I am in the hospital.

I am not dead yet, though. This is a quick update to let you know what's going on, especially those of you who have contacted me about prints!

I am not flaking on you, everyone will receive exactly what they have paid for, and I'm sorry for the delay. I am not an irresponsible seller.

But I came into the hospital an emergency, unable to walk right, talk or breathe from pain in my entire mid~section. I spent over 24 hours at home preceding my grand entrée in a withered cringing mess of... anguish, almost ~ the boy had to leave for work, returned, and I was actually crying it was so unbearable. And I'm not overly sensitive to physical damage, as you will know.

Apparently, an ominous infection of my urinary tract, which had developed and processed completey unnoticed by me due to the nonsensical stress and work related pressure I constantly put myself under, had merrily and persistently climbed up into my kidneys and threw a huge rock'n'roll party. No one is completely sure about this, but I'm on antibiotics anyway...

Up until now, the hospital stay is pretty much same procedure as every time ~ staff assume I'm a junky and treat me accordingly.
Upon being unable to draw any blood for a sample after repeatedly trying, the doctor stated this was no wonder since my veins where 'strained'. This results in a general reluctance to give me any painkillers stronger than like, children's tylenol. It's fucking retarded, they see me scrunched into a panting ball because, as they know, my kidneys are fucked, and they won't give me the most basic analgetic. I'm not even asking for anything else, I don't want to be sedated, all I want is a common pain relief. Ok, please, thanks? I'm hurting, and it's not my own fault.
I can't even go into this, I could list a plethora of examples but I'm just to tired, and my side is starting to sting again anyway.

Food is great, really great.

I had a girl in my room with cysts on her ovaries. *shudder*

I hate all nurses.

I'm pregnant too, by the way.

Which is interesting. I saw the doctor only twice till now. She spends about a half sentence on the reason why I'm here, I have to constantly question her and probe and pull information on my condition out of her nose because all she wants to repeat, ad nauseum, is:
"Miss Temper, abortion is not a form of birth control! This is an irresponsible beahaviour, you are still so young, you must get a contraceptive coil, no, there is no better alternative, it's simply great, no, there are no risks or adverse effects, no, I will continue talking so quickly that you have no room to interfere with legitimate questions. Abortion is not a form of birth control!"
*swooshes off*

Thank you for all the vital and precious information that I have sought and finally received. I am enlightened, but why the hell am I here, exactly??

*sigh*

This is tiring.

But there is a good thing about hospitals, it's the time. It makes me weary by shallow overview, but somehow relaxed upon further inspection.

I am annoyed, angered, drained, by anything... modern, somehow. Anything hectic, time~consuming, demanding. I want no demands. I want no phone calls and no internet. I never watch tv anyway, but switching on the computer, concentrating on a fucking screen is pointless and so utterly worthfree it sets me straight into an irritable mood.
I want my experiences, my input, my Reize to be tangible. Tangible, elementary and authentic. I don't want much.

I want no chores. No deadlines, no musts, no people, no distractions. I don't care about my work. I can't win anyway, not in the near future, but there is no real need for hectic antics anyway. The harder I set my mind to it, the frailer my body reacts.
I am currently left with the difficultly explained (or rather, it's origin is only difficultly explained) feeling of expected dissapointment. No emotional harm, but... it feels like unkept promises, and things derailing silently. Nothing working according to plan, but predictably so. I am not surprised, I'm only watching.

And I am not desperately trying to straighten them, I am letting them fall.

All I ever want to do is make clothes, and the boulders, the grenades, the napalm and volcano eruptions that have thrown themselves my way this last year alone are enough to make other people resign. I haven't resigned, but retreated, and relaxed.

So that's what hospitals are good for. As soon as you're well enough to stand a clear thought that is not cloaked and evaporated by breathtaking pain, you may either sit in bed with your laptop, or realize that yes, time is indeed fleeting, and in this world of conditioned individuality and forced carreer we don't have nearly enough of it, but there are moments when it's best to just open your hands and allow everything to fall, either shattering, disintegrating, fleeing or hovering until it's gathered again, and this formerly believed calamity have a genuine non~effect on you.

Even though this is only a little bit, and probably just my ego glimpsing a fraction of what really taking some time and mind off would be, I still like it.
It's so hard for me to let go ~ I eat and sleep my job, I define myself greatly through the clothes I create.

So despite my awareness of how my above statements are pretty much a bunch of crap when you uncover the delusional bits [ a) I am here. I can't leave yet. b) there are only so many articles to read. c) spending days practically knocked out doesn't really count as 'relaxing'. d) even one day of not thinking of work is an atypical triumph. Basically, I should retreat for a year and then see what happens.] I have nevertheless felt this 'switching off' adumbrate for a while now.

Lately, in the last... months, the urge to indulge in un~spectacle has dramatically increased. Sensation is fine, but I have that constantly. I live in Berlin.

I was always one to be delighted by... nonsense, really. Just not being inhibitated, and pulling things through not even though, but because they are silly. You've all read in past entries about dangerous or rediculous things occuring due to this, but here I mean on a small scale, a tiny, miniscule, uneventful scale. Things that aren't stories, things that are only there for myself, or myself and the boy. He enables this not more so, but more naturally, since he's the only one I've ever met who posseses a comparable Spieltrieb.
When other people watch tv, we'll go:
"So what do we do tonight?" ~ "I don't know, take theatre make~up and paint our bodies?" ~ "Ok."
or
"Let's see who can do the most pull~ups on the scaffolding at the construction site!"
or
"Let's meet at the bridge and eat cherries because we've never done that before!"
or
"Here, take this cloth and this tape and do something so that it looks like I have gills! Or take whatever. I want gills!"

Yeah, I'm a kid. So is he. We're worst.

So lately this has increased, and with it the need for simplicity within the simplicity. I want elementary pleasure, inartificial hedonism.
All that really seems significant now is to lean back and smell the boy's light summer sweat. Or absent~mindedly trace his tattoos. I want to sleep well, for a change, and feel sun warm the dark hair on one side of my head while the shaved part stays cool.

That's all I need, I think.

I spent a week with glued~up pubic hair for this, and I don't even have a lot. Pubic hair, that is.






























You can have one of them if you want.

Proof:

I work. Here I do it with an oddly shaped head:



I do, in fact, work naked more often than not. I just can't be bothered with anserous activities like getting dressed and stuff. Please.
My disembodied arms work all by themselves.



Which is really what it feels like; autopilot.
At least my little work~related tattoo is visible. I've noticed I have no pictures of it. A string of pins stuck through the skin of my wrist, where the pin cushion is typically fastened. Yeah, trivia Temper info for you...

* We live approximately twomillionthirtyfivethousandandfivehundredfifty days long. Right?
We spend at least a third of that asleep. This leaves us with onemillionseventhousandandthirtytwo days. At least half of that time, we'll be taking a bath, a shit or a break, doing drugs and nonsense, having a hangover or having sex. Our time deteriorates rapidly down to seventyeightthousandfivehundredandsixteen days. Then, subtract from the time you're working on something the time you're wasting to reach the result ~ time spent succesfully working. That would be like devided by ten.
Now, according to my calculation, this leaves us with seventhousandeighthundredfiftyone days to get something or other started.

And what is that?

I'll tell you what it is ~ Nothing.

We better hurry up.


* I want to wash down metoxyamphetamine with Laphroaig.

* I got the most sensational, startingly splendid fan~art of all times. There is nothing cooler than the following. Nothing. Ever.





* I have a linguistic fetish, as you all may know. Eloquence is sexy as fuck. I also like amusing little word games and regional distinctions.
Now I was just reminded of a quaint little story I'd already forgotten, since my childlike and sparklingly degenerated mind never remembers anything. Limbofish had visited me at the bar I used to work, along with a fuck of mine of that time who lacked a pretty face, had the parimeter of a bulldozer but was an amazing fuck. Limbo is from Cologne way up north and the bulldozer is from Munich way down south.
Some guy squishes himself between Limbo and the bulldozer to requests three Berliners.
So Limbo, who's had a bunch of shots from tequila to Saure via Mexikaner, slurs: "Was we at home hed get pannnncakes."
So the bulldozer, who was straight edge, says: "Were we in Munich he'd get sausages!"

And they both observe me expectantly and what does he get?

Beer, of course. Duh.

(I really only shared this not because it's a great story, but to spite Limbo.)

* Here is every tattoo artist's nightmare.



* So... about two weeks ago, the boy spent three days on end at my place. Upon returning, he found his boarded up door had been smashed and the entire lock removed ~ it was now very reliably secured by two tiny padlocks.
And a green note, formal.
The cops had broken into his place to peel out the potential decaying corpse his neighbors had suspected, after "the alarm~clock had rung for an hour each day and it had otherwise been silent".

It had otherwise been silent.

Apparently, if there is no commotion of the usual fucking&fighting sort, or electronic music at nosebleed volume, he must be dead.

Thanks guys. Exceedingly vigilant, amicable and considerate, really. Cops too, great job. Applause.

I'm just saying ~ had he been dead, the corpse wouldn't have given a fuck if it was left or moved, they should've at least waited for that distinct smell of rotting flesh at 35°c which was obviously lacking. Is it not possible to simply not be in your apartment for three days? What if you just have different things to do? Is this going to happen every time you go on vacation?

I call bullshit on this. I feel it's a nifty little move of spite and malice ~ it's a really, really efficient way to fuck someone over who annoys you, under sanctimonious pretext and wearing a huge halo.

Go fuck yourselves, and pay for the door. Bastards.

* Jesus liebt dich.

People! I am shocked.

The responses to my actually rather marginal request where quite overwhelming.
Most where sweet as sugar, but so many it makes me squirm. Thanks!
Others, well. I'll remember to not post randomness at the very top that people will immeditaly respond to without reading the attached writing.

Now two things...

1. Rrrrreeeally. You guys should know that I'm still the same Temper, with an almost unhealthily inflated ego and confidence enough for three people. No need to worry about any lack thereof.

I like the way I look, tendons and all.

There is always a discrepancy between what you see in the mirror, and what a camera tells you. Neither must be true or untrue categorically (the subjective 'truth' probably resulting from a blend of those and other factors), but the point is, just as I said in that entry, that there are pictures that make you go: "What."
I like those, they're fun. I regularly see pictures that induce an "I am ugly to the point of repulsion."
Then I snicker and click to the next one.

On being womanly or not ~ eh, too much effort to type it all out. What it all boils down to is gender, schmender.

I guess I just spend too much time in gay bars with people who are far more overt gender~benders than I. So far, actually, that they exceed any bending. Any given narrative involving us will infallably include sentences such as:
"...so we where drinking and talking and the boys went dancing." or
"... meanwhile she was standing in line with us pissing against the fence." or
"Noraly! Can we leave yet?" - "Nooo, we have to wait for six boys in the bathroom to finish their make~up!"

2. Contrary to common belief, it is unfortunately not possible to "just gain some weight". I know this was well intended, but it's one of my pet peeves.
It somehow seems more socially acceptable to tell a skinny person to eat something than telling a fat one to go on a diet. Either way, it's none of your business ~ stop being a judgemental jerk.
I get friends, foes and strangers every day telling me to get some nourishment, while I eat healthier and a lot more than they do. My metabolism is fast, there is zero obesity in my family. I am hyperactive and move all the time if I'm not working ~ I ride my bike everywhere at reckless speed, I do pull ups in the train and I have generous sex every day.
I know what nutrients my body needs, and I feed it diversely and in abundance. My belly is expandable beyond belief. I have no, nor have I ever had, an eating disorder. (I am in disagreement with the entire idea of eating disorders for reasons psychological and intellectual.)

Anyone who has ever seen me eat knows that I don't simply eat. Others chew and swallow mechanically, I indulge. I use all my senses and love every second of it. I eat with my fingers, I lick and groan. People have wanted to fuck me just by watching my food~intake habits.

Just to clear that one up.


* Soooooo.... I still work. Things are tedious. Insert picture here of pins, measuring tape, fabric samples, nothing working right and a wretched Temper face.

* I scare tourists at Alexanderplatz.





I had reasons for standing in the middle of the street with that face and a beer in one hand and a bone in the other. No, really.
It was quite funny. I was in the company of a completely dishevelled Albertine carrying a shitload of equipment in large black cases, and an equally dishevelled Inge shrunken to dwarf~size by carrying everything else in a humongous blue garbage bag and painted in such a way we called him The Oily Mechanic.
We were dead tired and delirious and just wanted to get home.
We had six cab drivers urgently say "No!" and shake their heads at us violently.
And Inge turned to me and said: "Well, at least we know that we're living."
I had to grin.


* So my boys played at this Anti~G8~Open~Air down in Potsdam called the Gipfelsturm (germans, get it? Eh? Eh? Super Wortspiel, ne? Gipfelsturm.) and of course we went. It was all very punkrock and young and basically same procedure as every year. Some people got very drunk, some less, bands played, people moshed, barricades where erected and knocked over, police stood there attentive, police stood there bored, some where arrested, most weren't. Some spoke insistently of political agendas, most didn't listen since the fact that they where there more or less proved they knew what was going on anyway.
Or they only went for the sunny weather.
The thing I hate most about demonstrations by the way. Not that this was one, but related thought.
Why is it that you go, because you know that whatever the demonstration is for or against is important to you and dear to your heart or whatever. You fight your way through ten senseless road blocks by police or crawl through bushes to get there, only to stand your legs into your belly for hours on end, listening to the same three activists yell out the same three speeches over and over to kill time.
Everyone yells and cheers and get all riled up, only to treck through like, Friedrichshain~Kreuzberg screaming "Nazis raus!".
What nazis? There are like, none in Friedrichshain~Kreuzberg. Sort of a mute point. If the tour went through Oranienburg, for example, that would be a different story, but that doesn't happen since everyone's too scared or too pacifist to get into fights with nazis. Or it's too far away and you really can't find the time just now.
So everyone just goes on preaching to the convicted.

DISCLAIMER: Sweeping generalisation, I know. But you get my point.


The fun part was getting there though.

Open airs start early, so there we where in the middle of the day. To get to Potsdam you take the S1 through wealthier and wealthier neighbourhoods that turn more conservative by the stop.

Whisky Test # 1

Keep in mind I was dead sober. I talk like a juvenile spoiled brat.

Wait, I can explain...!

Can you look at these two snapshots...





... and please tell me I'm womanly?

Just once.

I mean, gender schmender. I enjoy being the Knabe, I like how I have no boobs when I lie on my back and the fact that all I have to do is put on a baseball cap or something and have people call me "young man", I love how Chris, the tall blond boy prostitute thought I was post~op due to my out~all~night whisky voice.
I am that sort of androgynous that can confuse people. I can tense every single muscle in my body, my face is symmetrical but nondescript without make up, I also have a pretty waist and a round ass, I have exactly the right height to be a tall girl or an average boy.
I can be whatever I want.
Good.

But once in a while, an occurance like seeing the above pics will make me go What The Fuck?

I'm convinced the boy I fuck is a closet fag.


* Anyway, to prove my excuse for relative internet~abstinence: I do indeed work.




* Shooting with Albertine is always delightful.

It seems it can never happen without a conglomeration of chaotic improbabilities and counterproductive premises. Like, we wont know whether we get the location until about 2 am on the day of the shoot. Which is the only day left to do it since she's leaving again that same night.
Our only trusted helper flakes so I stand there for eight hours getting body~painted by one person alone and before we can start, I realize I haven't exactly shaved properly. So sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

Inexplicably, the entire dj~equipment fails so we have no music. I try to pursuade it to no avail.

Meanwhile, the boy was running around shirtless and becoming increasingly infuriated by things going wrong. I watched him, chewing ice~cubes, until that made me so notgeil I needed to pull him into storage room to fuck on the freezer.

When Albertine arrived, someone intellectually challenged had locked the door to the place, so just getting her in there was an accomplishment that took about 20 minutes and since I couldn't go get her lest I ruin the painstakingly achieved half~painted state, I can only imagine (from vague narratives) that it involved descending into sewers and wandering through subterranean urban paths, intricate and decaying.
It probably wasn't like that.

So the first thing she says in her incomparable accent is: "Aah....I have such an mdma hangover...." and I remember thinking I wish I could say Me Too.
I haven't had a thing in god knows when. In times like these, when I work and watch my social life skip past to point and laugh at me, these little things really assure me in my absolute lameness.

Anyhow, we were three people. One german, one german~american, and an italian. Communication was fun.
I remember this one moment I thought was so lovely ~ both Inge and Albertine where so concentrated on the pictures we were producing that I think they both missed it. Inge was explaining the aesthetics in broken english until he automatically slipped, and even though neither speaks the other's native language, the following occured:
"dadadada, kannst du die Bilder so rum schießen?"
"Si."
And everyone proceeded as though no linguistic muddle had happened.

When discussing poses, I was informed to "...just be spastic. You know what to do."

Sure.

So observe some candids of what we christened The Spastic Alien Emo Robot.





A Robot~Albertine conference.



Here I am taking her orders.





I love the next one. It's one of those that just yell What.... was going... on there?




Before anyone cleverly points this out ~ yes we realise that this whole business uncannily reminds of this:

* Isn't it funny how the most mundane and everyday things can be deliriously sexy when executed well?
I'm a huge fan of details that convey a style. When things seem effortless, competent and souvereign. The weirdest details, especially if I myself am an incapable klutz concerning them.
Like this one time my best friend whipped out his zippo with one hand, flipped his cigarette into his mouth with the other, performed a bizarre routine within seconds and handed me the lit cigarette with a raised eyebrow and the word: "Sex?"
I uh, I uh.
I mean, I burst into snorty laughter but he was so good.

Or this one time another bartender friend took an order. He swung around leisurely, took the bottle off the wall, and in one flowing motion, threw a peanut from his hand into the air, tossed the bottle so it flipped around twice before catching it with the other, and caught the peanut with his mouth.
Instant wetness.

But besides good hand~eye~coordination, simple movements will do. Not that the following picture will show the perfection, but the boy has a way of throwing sticks for the dog that makes me go *blink*



Or Marcel. Watch it, he's gorgeous. And the thing is ~ if you know him, you see that this is him being pretty unenthusiastic.




* By the way, has anyone ever noticed that Amy Winehouse looks exactly like that one guy from Army of Lovers?

Some more pretty pictures and then random junk.














* Isn't it strange.

* I work a lot. I'm at this stage of the clothes~making~process that leaves you exasperated and irritable. You're way behind schedule, the goals you have set are managable, yet excrutiatingly difficult, and you wonder what exactly you're doing this for, anyway. I guess laboring over the sewing machine and glueing odd fragments of pattern paper together is really really worth having no life at all while everyone around you actually experiences these strange and wondrous things we speak of, like daytime and first rays of sun. Or nighttime and substance~fueled debauchery.
I'd just like to sleep for a change.
Please send me diazepam and rohypnol. I'm not kidding.

My highlights of the day consist of staring in awe at that peculiar way the sewing needle bent the pin in an impeccable V without breaking it. Breathtaking.
Or sporadic calls from friends who upon my answering the phone go: "She works haaaaard for the money...So haaaaard for it, honey!"

And I go: "What money, you worthless mocking piece of poo?"


* My ferrets turned 7 and 9 years old this past month. They're old ladies. They sleep so much more than they used to...






* The other night I went out at ended up at the Trinkteufel (duh) and while I abhor people bumming cigarettes or tabacco off me since I'm poor and everyone else is richer and they should be giving me nicotine, I allowed this ugly and unwashed skinhead to roll one. Why?
His entire arm and hand were in a cast.

See, that's my sense of humor. It took him about 15 minutes, the entire time I stared at his maimed and fruitless efforts like you watch the paralympics. The boy returned from taking a piss, immediately saw what was going on and in a perfect blend of astonishment, amusement and disgust established that I... am such! ... a cunt!

I feel being a cunt towards unwashed skinheads is legitimate.


* This picture I find quite droll (<-- I needed to use that word) since I am obviously viciously plotting and there's a disembodied face of doom in the background.



I uploaded also these two, in order to illustrate a certain scheme I've been observing. My face autonomously arranges itself in to the un~quaintest one sided scrunch up the milisecond a camera is perched my way. It needs to stop.

Although thanks to Bexi, who decided I look like a comic figure, and Merzi, who acted upon this, I now have another gem of fan~art. The thought~bubble says: I need to stop making this face!



I loved it!

* Yeah... I don't know what else to say that could be of any interest. My life is not of any interest these days. You'll have to wait until I have some free time again to be the raging lunatic and all. The most spectacular event in recent history was almost being thrown out of the post~office for correcting an employees attitude.
I am such a daredevil.

* Albertine! Send me pictures, I need to entertain the angry mob!

* I still think this picture is hot.

* And just because it's mildly funny ~

Isn't this the most beautiful picture you've ever seen in your life?



It's actually one of the rejects...

DISCLAIMER: The following may or may not make sense. Further clarification may be achieved after clicking on the little MAR 1, 2007 button.


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.