OMG, blue penis, right? Every fucking time it came on the screen, someone had to giggle. I looked forward to seeing WATCHMEN for twenty years, and I have to watch it in the middle of a fucking country where people giggle at the sight of penis.
Did it bother anyone else? Apparently, a friend of mine was at a screening where someone yelled, OMG IT'S A PENIS, GET OVER IT. I now officially love that stranger, whoever he or she is. I feel your pain, I share your fucking struggle.
Did it bother anyone else? Apparently, a friend of mine was at a screening where someone yelled, OMG IT'S A PENIS, GET OVER IT. I now officially love that stranger, whoever he or she is. I feel your pain, I share your fucking struggle.
The first time I ever did an international booty call (hi, Paul!) it was 2002, and it was fuck-ass cold February in Kent. So, even though we did get out and go to Northumbria and Abroath and London and even see Stonehenge in the pissing, pouring rain, we ended up staying in a lot of the two weeks we were there.
Usually those times were full of hash, long hot baths, and television... or some combination of all three.
I smoked so much hash that at first, I thought I was hallucinating this on some very-special history episode of Top of the Pops... when the Mariachi band comes in, it just highlights the vast bizarreness of that 17th century Paul Revere looking dude with the bullwhip. (Were Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich a precursor to Adam and the Ants?)
(The only reason I don't embed it here is because embedding was disabled. Bastards.)
I had to explain to Paul that it wasn't merely an age difference, that time. Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich are probably the weirdest, and oddly enough, most English band I have ever seen, simply cuz of this video.
Usually those times were full of hash, long hot baths, and television... or some combination of all three.
I smoked so much hash that at first, I thought I was hallucinating this on some very-special history episode of Top of the Pops... when the Mariachi band comes in, it just highlights the vast bizarreness of that 17th century Paul Revere looking dude with the bullwhip. (Were Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich a precursor to Adam and the Ants?)
(The only reason I don't embed it here is because embedding was disabled. Bastards.)
I had to explain to Paul that it wasn't merely an age difference, that time. Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich are probably the weirdest, and oddly enough, most English band I have ever seen, simply cuz of this video.
Haven't posted here in a while. This image is from my bio in the book me and David Aronson did, called Shadows in Heaven. I'm in the process of shopping it around to a few publishers. This is the first time I've ever done anything like this. I've heard it's better to have an agent, but I can't afford anything like that.
I just hope an editor somewhere sees it and doesn't think it sucks.
I might hit up my friend Agent 139 and ask him for some advice. He's the guy that did Join My Cult, which can be seen about at http://www.joinmycult.org/.
The above image of me is a David Aronson remix of an Erik Orton photograph from 2003.
Erik Orton's work can be found at http://slick.monkeycreations.net/~spannermagnet/gallery
David Aronson's work can be found at http://www.alchemicalwedding.com/
How we met can be read about at http://oddculture.com/gb/david_aronson.html
Happy New Year. This used to have a picture of my boobs, but I've fucked with my Flickr account since then, and have now screwed up the img src urls.
You'll just have to imagine.
You'll just have to imagine.
I've loved and lost.
I've lusted and lost, too.
Just another day.
Just another night.
Without you.
I've lusted and lost, too.
Just another day.
Just another night.
Without you.
I'm now back in the city, again, after four years of not living here. I have my own place, a fast internet connection, and I'm a five minute walk from school. Go, me. 
nerdy girl
If I were truly hardcore, I'd just throw myself into my library science degree with the same sort of abandon that I used to reserve for hot sex. My concentration is generally shit, though.
This is not an excuse. Or, rather, this will not continue to be an excuse.
I mean, it's easy to be hot when you're young and your metabolism's cranked to eleven and you only need three hours of sleep a night. Hotness, though... physical beauty as dictated by popular culture and prevailing mores, is completely fleeting.
I would like to know with absolute certainty that I will be able to pay my own damn way through this world without having to peddle my ass or flash my cunt.
***
Dream is this: I get a nice condo downtown. Something converted from an apartment. I have a job that pays enough to support me plus at least half another person. (That would be the savings.) I spend my time writing novels and making love to my lover(s), getting photographed for as long as the prettiness lasts, and...
...and...
...and I guess that's about it, isn't it? A little bit of publishing, the ability to feed and clothe myself and stay warm in relative style, and the occasional bump of the uglies. My goals are oddly simple.
***
God, you know what? There are three ways in which to reach the pinnacle of what one can accomplish as a human being. You're either on the television, in a history book, or in space. The first two are easy and not a meritocratic accomplishment at all, really. The last is barriered by exorbitant expenses and the fact that any shuttle launching's burning a bunch of fuel, and that's getting harder to justify, these days.
Still, if things had been a little different, maybe I would have been able to go to the moon. I wanted to be an astronaut when I was a little girl...
If I were truly hardcore, I'd just throw myself into my library science degree with the same sort of abandon that I used to reserve for hot sex. My concentration is generally shit, though.
This is not an excuse. Or, rather, this will not continue to be an excuse.
I mean, it's easy to be hot when you're young and your metabolism's cranked to eleven and you only need three hours of sleep a night. Hotness, though... physical beauty as dictated by popular culture and prevailing mores, is completely fleeting.
I would like to know with absolute certainty that I will be able to pay my own damn way through this world without having to peddle my ass or flash my cunt.
***
Dream is this: I get a nice condo downtown. Something converted from an apartment. I have a job that pays enough to support me plus at least half another person. (That would be the savings.) I spend my time writing novels and making love to my lover(s), getting photographed for as long as the prettiness lasts, and...
...and...
...and I guess that's about it, isn't it? A little bit of publishing, the ability to feed and clothe myself and stay warm in relative style, and the occasional bump of the uglies. My goals are oddly simple.
***
God, you know what? There are three ways in which to reach the pinnacle of what one can accomplish as a human being. You're either on the television, in a history book, or in space. The first two are easy and not a meritocratic accomplishment at all, really. The last is barriered by exorbitant expenses and the fact that any shuttle launching's burning a bunch of fuel, and that's getting harder to justify, these days.
Still, if things had been a little different, maybe I would have been able to go to the moon. I wanted to be an astronaut when I was a little girl...
there will be a time when we won't know each other anymore
You would be the first to forget about me, I think. Being who you are, being as gorgeous as you are, whenever there is an absence in your life, it gets quickly filled in, like the social equivalent of quicksand. You're never lonely for long.
I don't think you have the ability to get lonely.
Sorta the way some people don't have the ability to get jealous.
i'm too busy to see you
you're too busy to wait
My fatal flaw is my utter inability to pretend that I don't care. My sometimes indiscriminate, spasmatic ways of caring about random things around me with the intensity of a thousand obsessed fourteen year old girls at a Radiohead concert.
but i'm okay
how are you
thanks for asking
I can't help but care about the person attached to the hands and tongue and cock (or cunt ) that make me come. Yet, every time I admit falling in love, the news is received like a death sentence.
I don't stick around for too long in places where I know it will eventually get sour.
Like I thought of telling my first boyfriend: It's not being wanted that's hard. It's being loved back.
You would be the first to forget about me, I think. Being who you are, being as gorgeous as you are, whenever there is an absence in your life, it gets quickly filled in, like the social equivalent of quicksand. You're never lonely for long.
I don't think you have the ability to get lonely.
Sorta the way some people don't have the ability to get jealous.
i'm too busy to see you
you're too busy to wait
My fatal flaw is my utter inability to pretend that I don't care. My sometimes indiscriminate, spasmatic ways of caring about random things around me with the intensity of a thousand obsessed fourteen year old girls at a Radiohead concert.
but i'm okay
how are you
thanks for asking
I can't help but care about the person attached to the hands and tongue and cock (or cunt ) that make me come. Yet, every time I admit falling in love, the news is received like a death sentence.
I don't stick around for too long in places where I know it will eventually get sour.
Like I thought of telling my first boyfriend: It's not being wanted that's hard. It's being loved back.
JUNE 2009
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MAY 2009
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APRIL 2009
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MARCH 2009