nothing to minimize the damage I had done. Pretty funny.
I don't know whether they where all scared, since I was still there, with scissors, but everyone agreed it was such an improvement.

Now that I type this, I remember I was so convinced by my altruistic motive that I made the effort to march back through half London to "borrow" the scissors from a pub we'd passed earlier. I was really drunk.

But the only really pleasant thing was visiting Manko and just drinking and smoking all her strawberry cigarettes from Tokio.

Seriously, thanks for that, it was the only episode which was stress free and enjoyable.

This sums up the entire journey:





* This one time my relatives in the US brought me two starfish they had scraped from the bottom of the sea while collecting lobster and such, and in a joyous frenzy i dumped about a pound of salt into their bucket.

I mean, they came from the ocean. And stuff.

I was eight.

Myra and a friend, borderline sociopathic, used to build the "bumblebee park" with little trees and grass and pools and tiny cardboard houses.
To prevent them from flying away they cut off their wings.

When Inge was a kid, he built this slingshot and fooled around with it in the yard, randomly shooting pebbles in every direction.
At some point, he heard a thump and a little bird dropped dead out of a tree.

He hadn't aimed at it, he hadn't even known it was there. He started crying.

Please tell me your tragic unintentional child animal slaying stories.

* Besides all that, I went to Barcelona to do porn without fucking. It was porn because other people fucked.
It was a fucked up, draining, bizarre, somewhat noteworthy and sometimes funny out of desperation experience, which I honestly mostly recall as a blurr of substances and intellectualizing of the matter.
I don't even know if I was there.

Or what really happened, exactly.

Or if I want to see the result.

EDIT: Nevermind, I saw it. It's hilarious. And I look like an annoying bitch with a pubescent attitude. Which is probably very close to the truth.

I shouldn't even have mentioned that, Albertine will snicker, DeeDee and Ira will go "Oh jesus..." and ZakSmith will get mad at me.

* Hey, naked pictures!

My friend Cat took these picture for a school project. They are the most stripped down naked and bare pictures of me that exist. I have no make~up, no clothes, no done hair, no jewellery, no poses, no photoshop.

Enjoy.









And while working.











And my favorite:



* And here you go, because sharing is caring. Especially with awesome music, beautiful people and radically avant~garde set designs.

Thanks everyone. I didn't respond to any comments since there's really nothing smart to say, but I appreciate them.

We buried her at my grandmother's pet cemetary, and Admiral's daddy (my ex) was so overcome with grief (seriously) that he couldn't do a thing but cry. It was one of those typical gender~bending moments that occur regularly in my family ~ the boys at funerals stand and cry while the girls shovel the grave.

Anyhow, she was rolled up in a carton like ferrets do when they sleep, the stiffness was already loosening and I would give her a last kiss on her little snout. Her color had changed, she seemed... lighter, a little more orange, altered from her usual deep~brown alive coat. Slimmer and shinier.

The other one, Ronja, will be ten years old next april, and even though we always securely assumed Admiral would outlive her, she's still skinny and sweet~tempered and undeniable alive. She's a Friedhofsdeserteur.

So now I'm staring at the screen with the newest addition of peculiarness of the Temper Household on my lap, my 14 week old bullterrier baby. His name is Horace Burton Delila Le Rübennase, and I hereby officially introduce you to him.
Horace, meet SG members. Members, Horace.





I can't believe how puppy~ish he looks on those pictures. It's been a month, and even though he's still small, he seems all grown up to me in direct comparison.
He can already run after older dogs instead of rowing after them and giving up after three feet. He can sit at streets, he's all housebroken, he knows all about busses, trains, construction sites and photoshoots, he's very proficient at cleaning up after me while I work and consequently shitting out pieces of fabric.
He's three and a half months old and weighs 24 pounds.

I got a fucking bulldozer.

Temper, what's up with that obscure name, are you nuts? I have been asked by Oxy.

I'm not sure, I answered.
The origin of "Horace" is forgotten, I think it was born in a moment of drunken absurdity. But a reference to an ancient roman poet can't be bad. It lets you be impressed by the one person a year that will recognize it.
"Burton" is the cheapest (and thus favorite) brand of cigarettes at the shop up my street, and "Delila" was added to create a balance to the almost brutal~sounding first two names. My dog defies the binary gender system! But no immediate reference to Delila, even though she's really nice.
"Le" is only there since my real last name is french with that prefix (or whatever you call that regarding names) and "Rübennase" translates to turnip~ or beetroot~nose. And they say it in The Life Of Brian.

The first three actually existed way before I even thought of getting him, I joked like half a year ago about how I was going to get a king~sized poodle and name her Horace Burton, just because it would be funny to call a dog like that a name like that in public.

Then he arrived in my life and made the name come to life, or something less cheesy, but you get the idea.

A bunch od special dog~kisses go to BrightRedScream and Dexterthedog, they know why.

So I sit here with him not on my lap anymore, since his assistance while typing is rather retarding, but I continue to sift and sort through my recent memories, attempting to filter anything of entertainment~value.

I have worked, I have mostly been a mom, I have assisted Myra's latest shoot with I assume is awesome, and really unlike anything she's ever done for SG.
I've had a drink too much at our last SGgermany~meet, and am conserved forever into infinity in this embarrassing music video.
I'm disclosing it because I know no shame.



If you watch it, consider yourself warned and don't try claiming your four minutes back, the fault lies elsewhere.
I did it not even for the money, but for free drugs and alcohol, and because a friend asked me to.
A former friend... (no, I kid. Still friend.)

Man, baby dogs are really loud. I have a hard time concentraiting since he's amusing himself with my 1~meter~metal~ruler and creating quite a ruckus while dragging it around the apartment and scolding it's impudent behaviour with barks and growls. Mean ruler.

So the fault lies with whoever cut and edited it, apparently Toni Froschhammer (Toni Froghammer. Awesome.) since naturally the dozen or so friends of mine, including Noraly have impertinently been disappeared in favor of the annoying schoolgirl thing. The entire creation is ridiculous, and a fine example of how beautiful raw material (us, not those visible) can be ruined by inept handling.

Plus, the band sucks.

I'm just glad that a) if you blink twice while viewing, you'll miss me, and b) we only invested about two hours and then went off to party in those outfits. Saved the night.


I will continue with random anecdote (If Horace lets me. He's crawling all over my arms).

* The other day, I was rudely awakened by the... Gerichtsvollzieher. Those people that come and take your things if you owe someone money and they sued you for it.
I don't have anything so they don't scare me.

In the incoherent moment of opening the door clad only in my Huey, Lewy and Dewey blanket I mistook her for a well known german comic artist due to her name and my lack of eyesight. Needless to say, I was baffled.

But apparently, so was she. I called back the jumping ball of Horace (whom I'll have to teach the difference between a normal human and such a hazard of society...), told her to come in, and a moment of absolute silence before she entered, a single empty wine bottle rolled meaningfully through the hallway, center stage.

Brilliant.

If people want your money, coincidences like these are worth their abstract weight in gold. Good morning, I am the alcoholic, the total bum, the last secretion of sleaze and vermin.

So I relished the moment, sat down on my bed, put on my glasses and appeared respectable right away. My nakedness inadequately concealed by a kid's blanket, we spoke about serious things and she never even looked around to do her job. I suppose it was difficult for her to keep on track.

So she left, I closed the door, turned and smiled at Horace and realized that the entire time I was speaking to her, she had my arsenal of penis~substitutes in full view on the back half of my bed.
That morning, it was two enormous double dildos, buttplugs of various sizes and my well loved strap~on.

I think she wants me.

* Ok, no more time for stories, that black and white bundle of joy is tearing apart my place and I have to shoo him across town. Also, there's a cheese~fondue at Cookie's i will be attending.

Cheese....

Der eine kommt, die anderen gehen.

R.I.P Admiral Pfui.








April 4th 2000 ~ November 24th 2007.


I miss her more than I thought I would.

Welcome to gutterpunk journalism.

The weird thing about these pictures is that they look as if I was crudely photoshopped into a different background, when in fact, that was exactly where I was standing.
On the decaying potrusion of what I recall being a locomotive, next to piles of tires and in front of the most bizarre and cerebral~looking white thing.





In that moment, my outfit, my sickle and five~barrel shotgun made me feel like the most beautiful woman alive. Foolish, yet true.

And even though I look like a retard in the following one, I must declare that that is the single, and only way to wear an eyepatch.

* Barcelona and London have kept me busy, fed and nurtured my insanity and especially, showed me how painfully easy just~earned money will disintegrate if visiting two contradictory cities in that particular chronological order.

I promise an orgiastic entry on my travels, but exercise your patience until I figure out just how much I'm allowed to go into detail, and until I get some pictures from Albertine and Zak. This may take up to four days. Who knows when Zak Sabbath is coming.
(Wow. That was a terrible joke only like four people will get.)

Until then, excuse us while we conquer something.



I love Marcel on the rear end of that tank. He's pretty hilarious.

These pictures where shot by Timo Denz ~ as always when I work with him, they are available for things like album covers, posters, book covers, and the like. Contact him or me for details.

Welcome to gutterpunk journalism.

You know what the sweetest thing at my place is, apart from my ferrets?

My frequent ornithologic visitors. They try to be sneaky about it, but they land in my kitchen every single day to indulge a spectacle of in making noises, theft, and general foolish mischief.
Upon being disturbed by me entering my kitchen, thank you very much, they immediately escape through the tiny crack of opened window I leave throughout the entire year. I constantly walk into my kitchen only to see little birds fly out.

Yesterday, I found little bird~footprints all over my butter, and deep. They must've been in there up to their knees, I'm surprised they didn't just take the entire butter blob with them when they left.

Sometimes I hear them chirp, then I sit in my room and snicker because it's so cute.

The other day, the boy retrieved what was left of the (unoped) pack of hazelnut chocolate and accusingly presented it to me. He buys it because he eats the chocolate and in between bites, holds it under my nose so I can nibble the whole nuts out. We're a symbiotic chocoloate destroying machine.
The entire clear plastic window of the package was utterly shredded, and every single nut was precisely chiseled out. The chocolate... untouched.

Doom.

"No!", I cried, "It was the birds!"

Yes Temper, the birds... I see.
Sometimes, no one believes you.

They come into my kitchen and no one else's because I have no refrigirator. The birds know this, and more specifically, they know that this means that in the odd case that I have bits and pieces of food in my apartment, it will be scattered among the filth and clutter that is my kitchen. I never really clean it. So even if there's no human food, technically, it's a little birds utopian paradise, a cockaigne so to speak, a land of plenty for tiny beaks that reach into tinier corners.
I am like the hippopotamus in the warm and muddy brown river. I just live, produce dirt, and the birds take care of it.

Well that's cute, Temper, but why do you not have a fridge?

I... don't want to talk about it.

I avert my eyes to feign shame.

What I do in winter is simply leave the window open, not heat, and claim to have a walk~in refrigerator. Works beautifully.


Well... it's my birthday tomorrow. The quarter of a century one. And no kidding, it is time to reexamine and reevaluate and find certain things out. I'll let you know if I magically discover anything.
I plan on being simplistic, enlightened, wise and responsible as of tomorrow, seeing that one's kid~time is generally perceived as pretty much up after the 25 ~ milestone.

Yeah. I'll let you know if that ever happens.

I'll just think of my upcoming travels instead of trying to be reasonable and grown~up. I'll be in Barcelona to do porn without fucking, I'll be in London to lose a lot of money that's not mine and finally take a look at Zak's painting of me in real life, and in Moscow next year to present to the rich and decadent russian Elite what Berlin Underground Fashion is. Or something along those lines.

Oh and yes, you guys are right. I don't have a wishlist, thanks for pointing it out. And that means you can't really send me presents, which is a shame because I'd very much appreciate your time and effort and sweetness, but I just really, genuinely and honestly do not know what to put up in my wishlist.

There is nothing I could want, I have everything. I have my home, my bike, my hairspray, eyeliner and whisky, my ferrets, my sewing machine. I need no objects that I can think of.

If you guys really want to show me some affection, make some fanart, I always smile at that and show it off.
Or if you happened upon this weird and bizarre fragment of something that makes you want to give gifts because it's something I'd like, like steampunk boxing gloves, or obscure gleaming machinery, or an original embroidered item of clothing from centuries ago, then send me a message. I wouldn't want you to uselessly sit on it if it's just meant for me.

Alright, I'm off to be a guest at a party for this new, very improved alt~models and performers agency party. I'll be silly for my last night of 24.

Be well.

It seems I only update to assure everyone I'm alive and well.



I'm busy.

It's my birthday next weekend.

If I elaborated on everything that happened since my last actual informative update.... I... no. Can't. Overdose.
You'll have to forgive the lack of gutterpunk~journalism.

My set went up. Huge making~of story there.

Manko was here, also Astera. Anecdotes there.

My eyes where sick. Incredible change of exterior appearance there. Glasses. Eyepatches. You wouldn't believe.

Beautiful new set idea, planning and sewing for that. Albertine, answer your mail, dammit.

New job.

Too... much... to tell about that. The most recent photographic evidence of my new boss's insanity is sadly yet outside of my operating distance ~ but involved him, clad exclusively in chainmail vest and metal thong, while laughing deliriously at something unknown while covered in a thick patina of slime.

I am aquainted only to lunatics.

Travels coming up... to London, Moscow and hopefully Barcelona.

I'm busy.

In the meatime, I leave you with some nonsense I trade back and forth with my ex.

ARE YOU CRAZY, MAN?? - Oh Wolfgang! Oh shit!
(Danke Certhas, das Teil macht seine Runden. )

This wants to be linked.
Merze Limbo.







Ja. Sorry... but this girl I love a lot:

I'm well.

At least, as healthy as I get, generally speaking, and still quite relaxed. I haven't touched a sewing machine in the last three weeks, but instead simply wasted time with useless junk as soon as my kidneys settled down and the abortion was done.

All the prints have been sent out.

I went out only once or twice, I stabilised the already established, delicious habit of fucking at least three times a day, I went swimming in the lake and got a tiny Berlinesque tan.
In also the above mentioned time span, I cleaned my apartment so that any normal person would only be mildly disgusted.

For the record, some of the items I discovered in my cabinett of curiosities:

I'm just left unsure as to why I always say "I guess." when people ask "Do you want this?"


* The abortion was the easiest, quickest and... nicest somehow I've ever had. Uneventful, efficient. The only problem worth mentioning was that I forgot to wear panties for a change. So there was nothing I could stuff a pad into.
And we had no money for a cab home. The boy was forced to drag the drugged me to his place with blood running down my legs and making my pants stick all the way down to the knees. Not that I cared, I was still sedated enough to giggle about it in between near faints, and hey. We had the entire street to ourselves.

We had sex the day after. We had sex constantly right afterwards. He tries to be responsible, but I couldn't help it. I needed to fuck, badly. We did everything else to substitute, but it was all just methadone.
Permanently avoiding deep penetration has been driving me insane for the past week...



* I got into a fight. I was the knight in shining armor, yup.

It was after the very last show of the musical (... for lack of a better term) Marcel was in.
We where standing in the street doing coke and waiting for a cab, when Marcel came over to Daniel and me saying: "I think that guy there wants something from Inge..."

I looked just in time to see one of the three rediculously clad Proletenwichser (some words are untranslatable) pushing my man.
Now... I have a very strong protective instinct. And we where in a group of five, yet five gay boys of the delicate sort who wouldn't fight if they could somehow avoid it.
I had no idea what was going on, but I know that my boys wouldn't start anything. And all I see is someone touching Inge in a violent manner, and it being a ratio of three to one.

So I walk towards them, flipping my empty beer bottle around in my hand as I do so, and proceed to shove my way into them and bring it down on his head. Luckily, in retrospect, I missed and only grazed him. I'm in too much trouble for bodily harm as it is now ~ I'll probably be raking leaves in an ill~fitting orange uniform, whiping old people's asses or perhaps spending some time locked up quite soon. Who knows, maybe right about when Manko comes to visit next month. That would be classy.

But the look of surprise when the tall skinny girl hurts someone is just too good.

Anyhow, the fight erupts, we all roll around in the dirt or a while, it ends, everyone compares battle scars, and we continue on our way to the after show party. Looking better than before.
I only learned afterwards that the trigger had been some mundane thing (as usual) ~ them thinking it was funny to walk past the guys and yell at them for being "fucking faggots".
What was cute though was how all the gay boys where so utterly smitten by Inge and me. We where the saviours of them all, the martyrs, the heroes of gay galaxy. And it wasn't even a big deal, I mean, as long as people still walk and talk after a fight, there's no loss.

And there's nothing I hate more than a display of everyday~racism, ~sexism or ~homophobia. It's one of the greatest ulcers of society and only continues because people say only so much that they can still get away with it. And they didn't this time.
I like knowing that they'll think twice before approaching a group of "faggots" again with a similarly impertinent conduct.


* Did I mention Annalee was here about two months ago? Sadly, no pictures. She's lovely though. And her companions slept in the club we went to, for which she apologized.
But she brought me this!



It's too bad she didn't stay longer, since then I'd have more to say besides assuring everyone who doesn't know how gorgeous she is. She's a great conversationalist.

* Charlie spent six days at my place a week ago, I love that woman. She cooked vegan for me, restocked my apartment with coffee, toilet paper (because "yeah, I know you germans like running around with piss on your cunts all day, but /...") and food. We did our hair, traded clothes, and slept in one bed. It's funny how the combination of her and my androgyny in character makes me the girliest I ever am.
She also made me go places when I would've been to lazy otherwise, like bars and shop openings and unnerving Front Frauen Fusionen.

We where funny looking.

* I shouldn't even say this, but I totally tattooed Marcel's hairy ass.

I still can't believe he let me do that. Because you see, / always think my ideas are brilliant, but they usually don't earn much general approval.

* We went to the Museum of Natural History. I ran around like a little girl, I was so enraptured.
It was so good, except for the obligatory large number of people that asked to take pictures of us as if we where part of the exhibition.

They just reopened after a two year abstinence and finally getting some sponsors to take care of the rotting and eroding building, in which the objects where exposed to everything from 10°c ~ 35°c over the course of many years due to the lack of most basic heating systems.
Inexplicably, and frustratingly, no one cared about the museum that just happens to be one of the most diverse and resourceful in europe, and the whole thing was simply falling apart.

I was happy to hear that they had about 20,000 visitors by day 2 after reopening.

I saw awesome things ~ huge models of bugs and flies, amazing natural structures in fossils, poisonous spiders under microscopes, a vast display of thrillingly beautiful dead insects, deap see fish, parasites, all the stages of animal~carcass~preperation, mutated pig and dog fetuses... I was intruiged.

* I make fabulous clothes when I get around to it.