I wonder why the so-called alternative sites (see Vampire Freaks) are full of emo teenagers with fringes? I haven't got anything against fringes per se, but when I see cute teenage things with duck faces and fringes I want to slap them. I can't help it. It's a knee-jerk reaction. Just like that. Blame it on my sadistic side. And then I want to get a pair of scissors and hack the damn fringe. And then I want to spank their asses as if they were tambourines. With all the facial piercings they have they will probably jingle like tambourines, too. Argh. Half a kilo of metal on your face and not even doing it right. I mean, what exactly is the purpose of those damn little balls protruding from your nostrils like permanent boogers? I have seen so few people that the piercing actually looks good on them. The rest merely have those eternal metal boogers just outside their noses. I suppose they can always use this excuse to flirt with people of their preferred sex, asking for a handkerchief.
And the drama. Drama drama drama. Nooooooo. I don't want to hear why your life sucks so much. When you're 15, everything sucks and nobody sucks you, which is the basic reason for the drama. With all those hormones having a party in your head and body I can understand why, but shouldn't such sites be strictly over 18? Just saying.
Another fantastic American puritan thing. Calling someone a pedophile for flirting with someone under 18 years of age. A pedophile is a person that is attracted by children, which means, pre-puberty children. Once the teens kick in, the whole "child" notion goes out of the window. Anyone in their teens is not a child anymore. The lowest legal consent age in Europe is 13, in Spain, and I have lost count of how many European countries have 14 as the limit. This is NOT to say that anyone in their teens know what's good for them, or are fully responsible for themselves. This is why we recall our teens with mixed feelings of wonder and terror, about how we made it through alive and sane despite how STUPID we were. But when we use the term 'pedophile', we refer to someone attracted by any child from zero to more or less 12, even 13 years, not older. When the hormones kick in, the teenager is as much of a child as a T-Rex is a lizard. You do catch my drift. I do understand that there are different age limits in countries around the world but my problem has to do with the definition, not the mechanics or the morality. A teenager is JAILBAIT (if you're American). Not a child. So flirting or fucking a teenager does not make you a pedophile. Unless you're a 'lucky' American.
It was nice knowing you. Right now I feel the left side of my face like one big frozen burger. Oh well, nothing to worry about. And the taste of blood in my mouth together with chocolate milk. What fun.
Now, let's try writing the same text with the keyboard turned to Greek.
I am constipated, have discovered an impressive cavity in my (last) wisdom tooth, the floor of my room has absorbed moisture and the wood has expanded and I cannot close the door and the other laptop is dead and I am writing like mad.
I am reading a book and yesterday spent a quarter of an hour yelling comments and observations out loud to no-one in particular. You can read them for your pleasure (?) here:
"I mean what the fuck, fucking hell fuck, I am struggling with every available braincell to make this appear gradual, I am torturing my heads (the one I have on my shoulders, and several others in the refrigerator, I mean obviously, why else use plural here) in order to be smooth, smooth gods god dammit, gradual, you know, not like we've only just met and BOOOM! sex, and this is what gets published, I don't even know why I struggle with my craft, and erase all the repeated words, and bury my fucking nose in two different dictionaries and one thesaurus if I cannot come up with the word I am looking for, and re-write the same chapter again and again and again to make the flow of the story natural and effortless, for the love of holy fuck, put some effort into your writing, hell yes I want to read sex, hell no like this. This is not sex but microwave popcorn, just add microwave. I mean save me a fried Godzilla for later, and if I just wanted to write about sex and no plot I would write the words cock, pussy (or ass), in, out, in out, in out, in, out, boobies jumping up and down, moan, moan moan, sigh, !SUDDENLY! Jizz everywhere! Who cares???"
(I am not sure what people think when they see me during one of those live-comment broadcasts of insanity. I wave my hands dramatically as well and make faces and noises. I am not sure if the best way to do this is radio, camera or a padded cell.)
This is the point where the writing starts to take off the ground. Until now I wasn't even sure what was happening. I never use a plot. I have a very general idea of what it is about and then just throw all the characters in and wait to see what will happen. Stephen King does the exact same thing. So I threw everyone in together with everyone else and I kept looking at the progress. (It mostly consisted of characters telling other characters off at first or batting at their faces like annoyed cats. Most of my characters aren't the get along easily/ the more the merrier type.) And for the first time I start realising this is GOING somewhere and I think I have a very vague idea WHERE. The two basic characters are in, the third one must be introduced now. Just after I finish with the chapters with the second character. Vampires with special needs, violent sex, crude language, a masochistic psychic and murderous twins. Not bad. Now everything will start flooding in. It will be something of a shaggathon, vampire novel, suspense/ horror/ romance kind of book. Now, don't you dare tell me there are no such books! I know there aren't! This is why I am writing mine. Silly, silly boys and girls, but of course. I first and foremost write in order to have something to read!!! Silly. It's like masturbation, only with more people watching. BWA HA HAHA HASSSAAAAAN HERE I COME!!! Eat my dust and shit fucking troglodytes of shit books. I am going at almost full speed now. Or to quote Luciphur from Poison Elves,
EAT CROW!!!
I love you all. Smooch!
I go write now. Open your umbrellas, jizz is coming. *O*
Today is
the first day my face in the mirror looks familiar again. I haven't a clue why.
I saw
you in my sleep last night.
It's
funny how I see you in my sleep while we don't talk in real life. You were
wearing a light blue suit that shined at parts with an almost satin sheen. I am
guessing that it was the tie, or the shirt that shined. This time you looked
like your usual self. And blue looked good on you, although I have never seen
you wearing it.
Damned
fairies. Damned race of alcoholic, sex addicted, heartless, whimsical nutters.
Nothing but trouble and heartache. It's all about your glamour and conquests. I
am guessing most of you die of liver failure or drug overdose, and those who
don't just carry some kind of STD to their dying day. But I forgot; you're a
lucky bunch of arseholes. You manage to avoid disease most of the time even if
you're not particularly careful.
I would
so spank them collectively. Using planks. Or better big clubs and flattening
their stupid heads.
Talking
about fairies, the character I would mostly like to BE (from my own ones) is
Seraph. Seraph has a fairy soul, but not the "drink and make merry"
type, but rather the "kill and fuck mercilessly" type. He's Irish,
6'3'' (1, 93m), long coal black hair, gray blue, almost silvery eyes, very pale
skin, lots of blue black tattoos, and also a real piece of work. A brooding,
misanthropic, nearly growling young man, presently in University, who's about
as amused with humanity as I am, but not really interested in censoring his
mouth if you aggravate him. What are you going to do, hit him? You can try.
He's been trained to kill vampires since he was practically a child. He
has even killed a few. Come on, try. Give it your best shot. The doctors will
have such a good time re-arranging your bones afterwards. Like playing Tetris
but with no visible bricks. Thankfully Seraph looks like someone that it's NOT
in your best interests to annoy. Most people instinctively know he can break
them in two. Even bullies shrink away from him, and those who don't are usually
used as an example for others, and offer quality time to doctors and
physiotherapists (practicing the medical Tetris I described just now).
What I
admire about Seraph is his willpower and self-discipline. He has been
exercising since he was very little, partly because he needs to be in perfect
physical condition for hunting and partly because regular exercise keeps his
murderous and restless nature in check. He never questions what he is, never
doubts what his responsibility is. He's quite content with his share. He's been
brought up to kill vampires, period. Not all vampires. The ones that kill
humans. You'd be surprised to know, perhaps, that most modern day vampires would
rather not. You can't magic away a corpse, and leaving a trail of corpses
behind you is guaranteed to attract the wrong kind of attention. Seraph takes
care of those stupid enough or uncaring enough to do so.
Clichés
I have tried to avoid:
He's not
a vampire. I mean, give me a break. Jesus wept.
He's not
a loner because he has been heartbroken. He just happens to enjoy the company
of his own self a lot more than that of other people. He never invests a lot in
order to be heartbroken.
He's not
misanthropic because he's old and disappointed. He is merely disillusioned. Has
seen through the lies and appearances and social conventions and knows how
petty and ugly most people are on the inside.
He does
not kill vampires to protect humans. He doesn't like humans very much to begin
with. No, his mind is far too complicated and different to see humans as 'good'
and 'vampires' as bad. He strives to preserve the balance, because a vampire
that habitually kills is a chaotic, disruptive, unchecked power. Still he's not
obsessive. He's aware he cannot kill ALL wild vampires out there. He, too, is
only human after all. At least his body is.
He does
not kill for revenge. Another cliché. He never had any of his relatives or friends killed by a vampire. Hell,
I am not sure if he even has any friends. He's pretty dispassionate about it
all. Vampire hunting just happens to be his calling, and he enjoys doing it
because he’s what he’s best at.
In
addition to the above, he can also kick seven shades of blue out of most
people, armed with nothing but his stunning body and a grin. xD
I would
love to be Seraph. Don't get me wrong, I love vampires. But give me a good body
and many years of training to kill and a few bullies to practice on. Oh god
yes. This would be orgasmic.
I go do
something else now, before I soak my pants so thoroughly that my socks get wet
too.
Ha, ha, ha. I have been looking for this everywhere.
by Neil Gaiman (from the book American Gods)
“I can believe that things are true and I can believe things that
aren’t true and I can believe things where nobody knows if they’re true
or not.
I can believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and Marilyn Monroe and
the Beatles and Elvis and Mister Ed. Listen – I believe that people are
perfectible, that knowledge is infinite, that the world is run by secret
banking cartels and is visited by aliens on a regular basis, nice ones
that look like
wrinkledy lemurs and bad ones who mutilate cattle and want our water and
our women. I believe that the future sucks and I believe that future
rocks and
I believe that one day White Buffalo Woman is going to come back and
kick everyone’s ass. I believe that all men are just overgrown boys with
deep
problems communicating and that the decline in good sex in America is
coincident with the decline in drive-in movie theaters from state to
state. I believe
that all politicians are unprincipled crooks and I still believe that
they are better than the alternative. I believe that California is going
to sink into the sea when
the big one comes, while Florida is going to dissolve into madness and
alligators and toxic waste. I believe that antibacterial soap is
destroying our resistance
to dirt and disease so that one day we’ll all be wiped out by the common
cold like the Martians in War of the Worlds. I believe that the
greatest poets of the
last century were Edith Sitwell and Don Marquis, that jade is dried
dragon sperm, and that thousands of years ago in a former life I was a
one-armed
Siberian shaman. I believe that mankind’s destiny lies in the stars. I
believe that candy really did taste better when I was a kid, that it’s
aerodynamically
impossible for a bumblebee to fly, that light is a wave and a particle,
that there’s a cat in a box somewhere who’s alive and dead at the same
time
(although if they don’t ever open the box to feed it it’ll eventually
just be two different kinds of dead), and that there are stars in the
universe billions of
years older than the universe itself. I believe in a personal god who
cares about me and worries and oversees everything I do. I believe in an
impersonal
god who set the universe in motion and went off to hang with her
girlfriends and doesn’t even know that I’m alive. I believe in an empty
and godless
universe of casual chaos, background noise, and sheer blind luck. I
believe that anyone who says that sex is overrated just hasn’t done it
properly.
I believe that anyone claims to know what’s going on will lie about the
little things too. I believe in absolute honesty and sensible social
lies. I believe
in a woman’s right to choose, a baby’s right to live, that while all
human life is sacred there’s nothing wrong with the death penalty if you
can trust the
legal system implicitly, and that no one but a moron would ever trust
the legal system. I believe life is a game, that life is a cruel joke,
and that life is what
happens when you’re alive and that you might as well lie back and enjoy
it.”
- Samantha Black CrowI agree with about 98% of this. He, he, he.
[This is the only living being I would take orders from. Them, and their bigger cousins.]
I want to be terribly violent on someone tonight. Thankfully no-one is here.
I got seven kinds of furious today. I got harassed by a cop. The majority of cops here in Greece think they are the second power after God Almighty and even the Almighty is scared of them. So it's not unusual for them to talk to citizens in the manner a 18th century plantation owner talked to their slaves. Threatening me and arousing me and fiddling with my temper is not good for a variety of reasons, but let's run our options here and go back to the basics.
1) I don't own a Jaguar, yacht, a bank account in Switzerland, an offshore company or anything of that kind. In fact, if I owned any of those I would be living the quiet easy life those same cops are so intent on protecting.
2) I don't own whores, drugs, weapons (unless we count my farts) or sell any of those. If I did, I would also own several of #1 so these people would once more be interested in protecting me.
3) I don't have a rich father, mafioso boyfriend or girlfriend or pimp. Nor am I employed by them. Again, if I had any relation to any of them we'd go back to option #1.
How about talking to citizens in a more respectful manner, goddammit? I did not have the permit you asked for. I didn't rape your or someone else's grandmother, OK? Although your grandmother being raped by a cooties infested gorilla and you calling the offspring "dad" would explain a lot of things concerning your behaviour today.
Honestly, don't those people have something more productive to do? Like catch criminals? Then again, I live in Greece, the land of the gods and myths and logic. We don't catch criminals here. We offer them our vote and make them members of the parliament and Prime Ministers. Right...
So I'll swallow a ...
... and continue with my life. Mind you, I spent many hours fuming and a good half hour cursing in the old, traditional way, that includes grinding of teeth, shaking my fist to the heavens and colourful descriptions of rare and exotic incurable diseases that make people's flesh rot and fall off. I don't know if that works anymore or you have to be the genuine article to do it, which means living in a secluded hut and communing with spirits. But my grandmother did not live in a hut and her curses worked presto.
I am listening to Iron Maiden's "Caught Somewhere in Time". Oldies but goodies. Music that accompanied my teens. And I am thinking, thinking, thinking. The wheels inside my head turn so fast that I can smell something burning. Hopefully it's not my laptop that has a busted fan.
There are things I want to write but cannot write about them here.
I often feel like an alien. My personality makes others react in a very odd way. This baffles me and hurts me and makes me consider dozens of "what ifs". "Perhaps if I did that, they would react differently." "Perhaps if I did the other thing, they would do that other thing." But the thing is, I don't want to change myself and the way I think/ feel/ behave. I don't want to regulate my behaviour in order to achieve "results" because those results will be fake. It is important to show others your true self, to not deceive them or misguide them about who you are and what you want. If I tell lies or hide things sooner or later truth will out and then I'll be the one who's in trouble. Therefore I try to make sure what they see is what they get. Sure, I don't talk about my full list of interests to strangers. For example, my interest in the supernatural, my fascination with serial killers and horror and my beliefs on various social subjects are strictly personal. But other than that, I don't pretend something I am not. Some examples are:
I am introverted and don't like meeting people very much. For me quality is a million times more important than quantity. Because of that I make sure not to find myself in situations that include a crowd I don't know. I am aware I am the one who's going to suffer if I do this and therefore I don't pretend I am social, or a party animal. I hate noise. I hate smoke, I hate drunken people. Can't be more clear than this.
I am opinionated and headstrong about lots of matters. I don't try to hide it. I don't care about being easy-going. I'm not. I don't mind what other people believe in as long as they don't lecture or try to shove it down my throat. But I am not going to pretend I agree with something I consider stupid. I'll keep my mouth shut and wait till the subject changes.
When it comes to liking others, I don't like most. This does not mean I'll disrespect them. I can put up with civil everyday contact but if I don't like someone I am not going to pretend we're best friends. I will not be insulting, I will not attack them verbally or despise them but as soon as there is nothing more to say I'll vanish.
When I do like someone, as a possible new friend or lover, I let them know I do. I seek them out. I try to meet them again. I show and tell them I am interested. Usually the erotic arena is where the real trouble begins, because I don't like to feign indifference or play hard to get. My feelings, when they occur, are deep and genuine. However, the majority of people feel great discomfort, alarm and confusion when they encounter such a straightforward behaviour. They are used to games, fake indifference, people that approach them in order to take from them. Most erotic relationships have only sex as an exchange coin and no communication. If I was interested in that, I would not have this blog. I would be someone else. But I am not. Well, this pretty much scares off and freaks out everyone. And this in turn hurts and pisses me off. But as for how this can be resolved, the answer is not to my liking. I just have to wait for that one person that won't freak out.
Great. Just great.
My mind is OK with it most of the time. But try explaining that to feelings. Oh boy, you're in trouble.
So what do you do?
Personally, I love crafting and blogging. I have also found masturbation to be soothing. Actually anything that does not cause permanent liver damage or reduced brain function is fine. Especially if the reduced brain function in question is because I got so mad that I bashed their head in with a metallic ashtray or strangled them with one of their luscious cravats. No oxygen supply to the brain due to strangulation can cause permanent damage and it's such a pity when the brain in question is so quick and witty and talented. Just saying.
Oh well. When I become a rich and famous author they will all regret the error of their ways. Till then, crafting, blogging and masturbation seem like an excellent alternative.
...and all the old troubles are hanging from my butt like a bizarre tail. Or tale, if you'd rather.
I have a cold. I am coughing and donating mucus in hankies like there is a special challenge and the biggest donation gets an award. Judging by my production, the award will be a golden nose on a mini pedestral. This year from the summer onwards I have been sick three times already. This is not usual. The money situation is shit and I get stressed on a daily basis, trying to make ends meet. As a result, my immune system has all but given up the spirit. You'll tell me, don't get stressed, it's not helping you any. You think I don't know this?
I am trying to make my mood better by making pretty things with my hands and studying kanji as if there is no tomorrow. You should really be able to see me sticking ribbons and confetti and sparkly thingies in photos while listening to Amon Amarth, Lamb of God, Dir en Grey and Cavalera Conspiracy. It's appropriate. Half of the time, I also accidentally stick my hair on the photo or stick sequins on my hair, and when I am done crafting I look like a person mistaken for a Christmas tree. Other than that, I am watching about one movie every night. God/dess knows what got into me. I think I am trying to keep my sanity in place. I am not even sure if there is such a quality about my person anymore in order to keep it there but I try.
Then I watch youtube videos with inconspicuous Japanese singers shaking their hips and licking microphones. Bad, bad, very bad. Especially if the singers in question have this outstanding face with the super wicked eyebrows, killer cheekbones and really long, narrow, evil snake eyes. And they do all these... um... affectations to no-one in particular. Then it's not difficult to imagine they come to your bed late at night and they give you this long, sensual, detailed massage. And just as you have turned into a mass of goo they fuck you blind, deaf and in multiple other ways challenged. Oh yes. Someone please. And that someone in particular, certainly yes please.
I also discovered I am married to Silvia, one of my oldest (female) penpals after accepting a request she sent me in Facebook. Good. She's a really beautiful and talented young woman and being married to her is very flattering. Too bad she lives in Germany, otherwise I might have tried to take advantage of the situation. Heh. I can see me, coughing like a sick dog and with two tampons stuck up my nostrils to block the constant flow, trying to seduce her. It would be a smashing success. And then her boyfriend would enter the scene and things would quickly get out of hand. Things would also get out of their appointed places and quickly enter in other places, and I am not referring to the tampons. :-DDD
Other than that, here is the link for the BEAUTIFUL dresses and gothic/period clothes my friend Silvia makes. Her work is fantastic, she speaks English and can take orders as well. You ask for it, she makes it.
Christmas makes me depressed. Me, and half of the world's population, I think.
Today I was going through some old stationery that I have. Korean stationery, in manga style. An old pen-pal had sent it to me back in 1997. The beauty of those pieces of paper is unbelievable. The colours, the compositions, the way both sexes are depicted. That's why I have kept them for so long while I have given away so many others. I have even lost contact with the girl who sent them. It once more made realise what I am looking for when buying Asian comics and art as well as music by Asian bands. The illusion of perfection. Pretty men dressed in loose lovely clothes together with beautiful women, enjoying the sunset or spending time relaxing. But this perfection I am looking for doesn't exist. People are more stressed than ever, they don't look like this and usually run from one job to the other while their parents babysit the kids. They also smell bad, fart, get sick with diarrhea, have wrinkles, terrible taste in clothes and girlfriends/ boyfriends, extra kilos, lisps, are cross-eyed, moronic, boring, stubborn and as for the idyllic places the stationery depicts, the entire earth is polluted beyond measure.
I am getting sick of the way the human mind works. Always wanting more, more, more. Never being happy with what we have. I suppose I can understand why we're made this way; we're supposed to be continually looking for ways to improve our situation, learn more things, apply the knowledge to gain even more experience.
Yeeeeeah, RIGHT. All I see is people who refuse to grasp the basics. And though they struggle with the basics their entire lives, they whine "more, more, more" like hysterical, spoiled children. Until the day they are dying, and they are dying complaining they did not get to live. As if someone else made the decisions for them and they weren't there when their life was happening. And I want to smack their stupid heads and bruise them "more, more, more". Hmph. My usual misanthropic mood; pay me no heed.
If I ever manage to go to Japan I'll make sure I turn my back into a fucking tapestry of tattoos. Oh, and here's the conversation I had with my mother on the matter of tattoos:
My mother: "Your tattoos are all... black."
Me: "Yeah, I know. The next ones will have more colour."
My mother on the verge of a breakdown: "What?! You are going to have MORE???"
Me: "Yeah, quite a few."
My mother: "Wait till you get married and then you have some more." (She is obviously afraid no man will marry me because I have tattoos. And unless I get married, I am not a 'proper' Greek woman. *facepalm*)
Me: "You are turning into such an idiotic example of a prim and proper moron of the middle class. Who gave you any kind of guarantee that my future husband will have no tattoos?"
My mother spends a few moments considering this devastating possibility. Finally, when she manages to speak again, she tells me:
"But I don't like men with tattoos."
Me: "Well then, if he proposes you, turn him down."
ARGH! Remind me again what we need parents for?
PS:
Actual order of things happening now:
Eating pralines, writing on my blog, and sharing my bed with my two cats while listening to Dir en Grey.
Preferred order of things:
Eating pralines, writing on my blog about my two cats while sharing my bed with Dir en Grey.
Very wrong order of things:
Eating Dir en Grey, writing to my pralines about my two cats, while sharing my bed with my blog.
Surreal order of things:
My pralines eating Dir en Grey on my bed while my blog writes to my cats recipes on how to cook Japanese rock stars. (Eat the motherfuckers raw, they taste better.)
And then comes the day that you decide you just want everything gone from your email. And the best buttons in the world are: Ctrl+A+Delete. You don’t stop to see what’s useful and what’s not useful. You don’t save anything. You don’t care about anything. Everything has to go, and it does. Bye bye now. Off with their heads, said the mad queen. So I erased all my emails before I could change my mind. And I feel ecstatic about it. Yay!
In the future we'll be able to erase all our emails using bombs. Meh. Kind of a way to check your mail and release tension at the same time.
Then I went into Facebook, and for some reason all the advertisements on the right appear in Japanese. The fuck?!? Not certain why this is happening. Not even certain IF it's happening. Perhaps I'm having a bad dream about it. After watching three really bad horror movies by various Asian directors called "Three Extremes" I am sure I am seeing Kanji and entrails everywhere. It's the vlad, I tell you. The vlaaaad. (blooood.) That, and the awful directors. Very postmodern bullshit with psychoanalysis elements my two smelly feet. With the exception of the third movie in the lot, which was fantastic: dreamy, unusual, beautiful. Lovely images, really scary sounds.
The fuck. Now I think my customers speak to me in Japanese. Let me try cleaning my ears a little. Aaah, still I'm hearing Japanese. It could be worse. I could be hearing little children singing. Not ghost children. Off tone children. Those are worse.
The battle rages on… And I try to win by writing poetry. And listening to Dir en Grey, of course. What else.
I have not written here in ages. It has been a busy time. Most of the time, not in a good way. But as I said before, the battle rages on. I don’t give a flying fuck. I will win. I will win because I am on the right side. The one that has butter, that is.
I am trying to be positive. I already am A positive as a blood type. It counts for something, I guess. I also am watching the True Blood series. It has a positive impact on me. I think. Vampires and rednecks. Why the hell not. Thank you, K. for giving the series to me. I have always hated that part of US and now, watching vampires trampling rednecks underfoot I swear I would have gotten an erection if that was anatomically possible.
Ahh… There is so much I would like to write about. This time I’ll refer to a fantasy I have, if only to please my black velvet heart. I have a friend of mine who looks like a crossover between Vin Diesel and the guy from Machette, only with less scars and more ways to kill. Let’s call him P.G.R. (Initials stand for Petite Grim Reaper.) As expected, he has more male friends like him who are of equal dimensions and skills, if only to be able to play with the boys without any repercussions. Read between the lines: exchange friendly slaps and pats on each others’ backs and be casual about it. To help you understand, slaps and pats that would have knocked professional wrestlers unconscious and would have caused the average person to suffer multiple spinal fractures. So I have this fantasy of my friend P.G.R. and two of his friends knocking on the door of a specific rock star saying “packet for you sir, signed delivery please”. As soon as the rock star answers his door he’s silenced with a friendly concussion-causing knock on his head, grabbed and ushered inside a large wooden box. Next scene is taking place in a sunny green field, where I am sat on a director’s chair sipping chocolate milk from a large mug and watching those three friends playing rugby using the aforesaid rock star as a ball. There is also this curious brick wall serving no obvious purpose, built in the middle of the field. Idyllic, isn’t it? Just think about it. Think of how many times he’ll slip off their grasp and land on the ground, preferably head or face first. The number of times they’ll miss and send him though the brick wall, onto tree trunks, into the small picturesque piranha-infested stream nearby. And if he doesn’t slip we can always undress him save for a loincloth and cover him in Vaseline first, then continue. Oooooh, naughty! I think I am getting wet. I go do other things now.
PS: I had a friendly conversation with P.G.R. a few days ago. I was complaining to him about the need to practice my speaking skills in a foreign language and once more he offered to kidnap and bring me the same rock star to help me. Then he added, “of course, I’ll break his pelvis first, in case you get any funny ideas.” When I complained to him that the rock star speaks too fast and I won’t be able to follow, he offered to rip off his jaw, too, if only to assist him in speaking more slowly.
I have been busy throwing away stuff, like I do every summer. Mind you, I would be doing this regularly, but as I have said perhaps two million times before in this blog, when I work so much, I just can’t. I let stuff gather and then when I manage to find some time I throw away as much as I can. Tastes change, needs change and stuff has to move on, be recycled or given away accordingly. Books, comics and manga fly to all directions through bookmooch.com. Old letters from people I no longer write with are recycled. Trinkets and useless clothes are given away. Clippings from magazines are finally read and then either stored away or recycled. Books are re-arranged, items used up, energies move. Good stuff happening.
Then I busied myself with my PC, erasing stuff I don’t need. And I made new labels, a ton of them, and I moved on some swapping items. Exciting stuff, I know. You can’t contain yourselves from the sheer adrenaline. My library is filled to the brim and I still have no proper space for all my cds. I have also been fighting with my mother. I don’t let those facts bother me anymore than I let the continual presence of cathairs in my life bother me. That’s the way it just is. I don’t think it will ever change.
I am listening to the latest Dir en Grey cd, which is so very odd that I have no words to describe it. It’s just so weird! It’s quite exceptional but so very unusual, so full of different and often contradicting sounds and influences that I need some time to digest it. The singer has gone quite nuts and has been trying new stuff throughout the album, as well as the rest of the band. I can hear melodies and rhythms I have never before encountered in their music. Have they advanced? Certainly, it’s just that they are more chaotic than ever, and sometimes I find myself lost half way through a song. I already know and love Lotus, Vanitas, Diabolos and Hageshisa to kono. They were released as singles and I had the chance to listen to them many times and fall in love with them. The rest of the album needs listening to and I am glad it does. We live in a fast food era; some things need to stand out from the rubble and demand our full attention. I wouldn’t be happy with a fast-food album from this particular band. They are not Placebo or Tokio Hotel. Don’t get this wrong; I love Placebo and Tokio Hotel for very different reasons. But let’s not put shovels and swords in the same place, they don’t belong together.
Vanitas means emptiness… It’s a sweet song, easy to listen to, and the singer doesn’t scream at all, making it a safe choice to use in compilations I make for other people. Of course, I would love to see those people’s faces if they ever decide to look up Dir en grey in youtube after listening to a song like Vanitas. It’s like inviting to your place that pretty, mostly silent girl you met at that party, and seeing her arrive armed with a sword, a gun, an iron maiden on wheels, many meters of barbed wire and two kilos of TNT. It really makes one wonder what she has in mind. It also makes one wonder what the person who introduced you at the party was thinking. Hahaha!!!
(The picture was something I have had for ages in my pc... Very beautiful.)
I am positively positive that if I don’t do something different than what I usually do, my brain will explode into sparkly little thingies the colour of shit. So here I am at the kiosk beginning a letter to you, or else. I still haven’t got a letter from, I should say, your demented Highness, or nicely round Butt Excellency, but hope dies last. Fear not! I will try everything, even come there to freeze my equally nice round butt together with yours in order to get that darn letter. I can see both our asses side by side at the mantelpiece. Hey, I can see our asses pressed against the windows of your house, mooning the non-existent neighbors. What the hell. At this rate, you may attract neighbors as well. I can see our asses on TV, on t-shirts, on two page spreads in magazines. I can see our asses mooning the moon itself if we have to. It’s Assholy war.
See what I mean about my brain exploding? It’s like goddess Eris herself has climbed on my shoulders and she pulls my ears and kicks my kidneys while stuffing LSD up my nostrils. I have no choice but to write bullshit under the serious disguise of a letter addressed to someone who’ll understand my ass fixation. I need a choir of Asian 17-year-olds who can and will dance nekkid in the moonlight and won't make everyone laugh themselves to hospital because of how pitifully small their ahems are. I don’t mind if they can’t sing. To hell with singing as long as they have other redeeming qualities. I want to wake up tomorrow and know Japanese without the need to scribble down kanji on scrap paper four million times each. I want to wake up tomorrow and be in Japan already, with a steady job that is somehow connected to violating the aforesaid choir. Even though to be honest with you I look forward to a trip to Japan with mixed feelings. I am afraid that my poor little Jap boys will no longer be fun to chase through the darkness of the night, because there will be no challenge; they will glow in the dark. I am afraid that I, too, will glow in the dark if I spend time there, and it certainly hasn’t been on top of my list of priorities, “things to do when you turn 35”. Elizabeth as a life size Halloween decoration, ew. Imagine the worst scenario: only my vagina turns radioactive through contact and gives new meaning to my life; it literally sheds light on matters concerning my sexual activity. Those private moments under the sheets will no longer hold any mystery; there will ample illumination on the subject. Gahhhhhhh…
[Q: You work in an office. How can you tell which pretty boy fell victim to Elizabeth’s devious sexual charms the previous night?
A: You simply tell them to stick their tongues out. Anyone with a weird glow effect on their tongues either has a penchant for fireflies, or has been in a particular bed last night.]
So I am sat at the kiosk, surrounded by an army of pieces of scrap paper thrown everywhere, all of them covered in kanji that I have been practicing in the vain hope of remembering them the next day. The idea someone will get by looking at this scene is that the whole place has contacted a nasty case of the measles, but an alien strain of it, with black squiggly thingies instead of red spots. I’m munching compulsively whatever my dirty paws can get a hold of while raising my butt every now and then and farting discretely in the pillow. There’s a perpetual stink around the kiosk like someone cracked open the door of a mausoleum full of cholera victims. I am pretty certain sooner or later a demon with a strong business sense and nefarious taste will come and shake hands with me, then offer me to bottle the essence and sell it to the market of Hell as air freshener and make us both rich. He’ll later confess to me that it was the subtle rotten egg aroma that underpinned the basic stink of death and dismay and made all the difference. I am also pretty certain that if I stand up and start hitting the pillow on the wall, ominous green clouds of stink will emerge out of it, and if I try to disperse them by fanning at them with my hands, I will discover that they are solid enough to need breaking them with a hammer into smaller pieces first.
I am absolutely positive that if I ever live together with a companion, they will die in their sleep by gas attack while I’ll be snoring in the pillow next to them without a care in the world, my ass accidentally poised at them and firing non-stop. I am also pretty certain my orange tom-cat has no sense of smell. The Persian is devious; she sleeps under the bed. He sleeps curled near my ass. Can you imagine that. Just next to the stirring volcano. Perhaps he likes it there because it’s so warm and breezy.
I do know one thing for certain. If I see areas where his lovely soft orange fur is curly and singed, I will not wonder why. One cannot escape the inevitable! Sooner or later, special becomes mundane, holy becomes profane and the grim reaper of my butt becomes the hair dresser of my cat. The mighty have indeed fallen.
I haven’t written here in quite some time. I haven’t had internet for weeks, and now that I have internet I am up to my neck in a variety of things I ought to have done ages ago/ came up unexpectedly/ aren’t really important but are certainly as time consuming and as meaningful as peeling lentils with box gloves on.
Hmmm. Reminds me of what someone who has supposedly quit drinking would come up with as soon as his wife caught him in the embrace of hard liquor again.
“Um, no, honey, it’s not a bottle of Scotch, I mean it is, but I swear, it has lemonade inside. I mean I went to the grocery store and I know you wouldn’t believe it, but they only had their own lemonade left and then the aliens came, I swear to God, and then (insert long winding story about aliens here) and then the Pope (insert story with Pope of Rome making guest star appearance) and then an opera singer was having her voice exercises just next to the grocery store and all the glasses and bottles broke in a ten mile radius and then (another long story here) and finally, I swear to god, I came home with the lemonade in this whiskey bottle.”
Yeah, right. There is one thing I hate more than lame excuses and this is long sorry-assed stories. Point being, I have been busy. But I have internet at my disposal. And when I get get home, after a minimum of 12 to 14 hours of work I usually spend at least one hour trying to unwind. This doesn't leave me with too much energy to do anything more deep than ogle Asian gay porn, write a few emails, eat, take a shit and so on. When I get bored of looking at pretty Asian bums being rubbed by pretty Asian hands and interesting Asian penises, it's usually so late that my brain and eyelids are making squeaking sounds of disorganisation in Unison. (Unison with a capital U is the mental institution I work for as a silent assassin of the night, aka the enthusiastic bean-eater as opposed to another thing with gardeners.) So yes, what was I saying? Something with beans, dicks and gardeners anyway, watering my sayonara with soy sauce. (Sayonara in Greek means flip flop shoe.) So. Um. Yeah. Asleep already. My flip flops are full of eels. Now, fuck off. Oh sorry, I have to disconnect.
I think what I have must be called Sympathetic Dyslexia. It catches with me when in the company of dyslexic people. Naturally, almost all my friends are dyslexic and those who aren't, look up to me as their incarnated avatar of instant dyslexia-waiting-to-happen, just add sugar and shake well before use.
*fart* Now out of my way, lamentable *fart* creatures of the *fart* capitalistic society. *FART*FART*FART* *FAAAAAAAAAAAAAART* *RIIIIIIP* (Sound of underwear spontaneously combusting) Ffffffff...FUUUUUUCK!
"Look mommy, that lady is flying! And look how funny she is, trying to dance while her bum is on fire!"
I am back. Although I haven't the slightest why. :-)
English not first language leads to all kind of interesting and hilarious mistakes when writing stories.
"He wanted to get to know every crook and nanny of her body."
NEWS FLASH: the present incarnation has trouble accepting her place in the world and this reality.
Okay, let's discuss this. Where would you rather be?
Let's not. I'll be too graphic and I don't wanna. There's people watching us. But Dir en Grey have a new and very pretty song out.
How can anyone call a Dir en Grey song pretty?
I can and even shooting me cannot make me change my phrasing. You need to lure me with Asian Skinny Buttocks to change it.
What the hell is Skinny Buttocks? A snack bar for those on a diet?
Nope, a snack for those who haven't had any in the longest time.
Haven't had what? Skinny buttocks? Your buttocks are far from skinny. They look like a, hmmm, peach?
Yeah. Do you see any hands on the aforesaid peach?
Gods forbid! What are you, an alien?
No, you idiot, not GROWING OUT OF MY BUTTOCKS, fondling them, groping them, something along these lines.
Mmm. No.
See what I mean?
Not really but I am getting confused here. Would you like to explain that bit about where you'd like to be instead? There is no progress concerning the buttocks thingy.
Hmmmmm. Right you are. Good question. Let's listen to some Gazette because they have two TRULY fantastic songs in their latest album. Let's embed one as well. Hmmm. Make that two. Can I choose any place and time I want?
I suppose so. I mean, we are just talking, no harm in asking for anything you please.
Yeah. And I have always been of the opinion that if you are going to sin, sin boldly. So yes. I would like to be back where I was. Before the fall. Before everything started being such a pain in the ass. Back "home".
Um. That's not really an option, you know.
Oh yes, trust me, I know. Even if I kill myself, I cannot go back there. And besides, I have never been the quitting type.
I'll second that. Any other options?
I'll pick the pretty boy with the wavy black hair. The one that looks like you know who.
Yes. So what about him?
He's a dashing creature, isn't he? I swear I could lick sexiness out of his skin, emitted together with his smell.
So what would you like to do with him?
Can I choose any time I please? Hmmm? Can I? Can I?
Yep, go on.
Then I choose the time before we get to know each other, that we are still landscapes waiting to be discovered. The time he'll be keeping his mouth shut for fear he'll insult me and make me go away. When he'll be genuinely hungry for me and each touch will be as honest and full of longing as breath itself.
Nice choice. But why that?
Just because. Because I know it doesn't last. It is replaced by habit, familiarity and contempt.
But there is also tenderness and understanding and kindness there, when time passes. There is genuine knowledge of the other person instead of loving a fantasy or a projection.
Hahaha. You are hilarious sometimes, aren't you? There is never actual knowledge of any person. We just touch something with our hands, keeping our eyes shut, and we describe what we think it is.
Do we?
Of course we do. And since he'll only see what he wants to see anyway, I might as well do the same. And believe it. That's the trick to happiness in falling in love. Believing.
So do you want to fall in love? Is this what you are saying?
No. I don't think this will ever happen to me again. Not anymore. But even if it does, I have no say on the matter. It just will. *shrugs*
Don't you feel lonely?
What does this have to do with anything?
I get the feeling you are lonely.
I am lonely alright. But what's worst is my homicidal mania. All I can think about yesterday and today is about killing two particular people. It won't solve anything. Hell, even killing about two fifths of the earth's population won't change much. Since the creator decided they should exist in the first place, who am I to know better?
Indeedy. So what are you going to do?
What, now? Go home, of course. What else can I do? Go home and discuss it with Her. She is ballistic, thirsting for blood, and it does me no good to be like that.
Unless I am mistaken I don't think there is any room for discussion in such a case.
There is always room for discussion, especially in such a case. Trust me. And I have grown weary of the things I don't do because "it wouldn't be right", "my karma would go to hell in a hand basket", "I don't deserve to become like them" and so on. I see so many people hiding behind their finger every single day, thinking I don't know what they think about me and how they feel about me. Pretending they care about me. And they have it oh so easy because I don't want to be like them. I don't want to destroy, I want to create and preserve. Life will destroy anyway, why should I do it? Why should I be the one to dig their graves when they do it themselves? Living -and doing it well- is the best vengeance of all. And you know what? What really keeps me is the knowledge that even when wallowing in the darkest pits of despair I have never once given in and followed the easy path. That's my only treasure. I have nothing save for that and nobody, fucking nobody can take it from me, while they chose the easy path every single time. Every time they had to choose between their ego's petty games and between being human in the true sense of the word, they chose to be scum. And there will be a time scum will be separated from humans, and they will go where scum goes. To the dirt.
So, what's the thing you want tonight?
I told you. The essence of dreams. The time we both won't know a thing. It's that, or a very sharp knife. And that's that.
