Remember me, Lord, when you come into your kingdom.
Today, thrown into the toss-up between Sheryl Crow's 1998 hit singles, and Michael Bolton's remake of 'Santa Claus is coming to town,' pray for me.
This should be fun.
Friday, 28 November 2008
Monday, 24 November 2008
This post is going to be out of it.
Why are you so worried about self-identification, you fucking yuppie bastards?
The fucking 'new me'? Are you SERIOUS?
OH MY GOD!
'My self esteem is so low. I put myself out there, and I failed. Wah bloody waaah.'
You drive me up the wall. I want to pull out my hair, but I won't, because my hair is lovely and shiny.
Again.
Oh.
My.
God.
The fucking 'new me'? Are you SERIOUS?
OH MY GOD!
'My self esteem is so low. I put myself out there, and I failed. Wah bloody waaah.'
You drive me up the wall. I want to pull out my hair, but I won't, because my hair is lovely and shiny.
Again.
Oh.
My.
God.
Just Figures
It makes sense, I suppose, considering my neglect of the Muse over the past couple of months (look...I asked him very nicely to consider looking like Daniel Craig, and he got offended), that when I really need nothing more than to sit down with a ruler and a blank canvas, and chuck some high viscosity oils (thank you, o great and powerful Winsor and Newton) in a pleasing fashion onto double acrylic primed 100% cotton duck, I am alone with my watercolours and the worst paper in the world.
Note to artists: DON'T buy 'reflexions' paper. In fact, don't buy any artist's paper you can't touch, or see the colour of, or smell the fibres of. Just...don't. Back to Strathmore and Canson with me. Oh, and A4 printing paper for presketches. Woot!
Note to artists: DON'T buy 'reflexions' paper. In fact, don't buy any artist's paper you can't touch, or see the colour of, or smell the fibres of. Just...don't. Back to Strathmore and Canson with me. Oh, and A4 printing paper for presketches. Woot!
Saturday, 22 November 2008
Round and Round and Round and Round
There is no bookstore in this town.
How do people get their things to read?
I suppose everyone's on the internet, but that doesn't make it any easier to cope.
The café that plays jazz and has a superannuated entertainer, and proprietors from back east make it a little more bearable. Particularly as they have mint-chocolate cookies.
O. No. I need some ice cream. Dreadful.
How do people get their things to read?
I suppose everyone's on the internet, but that doesn't make it any easier to cope.
The café that plays jazz and has a superannuated entertainer, and proprietors from back east make it a little more bearable. Particularly as they have mint-chocolate cookies.
O. No. I need some ice cream. Dreadful.
Thursday, 20 November 2008
Ohai Hugh!
FINALLY! Other women who agree with me about a guy being attractive. Apparently Hugh Jackman is the 'world's sexiest.'Ch...yeah.
Have you SEEN the 'Australia' adverts? I mean...I'm not super into overmuscled blokes, but this...is...just...well see for your
self.Boys from Oz are the best.
Saturday, 15 November 2008
Sing for Absolution
I had my first snow-fall of the year this morning. It was pretty brilliant...cold enough that the snow didn't melt on the asphalt, and then re-freeze. I did, however, fall and scrape my knee. That wasn't super fun. I resented myself, just a little.
Ah!
Lurve is in the air. And not, at the same time. There are loads of people breaking up with their significant others, a few red-eyed, half-weepy birds who've finally realised they just don't want to deal with it any more, and a couple of idealistic, happy young men who've dragged some poor girl along, into their lives.
NICKY! For one, is getting hitched. I'm not talking about the Nicky I'm madly in love with, who gives me chocolate croissants, which are not crescent-shaped, and free coffee with as much vanilla sprinkles as I want. I'm talking about whingey, Scorpio, confused, Joseph Fruit Nicky. He is getting MARRIED.
Insane, yes?
In the best way, I am horrified.
I suppose it's the way of things. When you're friends with hopeless romantics, they eventually pair off with other hopeless romantics, and do things like make babies and exchange vows, and rings, and all that nonsense.
Hah.
More power to the brave few.
I, like most people, am profoundly cynical, not because I don't think I have enough room in my heart, but because I have plenty of room, and I profoundly do not feel I should have to regulate my emotional temperature to suit the social climate.
Though, admittedly, my emotional temperature is decidedly below freezing at times.
It's cool, we can still be friends.
Conor Oberst told me that, though I'm pretty sure he's just another whingey hopeless romantic just wanting a woman to wash his socks and bear his offspring, and mix his coffee properly.
But I pray, most mornings, for Richard Dawkins. I'm not sure he'd appreciate it, but I hope he can at least acknowledge the thought. Maybe that makes me a little sentimental, but as slovenly-thinking as I occasionally can be, I hope he really, really follows, to the bitter end, the things he asserts, and draws the conclusions that are...right.
Even if he doesn't believe in objective right, and asserts objectively that there is no such thing. And it isn't the morning, but here goes anyhow:
Jesus, bless and keep Richard Dawkins, keep him safe. I know that You will, cause You love him lots.
Ah!
Lurve is in the air. And not, at the same time. There are loads of people breaking up with their significant others, a few red-eyed, half-weepy birds who've finally realised they just don't want to deal with it any more, and a couple of idealistic, happy young men who've dragged some poor girl along, into their lives.
NICKY! For one, is getting hitched. I'm not talking about the Nicky I'm madly in love with, who gives me chocolate croissants, which are not crescent-shaped, and free coffee with as much vanilla sprinkles as I want. I'm talking about whingey, Scorpio, confused, Joseph Fruit Nicky. He is getting MARRIED.
Insane, yes?
In the best way, I am horrified.
I suppose it's the way of things. When you're friends with hopeless romantics, they eventually pair off with other hopeless romantics, and do things like make babies and exchange vows, and rings, and all that nonsense.
Hah.
More power to the brave few.
I, like most people, am profoundly cynical, not because I don't think I have enough room in my heart, but because I have plenty of room, and I profoundly do not feel I should have to regulate my emotional temperature to suit the social climate.
Though, admittedly, my emotional temperature is decidedly below freezing at times.
It's cool, we can still be friends.
Conor Oberst told me that, though I'm pretty sure he's just another whingey hopeless romantic just wanting a woman to wash his socks and bear his offspring, and mix his coffee properly.
But I pray, most mornings, for Richard Dawkins. I'm not sure he'd appreciate it, but I hope he can at least acknowledge the thought. Maybe that makes me a little sentimental, but as slovenly-thinking as I occasionally can be, I hope he really, really follows, to the bitter end, the things he asserts, and draws the conclusions that are...right.
Even if he doesn't believe in objective right, and asserts objectively that there is no such thing. And it isn't the morning, but here goes anyhow:
Jesus, bless and keep Richard Dawkins, keep him safe. I know that You will, cause You love him lots.
Wednesday, 12 November 2008
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