Monthly Archives: December 2005
I’ve opted to spend New Year’s Eve alone (again). I’m too lazy and disorganised to make my way into Lahndahn Tahn; the tube strike put me off somewhat.
Anyway, being alone and having a night like any other is fine by me, although why is the tv always so bad on NYE? No wonder there’s a peak of sucides around the New Year- lack of suitable entertainment to provide relief for the depressed and suicidal.
My Mum always sounds somewhat upset when I tell her i’m on my own again, and this annoys me. I’ve explained many a time that I do not particularly enjoy NYE as it is the prime example of an event that society says you must have fun at.
Well Fuck You society and your society-defined ideals of fun. I’m happier doing my own thing thank you very much.
I’m debating whether to open the bottle of champagne I bought myself for my birthday. It’s going to stay undrunk for a very long time (and has managed a good two months so far), so maybe some solo drinking may be in order. There’s rather a lot to drink. I hope the bubbles will last a couple of days.
A far more important task to complete other than the two essays I have not started is to come up with three things I wish to accomplish in 2006. I’ve been set this task by a galpal of mine and apparently, the more outrageous the better.
So today I’m so waif-like I can’t fit into my Warped Fairy dress. I will have to go easy on the face-stuffing if i’m to wear the bastard thing. It’s not my week of fridge raiding to blame, it’s the hormonal war within. Dammit.
Oh to be young. If I ever have a child of some description I will encourage him/her to be expressive with their hair, clothing and make up because all too soon the time to experiment will be gone.
I wish I could have my mohawk once again, but the conservative nature of many schools means that I must keep a check on my individuality. I agonised over re-dying my hair this past term but when Eddie G died I thought there are more important things in life to worry about, so I re-dyed it red. I know- wrestlers providing moral guidance. So pathetic. Some of the kids noticed but none of the teachers. I should dye it more brightly next time.
The people on Hel Looks are fantastic. Trends (Hanoi Rocks a big influence), but such variety of colour, pattern shape and style. Wonderful.
Back in the county.
My visit to the Famiglia wasn’t too bad. We had a nice dusting of snow. Good to see two out of three of the members anyway. My Dad fucked over any Christmas spirit that existed by shouting at me for spilling three end-of-a-pencil wide spots of coffee on the living room carpet. I blotted and washed the drops immediately and no damage was done.
My Dad comes in the room, sees the water stains on the floor and lets rip. I explain that it’s water and that it’s sorted. He explains that I am careless, stupid and have ruined the carpet. The carpet dries completely stain-free.
He then tells *me* I have a Celtic streak running in me that means I fly off the handle. What a prick. Cue apologies from my Mum and a nice discussion about my Dad’s horrific temper. Mutinous. My Mum let slip that my Dad had to move jobs and the family due to his temper. Interesting.
Anyway, I enjoyed seeing my Mum and Bro, continually raiding the fridge and lounging zombie-style in front of Sky. I saw me some wrestling, shed some tears over the Eddie tribute on Raw (an inconsolable Benoit is tough to take) and was reminded just how damn fantastic H:LotS was.
I took in the Christmas Special of Trailer Park Boys and laughed at too loud a volume for 2.30am. I received the cd I requested- New Orleans Funk: The Original Sound of Funk 1960-75 and it is as expected really rather good. Mama Roux by Dr. John is fabulous and I now have a hard copy of Here Come The Girls. Hoorah.
I received many lovely undies of varying types colours and constructions and I supplimented these with a pair of pretzel covered panties. They’re not particularly flattering but they’ve got pretzels on for fuckssake. Worth the price of admission alone…
… And while on that subject, I had an excellent text conversation with MW#2 about the intricacies of pins, pants flashing and the area of inner thigh above my stocking top. Delightful.
I spent an interesting five minutes or so (lets call it ten) imagining MW#2 dragging his tongue up over the nylons and across my skin and thinking about the smell of laundry-fresh pants and warmed nether regions. Come on, you know what I mean. Filth.
I found out i’ve lost five kg since the summer (I don’t know where it’s gone to) so could indeed be classed as waif-like in some warped land where having a liberal coating of fat is deemed wafer.
I used to be so into H:LotS. I read Homicide: A Year On The Killing Streets, bought The Subway and Anatomy of a Homicide vids and generally absorbed it as much as I possibly could. I tried watching some of The Wire which is written by the same individual, but watching one or two episodes is deeply unsatisfying in that I didn’t know any of the plot arcs, characters etc to understand what in the hell was going on.
H:LotS, Oz, The Cutting Edge, Vidz, The Strip, Prey and Vengeance Unlimited were my beloved films and series in my later teenage years, and I still have much love for them all. Okay, so the last three are of dubious quality, but they were so much fun.
Absolutely smokin’ SPF, freaky uber-restrained Adam Storke and Michael Madsen looking disturbingly good whilst being crazy (check what work he’s done that he classes as unwatchable).
What more could you ask for?
Homicide: Links on the Sites
Nothing To Do With Life
MW#2 was all sickly with the manflu (though I diagnose proper sickness). I went round to feed him cookies and take advantage of some TNA. He was all ill and kinda cute.
I forgot to mention I am now the very proud owner of possibly the greatest party dress in the history of the world. Well, at least to me. And what you can get from H&M. It’s a black strapless number rocking my shoulders if not my chest (hey, what can you do) with lace up front and ragged petticoat. Once I’ve squeezed my waif-like self into it I feel fabulous-o. Like a warped Christmas fairy. Hooray!
Looks, like totally teh hawt when combined with heels, stockings and the feistyness (I’ve struck some poses in front of the mirror). It would make a really good wrestling outfit; I can picture myself flashing the stockings and cookies as I step over some guy and lock in the figure four. Tap out bitch…
I just need to take it out for a spin and baptise it in alcohol.
This may be problematic.
I was lying in bed last night talking to a certain individual who had decided to grace my room with his presence. I cannot for the life of me remember what we were talking about but I do remember I was wearing my green wifebeater. I was propped up on one elbow whilst the other person was sitting on my computer chair; me under the covers from the waist down (more or less). During the course of our conversation I rolled over onto my back, exposing my underwear to public view.
I noticed him clock the black string-sided pants before I pulled the covers back over me. Oh dear, I thought. He fixed me with a lazy stare (how you can be fixed and lazy I don’t know) and stood up and began to walk over to the bed. I squirmed. He had a very determined look on his face like he was about to go into battle against something terrible that he was going enjoy coming up against.
“Those are nice cookies… really… nice… cookies…”
he said as he reached out and hooked one finger under the side of my undies. How bizarre I thought, he calls my pants confectionary/biscuit-type products.
Then I woke up. I need to lay off the late night cups of tea.
I have just spent an hour watching Functional Endoscopic Sinus Surgery courtesy of Or-Live. It’s interesting to watch what goes on when the surgeons poke about in my head and the whole operation and presentation is very well done. It combines live surgery with images from previous operations, shows what they are doing and why and the possible problems that may occur if something goes wrong.
They have all sorts of surgery from many different institutions across the US, and you can watch the operations live as they happen. Apparently this form of promotion and education is a new trend in healthcare over the pond.
BBC News: Hospital dramas
After all my cooped-up excitement, when I did find someone to test my Zen server on, the damned university firewall prevented anything from working. Grrr.
To my dismay I have discovered that sitting alone in my room for more or less one week is enough to give me cabin fever. I never used to have this problem- maybe it’s because I have entire days to fill with a void that it’s starting to get to me.
If my door had a small bar-covered window in the middle of it I would be bouncing up and down and pulling on the bars. Monky in a cage. It’s got so bad that when there’s no-one about on msn I feel let down. Or should I say, certain individuals anyway.
I just feel like (hysteria increases) fucking!! spazzing!!! OUT!!!!
I’ve been wandering a few times (a friend’s party, skool, MW#2’s) but I have a horrible itch for shenanegans. I want a nice pair of slutty heels, to dress up, have me some drinks and spend some time exploring someone. And while I’m at it find out what the back of their neck feels like, run my fingers through their hair and slide my hand along the muscles in their back. I can multitask. To be honest, I would be completely happy with some good old-fashioned meaningful making out but being a basket case I can’t even manage that.
My bruises are fading. Sigh.
So I am posting more frequently, downloading more things. I can now (in theory) use my Zen as a lil’ server and stream my music across the web. So (once again in theory) I can become my own radio station, and people can access my files and “borrow” them. I think this is good (in theory) but at 2.35 Saturday morning, everyone is asleep or out whoring.
Whoring. That is a word I really must try and work into more everyday conversation.
“Over the panties, no bra, blouse
unbuttoned, Calvin’s in a ball on
the front seat past eleven
on a school night?”
“Ohhhhh, Water, I don’t need no lemonade…”
Wow. Ernie K-Doe’s Here Come The Girls is my new imaginary sassy strip song. I imagine formation stripping would make it really work, or perhaps a dance number but always with the multiple girls.
His voice is amazing and the military march throughout adds in my mind an air of threat- Oh no, the girls are coming! Run for your lives! Save your virginity! A very fine record. So fine in fact that I had an inexplicable urge to write out the lyrics.
Hear it here
The perfect follow up would be I Hear Voices by Screamin’ Jay Hawkins. Just to freak the punters out.
I’m not a huge fan of the Christmas/New Year period for a multitude of reasons (which I’m sure I will rot your minds with at some point). However, something I do really enjoy is the music. Not all Christmas Musak, just a select few tracks that I will stick on even in the middle of flaming June. Ultra Lounge’s Christmas Cocktails rocks.
Not all tracks are Christmas-themed. Some are just plain wintery, but they remind me of this time of year, even if the sentiments in the lyrics clash with my situation.
I regularly walk around in women’s underwear (and outerwear too), but I have no-one elligible to even ask to spend New Year’s Eve with. I think my festive period is more like the one in Fairytale of New York, although even Kirsty has a scumbag, maggot and cheap lousy faggot to get pissed off at. Happy Christmas my arse.
Santa Baby – Eartha Kitt
What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve? – Nancy Wilson
The Christmas Song (Merry Christmas To You) – Nat King Cole
Fairytale of New York – The Pogues feat. Kirsty MacColl
Baby It’s Cold Outside – Most versions except Tom & Cerys
I Bought You Violets For Your Furs – Renzo Cesana
Christmas Is – Lou Rawls
Christmas Wrapping – The Waitresses
Walking ‘Round In Women’s Underwear – Bob Rivers
A Christmas Gift for You from Phil Spector
The two that never fail to cut me up are The Christmas Song and What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve? The wonderful rich sound and arrangement combined with the lyrical content make me sigh a lot and go all gooey before tearing up. Gosh.
I wandered back to skool today to take in an exhibition of my pupils’ work. It was so satisfying to see that everything had gone so well; I know it wasn’t my work but I still felt intensely proud.
I wandered back home in the cold clutching a 4 pint bottle of milk and feeling so very good. My ears filled with sounds from my Zen, my coat pulled tight up around my neck with just enough of a gap to make me shiver. I walked very slowly, savouring the night and swinging my milk as I went; humming along to Old Cape Cod and feeling pretty damned wonderful.
The sky was clear in amongst patches of mackerel cloud and I watched an airplane slowly crawl across the full moon leaving a moonlit contrail. It was beautiful.
I keep looking at and touching my bruises; thinking to myself someone made those marks on my body and dissecting how they made them. Was their hand this way or that way? Was it from their grip or their weight?
I like to see the bruises poking out of my sleeves as I do the washing up, blunt and dark against my skin under the fluorescent strip lights. Sometimes I forget about their existance but then I brush my arm against something and I remember. When they fade I will miss them.
I have been without interesting bruises for a very long time. I wear them like small badges of pride.
I am burning the government’s money on my first pornography subscription. Why? I do not know.
One month of bizarreness is unlocked to me and the results are, erm, interesting. At least there is proof on show that the gals getting poked at are very much enjoying the experience, unlike quite a lot of porn available.
Often I find myself questioning whether or not the women are in any way shape or form finding what is being done to them pleasurable. We all need a little pleasure in our lives and if you make your living as an adult performer, I think you should get to have some on the job too, otherwise it’s going to be a bit of a soul-destroying experience. Not the performing, but performance where you really are putting on a show.
Don’t fake your fun. If it’s not working for you, it’s just not working.
Something else delightful I forgot about last night:
“It always worries me when they bleed. What? It’s not my fault that it looks like a baby’s arm holding an apple…”
Seriously, of all the manwhorish things MW#2 has said to me, of all the dirty, disgusting and warped things we’ve talked about, that phrase is the most horrible thing he has ever said to me.
This is from the same individual who says there is nothing to me and that I am “waif-like”… I think the next time I meet up with MW#2 I will put my fingers in my ears, go la la la and keep them there for the entirity of the evening.
Socialisation lesson #1: Does wrestling my manwhore rate higher than lap sitting?
Well it was interesting, and I would like to think I gave good fight. I had to remove all my hair clips just in case they could be construed as offensive weapons. It wasn’t too hardcore, but I was pleased to get a gentle re-introduction into the joys of grappling.
I think I did quite well on the propriety front, rocking the knee high socks with skirt akimbo (easy access boys) and getting some contact with the man fur. It wasn’t that bad, but now my hand feels kinda funny. Ak!!!
Of course, my real problem was that I had a bottle of champagne with me, and, as we all know there is “no sex in the Champagne Room…”
So a teeny amount of progress was made- I have a nice set of fingerprint bruises on my arm to prove it. I have missed playing smackdown so very much.
Hooray for full-contact sports.
So as you do today I was looking at pictures of before and after female genital surgery- vaginoplasty aka labiaplasty. It’s where the labia are reduced, evened out and the vagina generally “tidied up”. The pictures are disturbing because vaginoplasty seems to me to be the ultimate example of natural variation being deemed abnormal and thus medicalized.
One of the most abhorrant practices around is female genital mutilation. Campaigns are waged to try and stamp it out using education and prohibition through legislation. The general idea behind FGM is that a girl or woman’s genitals are somehow unclean or that if left alone the women will turn into nymphomaniacs.
The designer vagina phenomenon may be not as severe as FGM but it stems from some of the same fears. I will not deny that plastic surgery can be beneficial to some people but to alter a part of the body so very personal and intimate seems deeply wrong. The idea to “clean-up” your vagina seems almost entirely based on fears about male expectation of normalcy, that your vagina could be so very repulsive that once your lover catches the merest glimpse of your pink they will get the fuck out of Dodge.
If anyone does that to you are they really worth getting intimate with? Or even being in the same room as them? I am naturally imperfect in many many ways; that’s the way I was made. I’d like to think however that my feisty mind and more aesthetically pleasing parts of me make up for my flaws, and that those flaws make me more interesting. What is there new to discover if everyone is so similar? Getting intimate is pretty scary to me in practice precisely because of this fear of the unknown. But I mean, does one part of my body overwhelm everything else about me?
Okay so I have no waist, but how about my legs? I have a odd mark above one eyebrow but I have an expressive mouth. My rack is small and imperfectly formed but hell, I’ve had no complaints so far. I would say most individuals have something about them that works visually and even when they do not, a quick laugh and a kind heart are probably the most treasured things in life.
Oh and a word to the wise- Criticise a part of me (being “honest” or otherwise) and I will not take kindly to you. You can tell me the truth without wrapping it up in a lie; just be truthful in a considerate manner. I have never to my knowledge asked anyone if my backside looks big in any item of clothing. I know what I look like so I get really pissed off when others pass bad judgement. Take a look in the mirror before slagging me off.
The post-op vaginas are all so boring and similar-looking, like they’ve been selected out of a catalogue. Just because most adult performers appear to have even, rent-a-cunt vaginas doesn’t mean we all have to get ourselves one.
Normal on left, abnormal on right:
NSFW Before and After Photos of Labiaplasty and Vaginoplasty Combination Surgery
NSFW More aumentation
NSFW Rotten.com: Excellent article on Designer Vaginas
WHO FGM Facts
It would take a lot for me to run screaming. Oh wait, I change my mind on that one. Man fur will do it every time.
So I went to see Doom… It may come as a suprise, but I was actually disappointed. I didn’t expect a masterpiece on the level of say Predator, it was just not quite bad enough to be really good.
From the opening scene of someone’s arm being chopped off courtesy of some closing security doors I thought fabulous- This is going to be great. Unfortunately I spent quite a proportion of the rest of the film laughing at the scenery-chewing dialogue spouted by Karl Urban.
The problem with Karl is that he is a very intense actor, seemingly giving his all to produce very focused performances (he is called Karl-Heinz after all). This is a not usually a problem in the films I’ve seen him in (LotR and The Bourne Supremacy) but when he’s trying to be intense and sincere whilst being shouty about Demons and trying to hold an american accent it maketh me laugh in what the filmakers could construe as an inappropriate manner.
Don’t get me wrong, he looked good (along with the Rock) and he did the action thing well, but I just felt sorry to see him in such a film, acting for his life, battling against terrible dialogue.
On the subject of eye candy, Karl was pretty hot, especially when he was all dirty. Baby, he was just crying out to be stripped down and cleaned up with a damp cloth and a bowl of sudsy warm water. I agree, there was too much detail in that sentence… but I’m creative with a good i-m-a-g-i-n-a-t-i-o-n.
Okay, so i’m free from skool and in dire need of a back rub at the mo so i’m going to go off on one on this…
EDIT: For your sanity (if not mine) I have removed the story I wrote about Reaper. It was just too much.
Periodically when bored I cruise the search engines to check out my boy Vamp; see how he’s doing, get me any new pictures that have surfaced etc. It was a good job I didn’t travel to see him at the glittering locale of Orpington; the latest pictures of him are not so good.
Now, it would be good-hearted of me to say I like him thin or fat, poor or rich, hair or no hair, but the fact is that I want him to stay reasonable looking, I want him to have a full head of hair and sometimes, well I just find him downright embarassing.
Case in point: There is a promo for him used when he works with NWE in Italy. It’s dire, but comedy gold in that it’s supposed to be lending him an air of threat and mystery, but this is rather difficult in that it appears to have been filmed in someone’s back garden.
This is acceptable when Spielberg does it, but watching him looming out of some bushes and then inexplicably belching blood is just bad. Also somewhat confusing- Why does he appear to be internally bleeding? Has this terrible predator of the night just feasted on some young maiden’s tender, lilywhite neck and has overdone it a little? From his bush lurking, I imagine that he’s just had his arse handed to him and is puking in an “Nurse, stomach lavage!” sorta way.
Now I love making costumes out of bin bags, but Vamp seems to have taken to wearing a couture bin bag ankle-length skirt. A skirt on a man can be a darned good thing, but the long length is simply not flattering. He would be better taking some tips from his former Deadpool mate Raven and wearing something higher cut and not as clingy. I think he could look rather fetching in a bondage kilt.
Oh and Honey, you could really do with laying off the beer and Mexican food, too. If you are going to get a big new tattoo across your stomach, you’ve got to realise it’s going to draw attention to your middle. Especially when it reads EVIL.
The tat is okay, but not in tandem with the flab. I myself carry too much fat in certain areas, and I know I could do with tackling it, but my career is not based on my appearance (but given appropriate motivation I can hide it and scrub up rather well). I like my boys burly but I’m sorry, I’m shallow about my eye candy.
Vampiro Promo .WMV