A completely gratuitous post

Occasionally, the inspiration to straighten out my wardrobe hits me like a beastly uppercut across the chin. I should note that I am eternally addicted to dress-ups; that, or I just have a nagging compulsion to try on forgotten pieces of clothing every so often to see if they still fit and/or to gauge how much tighter around my midsection the offending piece is this time. 

So whenever I do plan for a bit of cleaning, I invariably end up with more clothes strewn everywhere.  

Here is a lacy black number I found, which you can't see, on account of my face is taking up more than its advisable share of the frame.

I then spent the majority of the day in a bikini top, a high-waisted skirt, black stockings and cream pumps. I assure you that the visual is much more ridiculous than it sounds. And I devoured my sister's popcorn. I don't even like popcorn.


The 'Nix-fix-quick-and-tasty' salad contains: rocket leaves, feta cheese, cranberry bits (craisins!) and some chunky spinach and chunky pumpkin dip as le indulgent dressing.

After which, I decided it was time to be creepy. 

And here I am proliferating the fact that looking normal in photos is as familiar to me as bathing with milk, honey and candied gels (or even bathing at all...)

You must be thinking, "Geez, child. Quit making a fool of yourself and broadcasting it to the shitternets. Do something constructive with your time, you wayward derelict! Find a job perhaps!"

Well...[what was previously written here has now been removed for my security]...JUST KNOW THAT I DO HAVE A JOB! And will start in April! :D

Life lessons in cynicism / Half-baked prose

Eventually, everything ends the same way. You pay for your television, your water heating, a month at a time. Soon, you'll find that you'll pay for your regret in the same way. In installments. Maybe a little grief in the half-light of the digital clock's blinking neon, weeks down the track. Maybe a jolt of restless despair in the routine cup of morning tea.

So really, it doesn't matter if your head's full of clouds when your heart's full of lead. The only way still is down, down, down. (Then it's dead, dead, dead.)


* I seem to enjoy suffocating myself in my own stink. It's been two and a half hours since I left the gym, and suffice to say, I still haven't showered. My perspiration oddly reeks of beer - which is strange but also ridiculously endearing (or so I tell myself.) What kind of red-blooded man does not enjoy a beer-battered damsel...?

* The handsome gym receptionist was present today and he flashed me that wonderful smile, and I decided once and for all that inhibition is a useless aspect of my life. So I said, "Let's elope," and elope we did. And I am now subsequently blogging from an internet cafe of an undisclosed location. And I have a very overactive imagination. And I'm most likely lying through my teeth about most of the events that have transpired.

* My fingernails are always polished with only solid black or the occasional french manicure. Today, I deviated from this normalcy. They are now bright red. Like, D-grade-horror-movie-fake-blood red. Like, only-a-conniving-axe-wielding-harlot-would-wear-this-shade-of-red red. Frankly, I'm loving it. (The way only Spencer Pratt's mother could love him... Bam.)

* Dad called on Valentine's Day. Part of the conversation went like this:
Dad: So do you have a date tonight?
Me: Ah... Err... Unh... Uh... no. Man, I was trying to come up with some extraordinarily hilarious story about how I accidentally poisoned all four of my potential dates. But ah, I lost it. So, just no.
Dad: I see.
Me: DO YOU MISS ME?!?!?!
Dad: No.
Me: Mmmmhmm, sabi mo lang yan! (You're just saying that.)
Then Dad just giggled. Riveting, i know.

* I'm quite happy about having posted my Valenswine video on the tubes. I've actually forgotten how thrilling it is to check emails and find a kind collection of words. Sometimes, I love people. Now being one of those rare sometimes.

* I seriously believe that I have a very cheeky ghost following me around. For the past two weeks, every time I get into my car, the rearview mirror is always in a different position. I don't play with it before I leave the car. I don't think my head or assorted limbs are that huge that they hit the mirror on the way out. Regardless, it's always been moved. It hasn't freaked me out yet as much as it should.

* Yesterday I woke up to find that my good mascara, good retractable eyeliner and mediocre lip-gloss had been taken from my makeup pouch on my dresser. I always put these items back in the makeup pouch. Despite knowing that I put them back in the day before, I still frantically checked under the dresser, under the bed, etc. Nothing. My little sister vehemently denied taking my stash. Somehow, I'm not convinced. Such a coincidence that the day my things disappear is the day it's picture day at school... If I were to put my prejudices aside for a second and pretend my sister is no liar, then that would only point to the favourable conclusion that I do, indeed, have a cheeky ghost on my tail.


/Non-event post ends now.

Love and assorted maladies.

Hi all,

It's fifty-three minutes into the internationally acknowledged day of love. So I'll just put this out there - I love ice-cream. As in, I love ice-cream. It's probably the most stable and most fulfilling relationship of longevity I've ever had... Let me share the love:

I'm sitting at home on a Saturday night (/early Sunday morning) typing up a blog post for the internets. This is the first weekend in the last month I have not had a twenty-first to attend. And as much as I love the hum of drunken glee and friendly faces, it's a little refreshing, actually, just sitting on my ass, enjoying my own brand of glorified stink and basking in my familiar-but-comfortable social detachment. (That said, I think I only have one weekend in the upcoming three-months that is not taken up by celebratory aging-festivities, not kidding...)

Writing-wise, I feel a little bit like a woman with menopause - barren and slightly flustered. I don't have much of relevance to spill. Sorry. So I guess this is an opportunity to just share recent snaps. So, without further ado, what rhymes with 'pimage hump'?

Image dump, of course!

This is Corey.

This is Corey in the midst of shaving his head. Please note my incredible contribution to this activity, as evidenced by the charmingly tied strand.

The aftermath.

You remember Rossco, Greek-guitarist-extraordinaire.

Fun fact: Ross owns no mirror, only 'Jack the Rapist' below. I can't say for sure who gets more use out of the other...

Rossco took this.

Currently waiting (very impatiently) for Final Cut Pro to compress my recently finished video so that I may upload it to the youtubes just in time for Valentines Day. The video is perfectly reminiscent of the day it acknowledges - equal parts cheesily sincere and equal parts stupid! That's Happy Valentines Day for you, folks!

Love to all of you! And turd. Lots of turd.

Tomorrow I will have words.

But for now, The Quiet World

In an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,

the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn't respond,
I know she's used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.

[Jeffrey McDaniel]