back by popular demand..

i like images. and collages. i am not merely a product of my nodes. i am layered. i am cerebral. though i am often not much more than a land of ideas. (how very plato). i am powder pale, and curious like a kitten. i have too many names, and i will paint myself for you here, because phyllis_stein requested it.

sheepish. coy. i like to bleed. i like wrists. i rape kiss boys. i want a vending machine wedding ring, and a tacky vegas style road trip. i owe 28 days of happiness to little white pills, and fruit. i like using semicolons. i am a victim and perpetrator of violent love. i have been so confused and so brainwashed by everyone i come into contact with. i think love is the suggested consequence of teenage propaganda. i don't believe in heterosexuality. i think in dimensions. i get tangled. i wear petticoats at dusk. i am lone. i like boats; i like warm rain. people think i am french. i am obsessed with my childhood. i find foetuses beautiful (yet ugly). i'm reflexive & imbalanced and i want my life to be soup & scarves. i'd want to be lolita but i'm too old. i am left-handed and therefore like tetris and shapes. i am a glimmer here & there, a dapple, mythic and bombastic, a black frill. i am a very delirious pony, i can sense things, i am volatile.

one of these days i will be a member of mensa.

i'm not a part of this world. i will spend the rest of my life devising my own utopia. i will spend the rest of my life perfectly conscious that i'm deluding myself about everything. i use too many colours when i describe things. i am franny glass; i live some days in an utmost Sisyphean misery. i don't like to eat; i want my body to cry out in true need. for i cannot bear the tragedy and waste of having pursued the ephemeral satiety of my base, earth-bound body at the expense of the nourishment of my soul. i am not candy: i am not a brilliantly coloured treat without any particular nutritional value. 'its not so bad': my motto. i'm a writer; i have too many projects. i'm autonomous & i spend too much time at this place. i want to design clothes to murder in. i have a best friend or a soulmate or a business partner or a belle amie or even a partner-in-crime, her name is eroticbetty and more accurately, we overlap into less than two people and slightly more than one. we are doing a good job at pretending to be humans.

i like anything kitsch. i like alphabets. i like air. i like china. i like eggshells. i like train stations and supermarkets. i am distressed and sometimes prim and i am torn to pieces by ill-formed education systems (i think knowing doesn't mean so much), moronic religious conservative types, and all round closed-minded fuckers. i bear the weight of the world on my shoulders, it doesn't fit inside my skull. i sometimes want to stab it so many times until it is composed of not pieces but holes. i am a planet of anxiety. some days it is lucky i have a face or otherwise you would see how sad i am. for this reason i am often in an apparent state of interminable disorientation, and i sleep too much.

i want to revamp charlie and the chocolate factory, cleopatra, and jesus, and if they are turned into feature films i want marilyn manson to be the lead role in each. i want to wear a dress that will make you dizzy. apparently red suits me like no other colour. people also believe that i am in touch with the surreal, or that i possess some higher awareness; that my mind is too big for this galaxy. i have cried in case it's true, because i don't understand it. or anything. i like apples. i want to eat nothing but apples until i have skin like apples, like a girl i dreamed about once named eia eia. i savour apples, because god damnit, adam sacrificed eternal life for one. i think the perfect gift will consist of any or all of the following items:

i love and miss the seaside and i think when i actually step inside the cool cool water once more i may melt. i endorse decapitalization.i like infrequent cigarettes. i like letters and sodas. i try not to be too existentialist. i want to wear a catsuit. a noder called me a little bell jar girl. i wish sylvia plath never existed. but i am putting myself back together with words and paper. she couldn't.

i don't believe in anything besides possibility, and people who stifle others, and essentially themselves, by believing otherwise, make me cry. i don't think life is so serious, i don't believe in any one person's idea of 'success' being better than any other's; society isn't exactly the same thing as life now is it? a ferrari and a lush house aren't as important as doing crazy things and being young and growing old gracefully and tasting everything; this is what i think. i wish i had the courage to be an absolute nobody. i wish other people had that courage.

i get sad because i can never explain myself wholly in words or pictures.