KAWAII!

We can has teh keggers!

Come on down to San Marcos, kids, we're gonna tear it up.

Nom nom nom.

I am the luckiest little bean ever.

Liz (bless her) got the most delicious coffee creamer in the world.

Imagine this, kids: English Toffee.

Done.

Can has teh kitten?

No.

No, I can not.

What I can have are a snake and a tarantula.

Heh. You read correctly, Aaron.

We can has a tarantula in the living room. Drop by and see it some time.

They're special buddies.

It's actually a little creepy how well they get along. I'm convinced that some day they're going to tear one another limb from...erm...entrail, and I'm pretty sure Luca (tarantula) is going to win. I wanted to name him Aragog, but no one appreciates the nerdy names.

Well, bah humbug to you, too!

Speakinawhich, A Christmas Carol is out.

Go do it. The skinning looks so legit.

Nao!

I would post pics, if I had any, but as everyone knows, I'm a huge picture phail, and never take them.

BUT!

I shall have you lot know that I'm in San Marcos, recovered from a bout with the flu, getting re-addicted to gaming (thanks Aaron, you twit), and generally kicking ass and taking names.

NOT!

Well, everything but the latter.

I need a godsdamned job.

Pineapple is a fruit, not a name.

So...I've been swearing up and down that I'd do it, and whinging because Josh went out of town just before I left Houston, but there's a lovely bloke at Shaman Modifications by the name of Pineapple who did me a second dermal anchor.

If you want a piercing, he's the man to go to.

I still think his name is ridiculous.

Three weeks of healing time, and I'll be good to go for another spike. Hurrah!

The Child Thief

By Brom. Go do it. You know you want to.

all your headaches are belong to me

I am not well.

Not well

at all.

I blame Obama for my weather-change flu.

The end.

And now, for something completely different.

I haven't updated in for-ay-ever. That's cause I was working seventy-hour weeks, and couldn't be bothered. Now that no one is reading this dreck any longer (good for you), I can say whatever unrelated nonsense I want, and shan't be judged. Heh.

I'm leaving Houston, moving (again!), tomorrow. Yes, am terrified.

I watched the Monty Python-a-thon on IFC last night. God, I love Idle and Cleese. They make my inside bits happy.

Also participating in NaNoWriMo for the first time, which is also terrifying, but fifty thousand words only comes out to about 1700 words a day, so I'm not exactly in the shit.

In further news, I am now obsessed with George R. R. Martin's Song of Ice and Fire nonsense. Guh. Give me big facially scarred men with pyrophobia any day. Or Jaime Lannister would do just as well. Twincest!

Erm...oh. The reason I'm actually updating is cause Severin Koller with the beautiful cheekbones is back in business. I watched him ages ago, mainly because he's an incendiary prick who's actually really good at what he does, and is passionate about it.

He doesn't just shoot a couple pictures in high exposure, or in sepia, and think it's amazing because he did it. Now, I don't know the first thing about photography, but I know all about artistic passion (because I'm sure I haven't it any longer), and he manages well. I don't mind a swotty git if he actually knows what he's talking about.

I'm not sure whether I'll be updating regularly from now on, but we'll see.

Oh, God, I'm terrified.

sehr questionable

josh says he can draw roses coming out my ass.
i'd rather he didn't and just stuck with the sketches i gave him.

faux vacations

i'm not coming back,
but pretending's fine.

Sometimes I'm just tempted to KAWAII!
Right now is not one of those times.
I have to go to work.
Guhh.

Creep

Usually, when someone's skin makes me want to cry, it means they're a massive trauma burn victim.

illogical.

my plug-in baby
crucifies my enemies
when i'm tired of living.
?!

Goodness Gracious

I have found a new artist to be madly in love with.
Paul Mellender.
Check him out.
He's got a Llewellyn-esque love for the classic, uses dramatic Carravaggio-style lighting, paints in oils and does gorgeous pencil sketches with great realism...and is kind of cute, too, for an old geezer. Go look him up. His ID is Kourete on the dA.
Also, I can has a new iPod?
!

ingrate austrian

i can't believe i forgot severin.

borzoi?

Ooh. Today was a good day. Not to die, just a good day in general.
First of all, Betts rang. Squee!
Heh. I always squee when Betts rings. It's rather humiliating, and probably annoying for him to have to deal with over the phone.
But.
Yes.
Also a woman walked by with two borzois! They're my favourite dogs at the moment. Tall, skinny, lazy, with big eyes. I wants one. I wants a big grey one, and I shall call him the Skraeling.
And he shall adore me with his enormous brown eyes and skinny muzzle.
Oyez.
Betts shall send me pictures of the baaaaby!
Who is probably bigger than me by now.

Piggies!

Dan is never going to find a piglet as cool as these.
GIVE UP LOSER!

Watch Piggy Ear Flaps and more funny videos on CollegeHumor

there was a scooter boy

So I work next to a Jimmy John's, right? And there's this bloke who works there, who rides a scooter to work. It has orange bits, and a skull and crossbones on it. He's pretty. I fancy the pants off him.
Has a swirly, colourful arm-piece. I'm so very tempted to go over during his shift and flirt the name of his artist out of him, but he really is way too cute. Glasses and dark hair.
Oh, I need to stop fancying boys with big tattoos.
No.
Wait.
I don't.

Oh My Darling

Happy birthday, Terry.
I do love you an awful lot, by Io.

A Ten Minute Dream in the Passenger's Seat

And if you swear
that there's
no truth
and who cares,
how come you say it
like you're right?
--Conor Oberst (whom I think is a bit of a pretentious wanker)

coming up for air

Urk.
Just got reminded that the new Oh, Sleeper album is out soon. Yippee.
I'm excited.
Uh.
Worked late tonight, and made the mistake of drinking a Rock Star at six thirty. It's now twenty to eleven and I'm twitching like the comically coked-out squirrel in your garden variety family animation.
Well, not literally. I'm only typing about 120 wpm, so no harm's really done.
Again, urk.
Bitches and hos, yo.
I need new guitar strings.
Oh, and if anyone wants to buy me a pair of Doc Marten's Phina boots, feel free.

bluestockingahpoccylips

Oh mah tum hurts.
Just watched some oddball Canuck film. Young People Fucking.
As usual, they have the 'best friends' couple get together.
What nonsense. Best mates are just best mates for good reasons.
Very
Good
Reasons.
Anyhow, aside from that nonsense, there was a very cute British boy with blue eyes and a sloppy smile in it, which is brilliant.
Oh man.
I was given a great big fat dose of reality.
Going through Whole Foods Market to grab some dinner, and the boy in the checkout next to us was a skinny bearded thing with big blue eyes.
Oh man.

Ugh

I'm suffering.
I'm going to be working about sixty hours a week for the next three months.
*bangs forehead.
I'm going to suffer more.
But with beer.

couldawouldashoulda

I love hot weather
and my lungs are filled with
smoke and water, mixing
charcoal-dust carefully, just enough
to keep from choking out the
last languourous breaths.

and it is glorious.

put it all together and bill the concierge.

I may not be around much over the next few weeks.
So I shall leave you in the safe hands of the Royal Air Force, as personified by Armstrong and Miller. Ausgeseichnet!

oh boy

This is so sappy.
but this song is exactly how i'm feeling.



and ryan adams is teh sex.
you know, despite being a deaf midget struggling beneath the weight of his own ego.
he sure can write songs.

such a smart girl!

uh.
i just realised that my piercer looks like jemaine from flight of the conchords, only he's fair.
it was bothering me the whole time i was talking to him.
oh.
and there ain't no tea party like my nana's tea party.

Flight of the Conchords - Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenoceros from Flight of the Conchords

boom click back tick

Okay.
Okay.
Okay.
Seriously, this is going to be bad. Wait for it...wait for it...
I watched Enchanted the other night.
Yes.
Oh, yes.
It was brilliant.
Well, James Marsden was brilliant.
The bit where he screams, 'Giselle!' and rams his fist into his mouth. Seriously. My little heart flopped over. Or would have if my stomach weren't so busy doing the same.
He's freaking HILARIOUS. Stole the show. It makes up for the fact that his forehead takes up about the same percentage of face as Tom Cruise's smile takes up on his (that is, about two thirds).
And then I made the mistake of watching X-Men 2, and for some reason...don't ask me why...I kept expecting him to come rushing down the stairs of the mansion squealing, 'Logan!'
Uh. Yeah. The subtext is totally there. And it is steamy.
Hugh Jackman is still the only man I love who is allowed to have big rippling muscles.

tick tick hash.

Turkey bacon is...not...quite...it's just...I can't...
It's gross.
Mondo gross.
And I know I sound like a ruddy valley girl, but them's facts, me luvs.
You can't have a proper bacon sandwich with turkey bacon. It doesn't sizzle, it just...burns and goes all...narsty and smugh.
Yes.
Smugh.
You know what's stupid?
I can't sleep.
And my piercing itches like a bastard on a stick.
Cause they're very itchy...erm...bastards.
On sticks.
And...I had a seriously crack!head dream last night.
It involved Jason Statham and Marilyn Monroe, an old-fashioned steam-engine,
and The Chronicles of Narnia.
Yeah.
No kidding. It was so messed up.
Uh.
Insomnia is a pest and a half.
Especially when someone who will remain unnamed very unhelpfully volunteered a mental image of drippingwethughjackmaninatowelonly, and I am unable to go to sleep to make proper use of said image.
Perhaps I shall try to take over the world.
Now where are those lab rats?

wakka wakka bang splat.

Uh...I probably shouldn't be broadcasting my adoration of Vimes any more than I have to...but...I was listening to Thud! today and my little heart just about beat out of its chest. Multiple times. Specially when he was tearing down the street and hijacking the carriages of little old ladies in order to get back home and read Where's my Cow? to his son. The most cuddled book in the world. Heh. Seriously, if I were a fictive, Sybil and I would have a serious throw-down for her husband. (Only I like Sybil too. Whole bunches. She's such a bloody rocker.) She'd kick my butt, of course, but it'd be...you know...wossname...worth it. Yeah. To get called an idiot by the Commander. The only bloke I go weak in the knees for. Give me a moment to swoon. Thanks.
*Ahem*
ANYHOW! Now that's out of the way, we can move on to more important things. Yeah. Like...oh, I got my nape pierced finally. I win at life! Hurrah! Thanks to Chris at Electric Art who coached my whiny ass like a shiner.
(I actually didn't whine. I moaned a little, but not so much that anyone could hear. Bragging rights, yo.)
I shall give piccies when I have pritty jewellery to show. Right now there's just a healing bar barely sticking out of the skin by about three milimetres. I've discovered that the edges of band-aids cut me (fragile blossom that I am), and that a warm-bordering-on-hot saline soak for ten minutes in an upended shot glass makes all the ouchies feel just that much better. It's mondo delish.
Buglit. I has runned out of things to say to peopulz.
No fear. I'm not actually speaking lolcat language. Cause trying to sound cuter than you actually are is a hanging offense, and I'm terminally (ha bloody ha ha) aware of my level of cuteness. It's limited to banging on about cynical, fictional Watch officers more than a half-century old.
Uhhh...my back hurts.
And I have found the only sexy trolley boy in the world. He has big gauges and dark eyes and a great smile.
And he's probably about seventeen.
Great.

Tis a Pity He's a...

little boy.
But it helps that he has an adorable accent and messed up teeth.

Watch 32 Songs in 8 Minutes on CollegeHumor

Heart Healthy

Always eat a good breakfast the morning of a body modification.

Just in case

I haven't mentioned it before,
there's nothing quite like being told that your dress is cute
by a boy from Oz.

Like Porcelain

The first narcissus (narcissi?) of spring are growing outside my house. I still have memories of Massachusetts, the garden where they drew knee-high to me (when I was much smaller), with their long necks and pale yellow chiffon petals.
Heh. poetic, much?
Well, I'm not much for flowers, but they're pretty. I like the leaves best, succulent green, the sort of spring-flavoured green earth and flake white with yellow ochre that manages not to be an earth colour, somehow. Buh-zzare.
Erm. I'm still doing rubbish sketches. I got the Vetinari eyebrow-lift perfectly, but still can not manage Sybil for the life of me.
Bah.
My destiny calls, and I go.
Or is that the carpool?

Goodness Gracious

I have been doing so many trashy sketches. Observe. Sorry about the blur.

The Croutons of Teatime. Mr. Te-ah-ti-me.

I want to paint more big, curly horns on androgynous boys.
Stay tuned for more dramatic changes in my personality.
Dun dun dun DUN!
If I were writing in Agatean pictograms, that would be a urinating dog.
Just thought you should know.
Cause things like that are important.
Also, my bizarre obsessions.
You may have been clued into the fact that I am on a Terry Pratchett Discworld kick. A serious one. I love Commander Vimes so much my stomach hurts.
And Vetinari. I would almost be a mime artist in Ankh-Morpork just so he would hang me upside-down over a scorpion pit and tell me to Learn the Words. Might even consider taking my life into my hands and be ironic at him. Gasp!
'Every evil tyrant has a plan to rule the world. The good people don't seem to have the knack.'
He can have all the knacks in the world. If he doesn't have enough, and wants more, he could probably send someone to go get them for him.
It's probably wrong that it makes me so happy to read about him and Vimes infuriating one another.

One of the Best

Evar.
Seriously. Not to outshine Lord Havelock *swoons dutifully* but this is...this is just...yeah. Please. The ladies are going to be queuing up for these gents.

Now...I'm just going to go have a little lie-down to recover from the big ugly fib I just told.

Haaavelock

I made the serious mistake of watching this while eating chocolate.
'Don't let me detain you.'
WUFFLES!

Aquarelle Alert!

No, really. Just a dandified androgynous little faun.

I!

Shall not be around for a bit.
Kisses and sparkles!
Busy cuddling Vimes.

Hee

Too bad I only feel this way about Vimes.

Pulling Teeth

You can't know how desperately I want to write. I haven't written any poetry or decent prose in months. I feel like such a failure.
Buh.
It's the rubbish sketches I've been doing. They take all the extra bits.
No one is sexier than Jeremy Irons as Havelock Vetinari.
'Don't let me detain you.'
My brain went honestly to mush.
Speaking of mushy brains, I've decided not to comment on amateur writing any more. Or, rather, writing that people present as creative, but aren't really interested in improving. I've had one too many whingy ingrates who, after I have taken half an hour to dissect their work and discover their flaws, send a barrage of hatemail about how their feelings are hurt.
And yes, I am harsh, and I will point everything out that I feel isn't right, or that can be improved, but I generally will give a disclaimer. Something to the effect of: 'Don't be offended, if what I'm seeing as an error is really your style, then ignore it. Also, the more you write the better you'll get.'
Some of the most unhelpful critiques any artist can receive are composed of, 'OMG! You're like, so talented! I can't believe you thought of that. I can really feel what you were trying to say. Don't listen to people who say you've got it wrong. They're just trying to get you down.'
PEOPLE!
If you encounter a critique longer than three sentences, pointing out things that hurt your feelings, that deal with the material, and aren't some nonsensical flame, you feel grateful that whoever it is that wrote it took the time out of their life to tell you how you can improve. All those gaping plot holes they're illuminating, those are things you can re-work and improve.
As good old G.K. said, 'artistic temperament is for amateurs.'
Anyhow, all that having been said, I'm never giving a critique to anyone unless they trust that I know what I'm talking about, and I'm sure they're serious about their own work. Nothing makes me angrier than when someone I've taken time to review says, 'well, I'm not perfect.'
NEITHER AM I! No one is! My favourite authors aren't perfect! They're brilliant, not perfect, but if you're going to give up while you still suck eggs, you're not going to IMPROVE, and people are still going to laugh behind their hands when you rhyme 'love' with 'above' or 'dove,' or 'blood' with 'mud,' or call your soul black or your heart empty, and whinge about cutting yourself and say how much so-and-so has hurt you and how you'll never recover. You can write about those things, but please, please, please, don't be offended when people say they've heard these topics discussed in the exact same language.
Buggrit, this is turning into a proper rant.
As a very clever somebody told me once (after I presented a piece of wangsty garbage):
"Poetry is not saying, 'you died, and I miss you.'
Poetry is saying,
'Interred below, you live in me--
Sepulchral spiders of memory.' "
Oh. And I am drawing Vimes.
*blush*

Aristides

G.I. Gle

Where has all the custard gone?
Jello just isn't the same.
Buhh...by the end of the weekend, I feel particularly like a golem. Golem must have master.
Golem must work.
Help me, Dorfl!
I want chocolate biscuits.

Linda, Linda...

She is evil. Is Linda Bergkvist.
Also known as Enayla.
Buh.
Go look her up on dA. Or google her.
She makes me so happy.

Vimes!

Vimes!
Vimes!
Vimes!
Yeah.
I'm being fangirly.
Shaddup.
(Vimes!)
Heh.
O. Uh...here's a piccy of Jono Strange. Oyez. Ginger magicians! It's a WIP.

Shiny and Neeeew!

'This, Bella, is the skin of a killer!'
*sparkles*
Teehee.
Guess what, guess what, guess what?!
I read five pages of Twilight by Stephanie Meyer, and I didn't actually upchuck!
Well, it was a near thing. I felt out of sorts for the rest of the day.
Sparkly vampires.
I cannot get over that.
It's fecking hilarious.
Wait wait wait. Look at this!
Tee
hee.

Uh...

Just some weekend sketches.
I KNOW Gavroche is meant to be an underfed little minger, but...but he has a cheeky smile and hollow eyes. Soh. Yez.
As for the other...well...I don't know. He has some rawkin hair, though. And a cruel mouth. Which is always good.
Uh...probably about forty minutes spent on each.

Books! Books!

Oh, boy.
I just finished Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke.
Before you judge me, I've had it for nearly a year, and I only picked it up on Friday.
It's so sad.
Ginger men with long noses. Eep.
I spent the entire book wondering when the Raven King was going to make an appearance, and was terribly disappointed when...
when...
when Norrell turned out to be right.
Damn him.
Old men whose noses are always in books generally are, sadly enough.
Even when they're selfish and obstinate.
Particularly when they're selfish and obstinate.
Buh.
That isn't what I started this post to say, actually.
I love--love--the idea of a man being a book.
Also, I may have to do a sketch of John d'Uskglass in the midst of my many, many studies.
I'm doing a nude after Michelangelo. She is very muscular--one of the statues from the tomb of Lorenzo di'Medici.
I have a confession to make.
I love H pencils.
And I desperately want another tattoo.
Craving some b-mod.
It is bad.
As is my addiction to caffeine.
And Sam Vimes.
Please
stand
by.

All Knowledge...

...is worth having.
Probably about an hour of concentrated work, spread finely over a weekend, a devo or two, and a meeting. Nekkid bishi with art nouveau hair!

How Very Traditionalist of Me

I have a new fictive crush.
His name is Sam Vimes.
Yes. The copper.
He's cerebral and clever and has way too many bad habits, including being a natural knurd.
I need to get away from liking reformed alcoholics.
Heh.
HUB-serve!
Are you my cow?
'Buglit!'
Tee hee.
If you get my knee-deep fic-references, you are as bad as I am, and SHAME ON YOU!

Losing No Faith

In case you were wondering.
These are for you. In order, we have:
1. Study after WJSolha's 'Study in Gold,' only, without the beard. Seriously, have you ever tried painting facial hair in watercolour? It is a pain. As evidenced by
2. The Tricolour. Yes. I would like to say it was influenced by some real feeling of revolutionary right, as moved by something pontificating like The Rights of Man, or even by Les Misérables, but I think we all know that I just really, really like Enjolras. *blushes* Next we have
3. a WIP, the preliminary sketch of a study after Michelangelo Buonaroti (sic?). It will, eventually, be in oils, if I am not entirely embarrassed by it, more WIPs may be forthcoming. If I can be arsed. And, speaking of studies after Renaissance masters, I figured
4. this would be in order. It's a study of the hand from Leonardo da Vinci's Lady with an Ermine. This is also a WIP, first underpainting. Trust me, you are much better off for not having seen the abysmal sketch. And lastly, to scorch your eyeballs, is
5. something with no title. Also a WIP. This is the last underpainting layer (the fourth), and from here on out we will be experimenting with glazes. Wish me luck.
Soh...that is mostly what I've been busy doing, beside being influenced (unfortunately) by mah Betsy, whose big arse fetish is rubbing off (yeesh, bad phrasing) on me. I sketched the little cutest little Cirque de Soleil type bird with a puffed sleeve bodysuit or something. And the rawkingest headdress. Or hair. Not sure which to make it.
Anyhow, just so you know that I'm not entirely through with drawing and painting androgynous boys. Cause I'm sure that's very important to the lot of you.

We Apologise for the Inconvenience

I realise that I'm dangerously obsessed with boots and pretty little dresses in delicious fabrics, so it's only normal that I dream about them. And dream about lovely ships with hot showers and shower gels that smell of jasmine, and rich suites with enormous beds...but Owen Wilson?
Really?
Ew.

I was a clever 11 year old

Okay. Seriously. Marius is a fucking retard.
I want to kick him in the shins.
Possibly after giving Valjean a little nudge in the ribs for being a bit of a short-sighted moron, but SERIOUSLY!
Marius is a twat.
I think I wrote about four pages to this effect when I was eleven, after bawling my eyes out at the end of a 1400-page book.
I forgot how much I hate that little Pontmercy tosser. His name is even poncy.
BAH!!!
He makes me so ANGRY.

Seriously.

Look at this.

And this.

And this.

I'll have another, please!

Apparently, Nicky's version of 'revenge' is kisses and free coffee.
Also, I forgot how magnificently delicious I look in black.
I am going to be wearing a great deal more black.

I've never...

...thought of Edmond Dantès quite like this.
Go watch Gankutsuou. It is very, very deeply acceptable.

you're the edible what?

Milk and cookies are divine. Even if it's skim milk and cheap Christmas shortbread. It's the breakfast of champions. Particularly taking into consideration that I'm not drinking caffeine these days. Well. Not today, anyhow. I made the mistake of drinking a cup of coffee at four-ish yesterday, and I was awake till three.
No matter. I had a fabulous dream I didn't want to wake from.
Yesterday, I went looking for a pair of motorcycle boots. And I realised something horrific. Women's motorcycle boots don't bloody exist. It's quite bad. Well, I mean, they do, if you want to pay two hundred dollars for them, and you probably should, if you're going to be wearing them for motorcycling or hiking or whatever pursuits you're looking into, but!--if you're just wanting to wear them with a little frilly dress so you can spare your poor toes the pain of being shoved into teetering stilettos, or your legs getting cold in the wintertime (don't even begin to talk to me about the inadvisability of wearing little dresses in the winter. It's not going to help anything.), there's no point in breaking the nonexistent piggy bank, quite frankly.
But!