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There is method to the madness, I SWEAR.
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| Kitty! |
[Wednesday
22nd April 2009] |
As promised, I have lots of disgustingly cute pictures of our new cat, Dorian AKA Mr. D, formerly known as ACDC.
( The regal feline himself... )
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| Steampunk stuff! And other random eccentricities. |
[Thursday
12th February 2009] |
I've been doing a little snooping around on the intarwebz to get some ideas for the wedding, and I totally covet this:
 Because, seriously, how cool would it be to have invitations that looked like that? Would I ever come down off that high? Probably not. <3
Also, I kind of want some sort of veil to keep it at least somewhat traditional, so my family doesn't completely freak--I'm thinking a little pillbox hat with a veil--classy, and it'd go well with the dress, I think. Obviously, I wouldn't want a green one (like the pic below), but isn't it gorgeous? It may or may not be "period-appropriate," but steampunk's about anachronism anyway, so it doesn't matter too much.
 This is here just because it's fucking awesome. (Stephen Rothwell = <3)
As for gloves (I'm big into fingerless gloves), I'm thinking a cross between this:
 and this  Obviously, I wouldn't do white or anything; probably more of a brass/bronze-ish color, or maybe some shade of brown. I'm still toying with the idea of having part of a map set into the outsides on the forearm bit, but it all depends on what Bea can (and is willing to) do.
 I love the color of these. I don't like that they're leather at ALL, and they're not fingerless, but I'll probably go with something around that shade and in a similar material to the dress.
As for dresses, I'm still scouting for designs. I found these two just a moment ago, and I'd KILL to have either one...probably not with sleeves, 'cos that seems a bit more informal than what I'm going for...what do you think?
 I adore the detailing on the back.
 This is the one I prefer, actually--it's just so damn awesome! I wonder if I could pull it off...and then Bea wouldn't have to fuck with corsetry or anything, which is a win-win, 'cos I'd really like to be able to breathe. ;p I'm totally going to email her that right now. I love-love-love it!
I personally loved this cake idea...Derek thought it was hideous, lmao.  I think he's more into the clockwork side of steampunk than the pipes and gauges and valves and whatnot, which is cool, too. Maybe we can come to some sort of compromise? ;p
 This...is just all-around fucking spectacular.
Okay, done with the picspam, hehe. <3
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| "I'm Going to Pull the Endocrine System Out of Your Body." |
[Wednesday
11th February 2009] |
The subject for this post NEEDS to be on a t-shirt, stat. <3
So, I just did an assload of purging on my LJ, mostly 'cos I'm sick of leafing through 238402834 pages of bullshit just to find some writing from like a year ago or whatever. Also--how could I EVER have believed that my ex was a wonderful person who made me feel like I was "not a total fuck-up"?!
Um, yeah. So.
Let's blame that on the antidepressants, because all that was before they finally got my dosage right.
Hahaha, I wish that were true.
Today, Derek and I had one of the best. psychotic. moments. ever. We were in the car and talking about something or other, and I was like, "Yeah, I kind of give myselves props on being somewhat sharp, but I'm way fucking loopier than you. ...Uh. I just said 'myselves,' didn't I?"
Derek: "Oh, my God."
It was epic, and I love it when he finds something hilarious and laughs really hard 'cos then his voice goes really really high and it reminds me of a hyena. <3
We were watching Van Helsing earlier today, and at the part where the vampire-harpie-bitch-slutty Russian thing traps Kate Beckinsale in the room, then spins around and all the torches go out, I was like, "Uh, that totally reminds me of Zelda or something."
And he goes, "GET OUT OF MY HEAD. I was just thinking that it was like a video game boss fight."
I love how we share a brain. Does that mean he's crazy, too?
Anyway, I should probably sleep, 'cos I have religion tomorrow morning at 9 and I hate it and I really don't wanna fall asleep and piss the nun off, 'cos then I'm definitely going to hell.
Oh, and also:
Max, on hell: "To your right is the Ninth Circle...and just across the way is the gift shop!"
Ahahaha.
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| Bea's Ho-Made Chopped Cherry Jam |
[Friday
2nd January 2009] |
I just found, in my kitchen fridge, a jar of “Bea’s Ho-Made Chopped Cherry Jam.” Where do I even begin with this? For one, what was apparently intended as an innocent, charming misspelling of “homemade” turned out to be, in essence, a massive FAIL. Also, what does “ho-made” even mean? I’m guessing it has something to do with Mistress Bea assigning each Nevadan hooker, in her respective off-time, the task of chopping cherries (a fantastic irony in and of itself) and creating, with them, a delectable jam, for sale in the brothel gift shop.
Because, you know, whorehouses TOTALLY have those. It’s true; they’re right there, next to the condoms and penicillin. You just have to know where to look.
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| I'm So Adjective I Verb NOUNS! =D |
[Saturday
8th November 2008] |
I had to work the Streamlines Conference today with Sarah, which was actually entertaining. We went to this session about post-modernism, so I'm on a huge creative non-fiction kick.
Okay, some of the dialogue, I made up and threw in 'cos it's funny and I can't remember exactly what I said, but still. You know. It's the thought that counts, hehe.
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[Friday
7th November 2008] |
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So, I totally just scored an autographed copy of "Scar Tissue" (Anthony Kiedis' autobiography) on Ebay for, like, $40. I was planning on giving it to Derek for X-mas, but I seriously can't keep it a secret that long, so I think it'll be a housewarming present of some sort. He moves in on the 15th--only like a week! <3
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[Wednesday
15th October 2008] |
He walked to the door of his lover's apartment, ignoring the chilly, desolate rattle in his knees. The click of bone echoed garishly in the empty wind as he reached for the doorknob.
It was locked. Very decorative, he mused, tracing a narrow fingtertip over the gold-plated filigree surrounding the doorbell. He thought of the night they met; he had a red gerbera pinned to one wiry shoulder; she was resplendent in a black satin dress and gold necklace.
He'd been nervous as hell, clenching a strong jaw as he walked across the room. Things had been different then; when she grazed his cheek, her touch was incendiary, and he felt the flesh there quicken. It had been chaste; they'd kissed once, and he offered to give her a ride home. Though it had been cold that night, as it was now, the air in the car was still and almost unbearably warm. The heat seemed to intensify with each mile that rolled past.
"Do you mind if I smoke?"
He'd shaken his head and rolled down the window for her as she lit up. He glanced at the desk calendar fastened to the dash and took note of the date: October 13th. Anything to avoid the sight of that slim white cigarette between those red, red lips.
He'd been a painter. The canvasses from his latest project, freshly stretched and prepped, lay across the backseat. The metal container of turpentine lay on the floor below.
She gestured emphatically and lauged, recounting a fond memory of a girlfriend's bachelorette party.
A spark. He saw it from the corner of his eye.
He knew now that he'd carelessly left the lid of the thinner ajar. He couldn't shake the awful shriek she gave as the slik material of her gown caught, then traveled...
He'd managed to put it out, and they'd laughed nervously. She was shaken, but seemed unharmed. He dropped her off and watched as she silently slipped away.
Things were different now.
They were different now.
Tonight, he was returning to check on her, make sure she was all right after their scare the night before. He tried the knob again; it wouldn't budge, but when he gently pushed on the door, it gave easily.
He stepped into the post-modern gloom of her apartment, tried the lights. No such luck. He fingered the crisp flower at his shoulder; a petal, red-brown, broke off and drifted gently to the floor.
The curtains were slightly askew in the tiny back bedroom; her still, silent frame reclined belly-down on a foam mattress on the floor, the arm pillowing her head extended toward the door. Scraps of dark silk hung from her frame. She'd always been thin, but she looked so frail and damaged like this...
The rough waves of hair were gone, her face's delicate framework exposed and glowing ecru in the dim light. Her waist's slender curves, the soft flesh of her wrists...where were they now?
He tried to close his eyes and found he couldn't. He was unable to bite his lip in horror, because there was no lip left...
-----
He woke with a start and shot up in bed, gasping and sweating like the protagonist of a bad horror movie. His forehead was damp, yet fleshy.
Something was wrong. He smelled the unmistakable odor of decaying flesh and char. Slowly, he lay back down in the bed, glimpsed the Mondrian calendar on his wall.
October 13th.
He looked at the clock. 11:00 am. He took a sleeping pill and a half, pulled the comforter over his head.
He would not go out tonight.
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[Wednesday
1st October 2008] |
I'm really tired, so this is going to be incredibly short, but...
I sent a proposal for a new column on the ALT page to the TH on Monday (because that page TOTALLY sucks and is devoid of all intelligent life, period); my plan was to write about mental illness, particularly depression, offer support, anecdotes, whatever. Kind of like a serial Prozac Nation or something.
Well, I got an email yesterday saying that they wanted to see my first column, and now they're going to start it up! It'd be every other week, since I'm in school and whatnot, but I'm all like, HUZZAH! My first freelance job!
I am psyched.
But I miss Derek, and he won't be able to come down here until next weekend at the earliest (work and all that). On the plus side, we're hoping to have him moved down here by the end of November...keep your fingers crossed!
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[Saturday
23rd August 2008] |
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[Sunday
13th April 2008] |
"Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house...
Not a creature was stirring...
Not even a mutated demonic hellspawn zombie beast that could have originally been a mouse."
HAHAHAHAHA. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0zZezdKFHNM
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[Tuesday
25th March 2008] |
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mood |
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 contemplative |
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And she's older now, haunted eyes staring vacantly at the floor, nineteen and all bass-calloused fingers, strong from the piano, strong from how she digs her nails into her palms at night and tries to forget. Post traumatic stress, they said. "You seem to know quite a bit about post-traumatic stress disorder," the professor said. You don't even know. Let's not. Can't...even form a fucking sentence. Wordsmith. Everybody said she was, right from the start, with her little hand-made book about aubergines and her grandmother, but what now? Some shitty poetry scrawled on the back of a notebook every once in a while. Pictures on her ceiling, thumb-tacked carefully to scare away the ghosts.
She's always carried her keys between the first two fingers of her right hand, sharp edge up, like her mother taught her. Like Oprah taught her. Like everyone always said. Stab. She thinks, No one can hurt me anymore. She thinks, That's a lie.
The skin under her nail, the left index one, ripped a little more today, and it hurts, but not as bad as the memories that flood back incessantly, like a drunk vomiting after a long night out. You can't stop it.
She writes bullshit about her past, made-up bullshit about things that never really happened except in her own mind, bullshit about things that are true that she wishes were lies. When he holds her, all she can think about is how empty it feels at night, even with him there. She's terrified: "This house is like an asylum. I need to...I need to get out..." And she's squirming, hysterical, and he, all he can do is hold on tighter to the slim frame, thinking that she'll fall apart if he doesn't. Like glue. Like a disease.
The only problem is, she can't get away from the sickness. She can't deconstruct, can't get away from herself and fragment the way she should. She thinks, I'm not un-well, just sick. I've never been well, really, so I can't be "un-well." Through the looking-glass. She splinters, finally, and breaks down. The paper's rough under her fingers; the pen dashes frantically across the page. When she's done, all she sees is shit. Shit. She thinks, I used to be an artist. What happened?
Sometimes, she lets herself wonder what it's like to be dead. The numbness sinks in a little more every day, the Nausea. She loves Sartre. She loves anything that reminds her of how fake she feels, how crystallized it all is on the inside. When she sits at the bench, toying with the keys absently, she's never quite all there. Even if it's difficult, her mind wanders. Her fingers slip. She curses, shuts the lid, gets up in tears. Even music won't go right on days like these.
He's back. If she could feel anything instead of just thinking it, she'd be glad. It's the only time she can sleep and not dream, when he's right there/ Then, she's safe from the obsessive dreaming and even more obsessive waking thoughts. Every morning, she wakes up feeling a little more gone, afraid that she'll live, afraid to die. Mutilation is one of her greatest fears, but she'd never tell a soul that.
Better to keep the eccentricities locked up inside. One slip of the tongue in some bullshit literature class and twenty scared young college kids know everything about the last ten years of her life. She thinks, Damn you, Septimus. She thinks, I wish suicidal people would stop bitching and just do it already. And then she feels terrible, because she's felt that way a few times, kind-of-sort-of.
The sleeping pills make her hallucinate, see flowers on the ceiling, her head's perpendicular to the pillow and all she can see is herself, but she still tries. Anything's better than sitting awake until three in the morning, staring out the window at the lightening sky, sometimes grey, sometimes violet, sometimes red, and crying at how beautiful the dead trees look against it. Everything's upside-down these days. Hates being alone, but can't stand to be around people. Feels bad for not spending more time with her grandmother, her great-aunt. Parkinson's. Alzheimer's. Bipolar disorder, courtesty of the drunken cougar-slut that spawned her almost twenty years ago.
I'm so starving for attention.
She thinks, Maybe I'm just tired.
Maybe when she wakes up, if she tries hard enough, things will feel okay again, anything other than this empty.
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| And the stomach acid finds a new way to make you get sick... |
[Sunday
23rd December 2007] |
Wow. Christmas Eve-Eve already. Crazy shit. Too bad I'm not feeling particularly festive.
If I were a guy, I'd sell my left nut for something to drink right about now. This is probably going to sound reaaaaaaal angsty and pre-teen scene kid-like, but I'm tired of being conscious all the time. I want something to knock me out for a few years so I don't have to think and deal with the monotony of everyday bullshit that I have to go through. My entire day is like, "Dance, monkey, dance!"
Funny, I'm not even the slightest bit upset right now...just exhausted. And it just hit me that I (and most of my friends) are going to be twenty in less than a year and a half. That's fucked up right there. I tend not to associate any particular age with myself, and maybe that's the problem...not sure.
So here's what I've been doing over break:
1) Not sleeping
2) Hanging with Dalton and talking to Kenzie
3) Drowning myself in my music and art.
I feel driven to create. I feel weird without a pen or a guitar pick in my hand (okay, I lie. Picks are for pussies. I'm a tough bitch, I don't need a little piece of plastic. I wanna feel the thirty-year-old strings of my battered acoustic digging into my fingers til they bleed.)
And then I go and play the piano for hours on end. Can't feel the keys, really; at least, not with my left hand. Callouses are a wonderful thing indeed, my dears.
I fucking miss everybody. No; just a few people, really. Most of all, I miss myself, which sounds quite ridiculous, but it's true. I'm so oblivious to myself and everything around me anymore. Ah.
Does anyone have a lightweight midget friend who can come over and step on my back? It really needs a good cracking right about now.
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[Sunday
16th December 2007] |
So apparently a lot of people think I died or something, 'cos they haven't seen me since like two weeks ago (before finals and all that)...haha. No. I'm not dead.
I dug out my mother's old acoustic guitar and started fucking around with it a few days ago...took me an hour to tune that bitch, since no one's done anything with it in almost 20 years. But I tamed it, so it is mine. I'm still trying to decide on a name, because I <3 it.
Now, most of you are probably going "Pshaw, you're a pussy," and I am-- ask Dalton (or anyone who lives with me, actually) how I was pissing and moaning the first night I started playing it. My fingers were trashed. Anyway, I've got a nice layer of calluses starting, so it doesn't hurt much anymore. Thankfully, I know how to read tabs and music and stuff, so the only struggle is getting my fingers to reach far enough over the frets.
Probably stupid of me, but I'm basically like, "Fuck 'Learn to play guitar' books, I'll just print off a shitload of tabs and teach myself some." I'm working on "Blackbird" by The Beatles right now, which I'm not particularly fond of, but it's easy. I'm going to suck hardcore at it for a long time, but I've gotten a lot better already; plus, I know how to tune The Bitch by ear now.
I'm thinking I might wanna re-string it soon, since the strings are ancient, too. Hmm...my fingertips smell like copper! Yayyyy, metal poisoning!
Word up.
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[Friday
14th December 2007] |
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mood |
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 apathetic |
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Funny, isn't it, how someone can so quickly decide they want to go from being your best friend to your worst enemy? Not that it doesn't bother me...it just doesn't hurt.
I'm having a hard time feeling much of anything lately, actually...it's just my art, and my music...and the endless strings of lyrics my brain throws at me at 4 in the morning when I can't sleep. At least she's my muse. Ha.
I can never sleep.
Wow, if you re-read that, it sounds really homoerotic...I'm definitely straight (maybe a lesbian for Ryan Ross when he's got good hair and doesn't look TOO womanly, ha ha ha).
According to Mallory, I qualify as emo because I almost accidentally OD'd one time...ask me about it!
Fucking headaches. God damn. Apparently, taking several of each type of pill in the medicine cabinet doesn't even work...sheeeeeeeeeit.
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| What would you do for a Klondike bar? |
[Saturday
30th June 2007] |
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mood |
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contemplative |
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music |
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The Shins- Red Rabbits |
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"What would you do for a Klondike bar?"
My answer: Not shit, and here's why I wouldn't even bother to get one with a five finger discount, let alone buy one.
Exhibit A: They taste like shit and are insanely difficult to eat. I mean, come on. You try to bite into the motherfucker and all you get is chocolate plating on your teeth, and the hard-as-a-rock ice cream left in your hand, which, by the way, tastes suspiciously like Listerine. Or maybe that shit old people soak their dentures in, not that I'd know what that tastes like.
Exhibit B: The commercials offend me. I mean, who the hell is that happy about getting a Klondike bar? Who would seriously go to extremes for it? It's a fucking piece of chocolate-coated ice cream. And the people dancing around with bad 80's clothing and Flock of Seagulls hair freaks me out (have you SEEN the older commercials? Scary.)
Exhibit C: Your claim pisses me off, Presumptuous Assholes of the Klondike Bar Company, whatever the fuck that's actually called. I hate how they assume that everyone would give their left ball and a pound of flesh for a goddamn ice cream treat. Fuck.
What's this world coming to?
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| Happy Pills and a Shiny New Navel! |
[Friday
22nd June 2007] |
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music |
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Chopin- Nocturne in E Flat Major |
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So, I haven't updated in, what, nine weeks? So I decided to get my ass in gear and actually do an update. Yay!
From the beginning!:
1. I went to the psychiatrist for the first time in my life on the 11th. Diagnosis: Severe, although fortunately non-psychotic, depression. He prescribed 300 mg a day of Wellbutrin, which is actually a shit-ton, because the highest dosage they can ever give you is 400 mg. I must be crazy. Oh well! I'm also going to talk to him once a month so I can unload some of my baggage and shit.
For those of you who don't know, I've been struggling with depression since I was nine years old. Let's not go into that.
2. Two days later, I went to Reality Check and got my navel (belly-button, for all the hominids who don't know the correct term for it) pierced. Dalton went with me and held my hand and all that (although truthfully, I think he was fascinated by the size of the needle they stabbed me with, because he talked about it later- "It was HUGE!") It was nice of him to go with me...I would've pussed out if he hadn't been there, probably.
Then later we had to go to this community games thing, but we left after like an hour because it was about 90 degrees out and they didn't offer us any water...I started to get heat exhaustion, so we went back to his house, where I collapsed on his bed and passed out for about two and a half hours.
When I FINALLY woke up, he was curled up next to me with his chin on my shoulder. I must've been really exhausted, because I didn't even hear him come into the room...I love it when he does that, it's so cute. He kept asking me if I was okay, since the piercing hurt like a bitch and he thought I was running a slight fever (I'm always warm when I wake up, but body piercings do send you into shock a little, so a fever's normal). He's so sweet to me...I don't know what I did to deserve it, but thank God I've got him. I don't know what I'd do without him.
3. I registered at Clarke yesterday, got my schedule and all that...BFA with an emphasis in painting major, and a Spanish minor. Depending on how long that takes, I may or may not pick up a psychology minor as well. My schedule looks like this:
Monday/Wednesday/Friday classes:
8 AM-9:50 AM= Drawing 1
1:00 PM- 1:50 PM= Spanish 111, Conversation, Composition, and Grammar (the highest one they can put a freshman into, yay me!)
Tuesday/Thursday classes:
8:00 AM-9:15 AM= Cornerstone 1 (like a speech class
9:30 AM-10:45 AM= Fundamentals of Philosophy (I LOVE philosophy, so this should be fun).
11:00 AM-12:15 PM= Art History: Art of the Western World 1
They didn't really want to stick me in an art history class so soon, but then again the registrar fucked up and didn't know that was my major. They also wanted me in a lit class instead of philosophy, but because of my Spanish, it wouldn't fit. WOOT!
So I have easy-ass classes this semester. During that break on M/W/F, I'll be doing work study for the Literature/Language department as a faculty assistant (I just found out today that I got the job; it's basically office/bitch-work, but it'll pay part of my tuition). It's only 4-6 hours a week, but it's something.
I also applied for Art Department Faculty Assistant, which is 10-12 hours a week; if I get that one, I won't keep my part-time job- I'll take a leave of absence and only work over break. I'm not concerned about money, because I'll have so much cash stored from work study that I'll get some of it back.
I VERY EXCITE!
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| "Nobody Does it Better," a noir short story by Jess L. (in progress). |
[Saturday
14th April 2007] |
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“Dame like you shouldn’t be out alone at night.” There’s a pinstriped sleeve and a chubby, bejeweled hand. I move before it can touch me. “Fuck you.” My voice is harsh against the cold light and cement walls. I’ll be damned if those bastards get my Tony, though. Wish I had the tommy gun he gave me, or at least a pistol, but they stripped that off me the second they caught me in that alley, waiting for a cab. He told me never to tell…I’ll never tell. They can slit my goddamn throat if they want, but I’m not talking. The light above my head’s shining straight down to me, but I’m not glowing. That grimy little hand is pawing at me, trying to tear off my necklace, my dress. I snap at the hand, but he just laughs. “Kitty cat’s got claws.” He snaps his fingers once, twice. “Turn her loose, boys. She wants to play.” I watch, even when they nick my wrist with the blade, even when the ropes twist and cut into my skin. Anything’s better than watching that bastard watch me. And then I make a run for it. Big Lou’s POV Yeah, we caught her, all right. Shame to have to hurt a dame like that, but she wouldn’t tell us a damn thing. Couldn’t be trusted; didn’t want to rat out her lover, I guess. Dames can be funny like that. The clock on the wall goes tick, tock, tick, tock…at least, before I throw the knife I’m holding into the center of it. It grazes her face, slices off a little skin. She flinches but keeps on staring at me, those blood-red lips pouting. But she doesn’t move. And I’m starting to get real pissed at her, so I get up and walk across the room to her chair, smack her around a little. Show her who’s boss. “All right, bitch, either you tell us where the money’s at or we hurt you bad, real bad. Then we’ll get that worthless piece of shit you’ve been diddling.” She spits in my face. I wipe it away with my hand, then wipe the hand on that damned red dress she’s wearing. Red. Red, red, red. Always the fuckin’ red, and I’m colorblind, so that pisses me off even more. Maybe it’s green, I don’t know. One thing’s for goddamn sure—if she doesn’t tell me where the money and that lover of hers is, that dress is gonna turn red real fast, and you can take that one to the bank. Last time a bitch messed with us like this, we found their hidey-hole and…well, let’s just say the last thing she ever got from him was a more sensitive area, sent in a box, direct from me and the boys to her little cinderblock apartment. Then we took the rest of his body and gave him the good old-fashioned cement shoes treatment…over a bridge. Anyway, so I’m staring at the dame and expecting her to cry, give in, something…they all act tough, but they usually break down once Roy starts chopping fingers off. I figure this bitch must be crazy; they’ve got three fingers already and she hasn’t even flinched. Must be doped up on opium or something. Either way, I don't care.
(It's short, but give me feedback...pleeeeeeeeeease.)
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