Don't let me go to Japan!

I am serious. Don't let me go to Japan. I don't know what it will take, but ban me from that country. And while you're at it, ban me from eBay as well.

Just imagine me there. Or rather don't. A sex-starved, androgynous beauty devotee western girl unleashed on the streets of Japan. Like Krakatoa, a Mongolian riding excursion and a banquet sponsored by Viagra and Dionysus rolled in one and interrupted by deafening farting sounds. I get excited just by thinking about it. I'm sure I will somehow spot Gackt. Or Uruha. I will sniff them. I will use my bionic super senses, trained to locate all hairless males with arms slimmer than mine and promising lips in a hundred mile radius. I bet they smell like cotton candy, hot chocolate with cinnamon and vanilla and cat fur. I will locate them and the entire police force of Japan won't be able to open my jaws, firmly secured around Gackt's underwear (with Gackt still wearing it and struggling in vain, of course). They will lose so much manpower trying to get close and being repelled by a mysterious poisonous gas that makes even gas masks melt that they'll decide to let me have him and that will be the end of it (and him). I will drag him unconscious to my lair and lick him till he has no bodily hair left, not even eyebrows. Mmm, sweet-smelling flesh, stupidity and obligation free. He can wail and scream as much as he wants, I don't speak his language. I will then raid every shop that sells those fantabulous clothes I can't buy from here, unless I sell my entire mother and one of my kidneys to the organ market. And finally, I will leave Japan with three hundred suitcases, at least fifty of  which will be delivered to FedSex (see post: advertisement) because they'll contain nekkid Japanese boy-toys (although Gackt is over thirty five). I will declare those at customs as "bedroom decoration articles/other".

Seriously. Don't let me go to Japan. I don't know what I'm capable of, but I'm sure I will find out on the spot. Someone must declare Japanese visual kei artists as endangered species and post my photo as the natural predator of the species before it's too late! Act now to prevent disaster from happening! You have been forewarned...

Like beating a cat with a bagpipe.

Talking about bagpipes... I don't know what kind of wrong food combination I've made today, but the results are spectacular, to say the least. Watching people's faces around you blistering, melting and falling off because of a single fart can only be described as spectacular, right? Then again, girls are not supposed to be capable of farting. Yeah, right. I bet that when I meet the man of my dreams he won't believe that someone as sweet and endearing as I am is capable of producing such nasty results by the simple procedure of processing food. Well guess again- this woman is an exception. She hides a nuclear waste unit inside her ass to match the brothel inside her head. Even worse, if he has the romantic idea to sleep by my side at nighttime, he's as good as dead. I mean, save for the fact I toss and kick like I'm struggling against the armies of Darth Vader, what about my food byproducts? I do have an idea what I'm capable of when I'm awake and have some control over what's going on (or should I say, what comes out?). I'm sure that when I finally fall asleep and let go of control fully, I am transformed into a one (wo)man orchestra, with my ass performing all kinds of sounds, from strings to percussion. I'm serious. Imagine that in the morning, the first thing I do when I wake up after a particularly productive night is pick up my cat that sleeps next to me and shake him, to make sure he's still alive. If I do the same to that future boyfriend, his head will probably come off, together with the arms from their sockets.

[This one is for Danie- she knows how to make me smile.]

Fun with our friends the Japanese.

Okay, by now I have a LOT of magazines and books on Gackt, an eerily beautiful and feminine Japanese singer, style somewhere between pop and rock. I also have quite a number of magazines on The GazettE, a band featuring the gorgeous guitarist Uruha, the rest of the band vary from attractive to very attractive. I had never bothered listening to any of their songs; I had been too busy burning my brains with Gackt's songs. And since pop music is not my forte, I could not really listen to it for long without my toes involuntarily curling and my liquidised brain cells dripping from my nose. Then I got a wild hair up my ass and decided to investigate The GazettE in more depth. Like an idiot I typed the name in youtube and waited to listen to something mellow, rock-pop, you know. They are all girly gorgeous and wear clothes that look like a crossover between dresses and glam rock suits with silk, velvet and studs, long lace gloves and garters an added bonus. How hard do you expect the band to be with this image? So I heard the normal intro of the song and relaxed, and suddenly my poor ears were attacked by an all guns blazing succession of growls from the singer and metal riff outbursts like machine guns from both guitarists. I paused and stared at the screen, with a stupid expression on my face. *blink blink* WTF?!? I looked at my bottle of chocolate milk with the same moronic expression, wondering what the fuck was wrong with my ears or perhaps if someone had slipped something in my drink. But The GazettE went on with all their members merrily headbanging their napes away and I actually liked what I was listening to, since the basic genre I love IS metal. So yes, the next thing that came to mind was Slayer members dressed like The GazettE and that was the end of my sanity. xD

Advertisement

Beautiful men make you squeal? Your love life sucks? Falling in love with what you can't have? Sick and tired of hearing excuses why he doesn't want to go out with you? Why not use FEDSEX(TM)? We' re the fastest growing company in the world and specialise in kidnapping and shipping worldwide! FEDSEX(TM)- brought to your front door naked, blindfolded and tied! Free vial of ViagrAOURRRR! for only 300$ extra- all for your convenience! Call us at 00696969-XXX! Fast, reliable, discreet! Satisfaction guaranteed!

[Lawyer charges not included in the basic package]

Please note- although we offer a wide variety of services, in the case of celebrity kidnappings extra charges and handling fees apply. We also regret to inform you that particular celebrities are excluded from our range of services due to them being perpetually chained to the bed of the company owner. Unavailable articles include Gackt Camui, Bill Kaulitz, Olivier Theyskens and Uruha from the GazettE. We apologise for any inconvenience and hope to serve you soon!

[Rachael, half credit goes to you- I hope you will find this funny!]

Whoopsie

An overly active blog in my case means two things:

1. that I have time to kill and absolutely no intention of returning home.

2. that I can moan my little gothic black heart out.

3. that I strongly advice you AGAINST reading it for these two reasons.

This said, I need to refer to the fact this is not how I imagined my life will be at 31.

This also said, I honestly hope I'll manage to somehow put my finger on that which needs be done.

Not for any other reason, but because from my present point of view I can clearly see the fair green fields of banana-land and they are alarmingly close.

Hmm hmm, the little blue boy hummed to himself. Your toes don't look like toes anymore.

They look like something trapped inside the washing machine for too long.

You betcha, I admitted. And you really don't want to know what other parts of me look like.

I tried to sleep on the earth, but the drizzle did not let me.

The skies are perpetually gray these days.

Yes, the little blue boy said. The skies are wearing their winter clothes at this time of the year.

I'd go for transvestite, I replied. Something like the northern lights over Acropolis. Just for a change.

I'll tell them, he said. But it is hard. Perhaps you can dream about it if it will make you happy. Would you like that?

I am not sad. Not when I am alone.

Living with my mother makes me sad.

You also make her sad, he observed. You shout at each other all the time. Your faces turn ugly when you do that. It's like you are both drowning, only there is no water in the room.

Yes. It's a neat trick, isn't? I feigned ignorance. Mothers learn their daughters this trick when they are very very little. They in turn learn it from their own mothers.

My mother did not teach me this trick, the little blue boy said hesitantly. Is it something only girls learn?

Yes. It comes together with wombs and expectations.

I do not understand this, the little blue boy complained, but are you sure you like it?

Do you remember when someone gave you that purple hat with the the bumblebees inside? I asked. And you were stuck with it because the bumblebees wanted it for their home and you wanted it for a hat?

Yes, he nodded.

It is the same. I am stuck with this. Someone has to give way.

I gave up the hat, the boy reminded me. I will find another hat. That one had been the home of the bumblebees for so long that it would buzz even when empty.

Well, imagine what it would be like if the hat with the bumblebees was stuck on your head and you could not get it off, I suggested. It is something like this, only my mother wants the hat to remain there and I want to get it off.

Do you want me to find another hat for your mom? the little blue boy offered. I think I can find one, only it won't be purple. If she doesn't mind this, I can find one pretty hat for her. Blue and orange, with long ribbons. A princess had it once.

My mom is not a princess, I protested. Perhaps the princess will need it.

My mom told me that all girls are princesses, the little blue boy said. And my mom does not lie. Would you like the hat of the princess for your mom? Would that make her happy? Because that princess left one day and never came back for her pretty hat. It just sits there and there is dust on it. It's no trouble. I can get it for her. Would that make you stop doing the drowning trick?

I bit my lips to stop myself from crying. The little blue boy saw it.

Oh no, you're sad again, he piped miserably. Did I say something wrong? Do you want me to look for a hat for you too? Is that it? Perhaps there is a second one in the garden. I think I...

It is okay, I whispered. I'll keep the one with the bumblebees for now. One is enough.

All is violent, all is bright

The title is from a great God is an Astronaut album.

The mood is the following:

I am tired of existing in other people's heads and lives because of the thing I do for them, or give to them.

I want my existence to fulfill my own needs and desires from now on.

I want to leave a legacy of creation. Kindness alone is not enough. Wisdom and understanding don't fit the bill either. I want to be alive to fulfill my own being, but not through servitude to others anymore. I want to fulfill my own need to be served. I want to spoil myself, not by buying things to myself, but by quality time. Time from myself to myself only.

If I was to die tomorrow, what would be my legacy? The memory in other people's heads? Their kind words?

I do not want this. As I have said before, when my ashes will be traveling the planet, other people's opinions will not matter in the least. I crave creation. And I will turn the earth upside down if it needs must. I will enforce my will on reality if it needs must. Not enforce, but kick all obstacles aside, shove all those people out of the way. Out of my fucking way- you think I do not know who you are? You think I am not aware of the fact my weakness offers you flesh to secure your hooks on? Of your idiotic juvenile mind games? Well this is already changing- best to subtract your hooks or you'll be dragged and thrown with me into the volcano I am about to jump. Trust me, you can't take the heat. You don't have what it takes. If you did, you would be human beings, not poison ivy, crawling all over me. The tree you are riding is about to start walking before it turns into a pillar of light and fire. You have been forewarned- let go or you'll be singed.

I know this doesn't make much sense. It is okay. Just one last thing. I am not nice because I don't know any better. Being gentle is a conscious choice on my behalf- and one that can change at any given moment. Some people have already tasted that in an excruciatingly painful way. Don't add yourself to the list. Thank you.

PS I bought some gorgeous new books with the object of my latest desires, Gackt. I cannot resist but place a photo here- it is always soothing to look at something serene after the storm. If I was a vampire I would feed on beauty only... and if anyone feels like saying the "gay" word I strongly advise them to insert a few fingers up their own anus, in order to get some idea of what they are missing. I can always tell them how via e-mail, and I am sure they will grow to appreciate it.

ARRGGH!

Okay, that's enough. The Japanese version of amazon from the new year onward has a standard shipping cost of thirty something euro no matter if someone wants to buy a matchbox or an elephant- isn't that insane?! It used to be about five euro per item!!! GRRRRR *fuming* What am I, a devotee of Gackt going to do? Hell! I need my drugs (magazines with Gackt).

Katherine, save me. I need to go to Japan- it will be cheaper. If you see any hedgehogs or collie dogs following me discretely, shoot the bastards.

The twilight of excuses

Ever had one of those times you wished you were someone else?

I saw the movie Twilight. It really made me wish I was someone else. I won't refer to the movie. It was simply the emotional boost I needed to reach my present state of mind. Which is, I wish I had someone to protect me for once.

I don't need a daddy at my age. I am not looking for a daddy. But I am tired of always being the strong one in my relationships. Tired of being the one to give advice, understand, insist, retreat, encourage, look for hints, read the fucking cards. I wish I was normal.

No, lie. I wish I was brain dead .

I wish I could find comfort in my female nature. I wish I had been accepted, protected and loved when I needed it most. I wish I had a normal family when I was small. I wish I had not been destroyed by the ones supposed to protect me and not turned into what I am- someone disgusted and terrified by human touch and appalled by intimacy.

I wish I had lived a normal life, that's all. It will pass.

I am so ashamed.

I have tried so hard to create an intellectual profile. I have written entry after entry mixing semiotics with symbolism, the occult, culture, ecology, romanticism and depression. I have made my eyes bleed and my brains (the what?!?) melt with the effort to be serious and badass. Well now I am about to toss everything out of the window. I am deeply ashamed but will admit it regardless of the consequences, regardless of what people will think of me. I will fear no criticism and no comments, I will bear the pain, So yes- the cat is out of the hat now.

I LOVE CINEMA BIZARRE.
 
I love the fact they are over the top, gay, fluffy, glittery and absolutely-not-serious entertainment. I appreciate the ridiculous statements they make, i.e. "style is war". You bet YOUR style is war- to all 'manly' common sense. And I LOVE THAT. I am fascinated by the fact the singer looks like a rather ugly yet attractive woman and behaves like an annoyed schoolgirl primadonna. I worship the gay GOD Luminor who plays keys and just exists to be gorgeous in front of the camera and I will be sooooooooooo sad if he indeed leaves the band. I ogle the guitarist who wanders around in lives without his shirt on to make little girls squeal. Finally, I love the fact they try so hard to look like a j-rock visual kei band and miss their target by miles, thus accidentally creating a whole new genre: gay glam rock. I adore their style, pose and music because they are so fake and artificial and exaggerated that it is a crime of irrational proportions against any 'serious' music.

To shed some light on this mystery, I also adore Oscar Wilde. He once said, "to regain my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early or become respectable." Cinema Bizarre are somehow all the ridiculous and nonsensical and artistically incorrect things combined together in one band. And this makes them perfect. It makes them ideal to wear on a t-shirt, especially if the person wearing it is of the over thirty variety like I am. Guaranteed to scare away any suitors looking for a good wife and mother of their children. Also guaranteed to scare away all those humorless types that appreciate strictly high culture and only manage to take a shit once a month. (There are rumors Alexander the Great and Adolf Hitler were also chronic cases of constipation, you know. I mean, if you can't possibly take a good honest crap like other people, you are bound to make someone pay for it.) Also guaranteed to make you appreciate irony, rapidly lose face and self respect and finally the last of your worries concerning how cultured you are. Like admitting in front of a full auditorium that you like to sniff your socks and underwear when you take them off. Or that you actively support extreme right wing politics. Something as bad anyway, guaranteed to stigmatize you for the rest of your life...

Okay, here is a video by Cinema Bizarre. You have been forewarned. After watching it, you'll be seeing little shiny thingies dancing in your peripheral vision for days to come. Those are glitterons and glamerons, particles emitted by such bands. If you are a boy, the glamerons will affect you in an irreversible and possibly fatal way, changing your brain wave length and forcing you to wear nothing but tiny tank tops and skirts with sequins and feathers for the rest of your life. If you are a girl, then glitterons will enter your body and will make you a faithful sexual slave to Cinema Bizarre till your last days. The only catch is that you won't be able to ever do something about it because they are all probably mostly gay. (No offense intended, I was affected by glitterons too so I feel your pain.)

Hey! Did I actually refer to the fact their music is very enjoyable?

I can't.

I can't put my finger on what's bothering me. I have been like this for days. It's like I am expecting something but I am not expecting anything, anymore. I simply exist in the center of a whirlwind. Envelopes arrive in the post-their contents fail to keep my interest for more than an half an hour at most. E-mails arrive in my inbox- I feel dissatisfied and bored to even read them, let alone answer them. People arrive at my doorstep- I chit chat and go with the flow. I don't really care.

It's not like I sit flat on my ass doing nothing. I am doing more and more important things than ever before in my life, but I somehow lost the silver thread that connects me to reality and my feelings. I run around like a headless chicken, confused to the utmost and delirious with need for something I cannot identify or capture. Someone may say to me that I need to find a partner, fall in love again- last time was in 2000. I will not accept this. I am my own center, my own person. If this happens again, it does, if it doesn't, it doesn't. And anyway, I need more than those pale imitations of people that I see around me to fall in love again. I know the one I need, but he is so many miles and months away that it's like he lives in a different reality. So love is out of the question, and lust is not my cup of tea. What now?

Go on, I suppose. Eat lots of ice cream to deal with the hormones and punch all my pillows to deal with the disappointment. Right? Right.

Wrong.

Random thoughts- or, mad with this portion of the universe.

All those males who drive their car in a small street of a quiet suburb as if they participate in the fucking Dakar rally, making so much noise. Adding turbo engines and nuclear power units to the equivalent of a bathtub on wheels. Why not stick a big paper on their windscreen stating the obvious? "Desperate-Please help! I haven't scored for three years now. Don't remember what female genitalia look like." Admitting your problem is halfway to the solution-without referring to the fact some woman may take pity on you and save my ears from the pain and my eyes from bad taste pollution.

For those of you who wonder what I am talking about, you have seen these guys. They are a subspecies of subhuman driving a vehicle that looks like a crossover between an oversized ninja turtle and a miniature baroque spaceship. Those vehicles can also be traced from their strictly blueish lights. If you have not figured it out, those special lights are a way to signal to their mother ship, in the hope it will come and collect those poor EIFOWs who got stranded here by accident.

[EIFOW= easily identifiable fuckhead on wheels.]

Spiders

"All my dreams have been demoted to daydreams, all my desires have been promoted to obsessions."

Spiders...

Love letter

I have been watching pictures of you for the past half hour. The only question that makes some sense is, ‘how can you be so beautiful?’ How can anyone, for that matter, be so beautiful?

I have no answer to this question. Lately I seem to be collecting this type of questions in particular. It is a new bizarre hobby of mine. 

Someone may ask me who you are. It is irrelevant. I am not going to give any details because details don’t really matter. I want to focus on how you make me feel. I am sure all people with some light in their souls have at some point seen someone that made them shiver with awe, that near-terror feeling, so name, sex and occupation of the target of their desire is of no importance. I am referring to the feeling itself and how it touches me in a way I can barely grasp or describe in an understandable manner. 

You are so close to perfection that it is scary. The lines of your face almost form perfection. The smooth folds over those tight almonds of your eyes. The way those lips seem like little puffy pillows, soft and juicy at the same time, inviting me. Their light cherry colour signifies something edible. You make me want to extend my hand and press them lightly, test to see if they are real. If you exist. 

Kissing is a forgotten art and for me an advanced part of the foreplay; first I eat the other person with my eyes and try to capture their smell without them realising I do so. I often steal the smell of passers by, follow their trail as they walk fast, not knowing someone is following them. It is very erotic. Then, after I have had a first taste through eyes and smell, I start to chart someone with my fingers. Long after I have satisfied my eyes and nostrils and hands and also my ears through their little sounds, their shivers and whispers, it is inevitable that taste will follow. My mouth would open to taste you, not necessarily your lips, but the soft flesh on your neck and cheek and jaw. People have forgotten how to touch others, how they can use more parts of themselves than just the fingers. I can touch you using my face, my hips and hipbones, my breasts. I can touch you with every part of me save for fingers if needs must. And for such an exquisite being I certainly must.

What makes us desire? Is it just our glands and hormones, screaming for reproduction? I do have a body, I am trapped in flesh. I desire. But I do not desire flesh. I desire form. I desire the little wrinkles you make when you smile, next to your delicious lips. I need to eat you, not fuck you. I want to capture the essence of your beauty, the alchemical equivalent of your smell, the sum of lines, forms and matter that creates you as a result. I want to devour that which makes me want you. I want to capture the little wisps of air that brush against your face when you raise your eyebrows or momentarily blink. I hunger for your soul, not your reproductive organs. I lick my lips at the possibilities of what your life might have been like, of what moments had been like before we met. Were they longer, shorter, more or less interesting? Do you toss in your sleep? Do you just stare out of the window when bored? Do you, perhaps, make little sounds of confusion when you drop something? Those are the questions that keep me busy when I stare at such a face as yours. That, and the gut wrenching realisation that I will probably never find out.