Throw Parties, Not Punches

http://adlynncarmal.blogspot.com/

again?

Friday and I'm in pants.

Classic "rants in pants" case, part-- VII (whatever this is!). I don't like talking to inventions of God. Let alone whilst enduring a brain malfunction. Or of that sort. But I-- I don't do outward, vulgar shout-out-louds.. I surrender to silence. Mute angst. I passed by a cunt in disguise earlier, after, say.. hearing about myself, allegedly: "..mistakes one too many.." or, "..she didn't do anything.." whilst I declined further urges to stick a burning fag down her throat. Lasses can't see other lasses verging on glorious things. I can't, but again-- mute angst. And amidst the backstage bickering, she smiled. I simpered. I couldn't smile properly because I had a fucking cookie in my mouth, but I simpered. Mute, coy angst. No sharp objects to reach except a cookie. Can a cookie kill? Damn. Accidental tongue-twister. But, I left it at that. Idiots don't deserve my time, nor yours; so don't talk to idiots. On to subtle kicks of euphoria: (i) femme friends, a pact and I; Saturday's breakfast rendezvous is sealed; (ii) excuse me, but I can't fucking wait until traces of sour cream permeate a good le famille luncheon; (iii) I have bills left for the Blues' ticket, and then I will undergo hobo mutation hence please, drop a Hi and leftover one-dollar bills if you see me on the streets.. with my bandage skirt. Don't blame me for wanting to look good. I am powered by hormones (cough, and testosterones). Ah, soccer goods.. Robbie Keane dreams to be a Kop? What! I choked on my pentagon pancake when I read such atrocity. Come on! Slow news week. But I am extra-excited for Manchester City and Tottenham (holy goalpost-- dos Santos, Luka Modric!). And rejuvenated, stylish Blues. Yes. A merry weekend to you!

[MUSIC] Frank Sinatra - I Get A Kick Out Of You

(1) From left: vintage Topshop high-waisted denim shorts, Zara for Men brown plaid shirt (brother's own), Gap for Boys nautical striped shirt, Topshop printed smock.

Odds and in-betweens.

Amidst the devils' spawns lingering around me-- the dawns of July enclosed more often merry atmospheres to drown in than not. What I have been up to: (i) hitting the fags (oh, let the girl live) with manic lads, bantering about casualties of the naive.. and film reel appreciation plans; (ii) a little persuasion, Sister; offered to e-purchase a Marc by Marc for me-- I fainted, got up, squealed, then browsed for candidates; (iii) le lad bestfriend shall be drugged (and dragged) to come with me for the Blues clash, because he's promised and because torture is deathly appealing; (iv) pleading a sibling to silently bring me to watch Shitdisco's set, chances of happening slim as Snejana Onopka, but justice shall prevail (or so, I suppose); (v) I can't do pancakes. My pancakes resemble a twisted manifestation of recipe books' imagery.. almost mutant, and demented to the high heavens.. but it tastes good beyond the pentagon structure. Heh. I am stoked-- for Saturday's celebrations, for.. the Interact installation (Lord-- reasons for a new frock, really) and a friend surviving boarding school coming to town: Friday morning breakfast, maple syrup love affairs.. everything else delicately relative to guilty pleasures. Luncheon's on Saturday, and it's more likely a question of quesadillas with sour cream or say.. subtly toasted rosti with mushrooms at Marche. Blues news: (i) Deco an official Blue; signed on the e-tube whilst unshaved (rare as a Rembrandt) and predicted to shower stellar assists, partnered with the German; (ii) Blues, ever ambitious, placing a bid for Andrei Arshavin-- but is he Premier League material, that late bloomer cum pork-faced Russian ace? Time will tell. (iii) Didier donned our next season's away kit, so the alleged diving wanker I love is here to stay, whips anyone? Post-Euro is a little bland. And I have aptly develop love for Santi Cazorla, Yuri Zhirkov and Igor Akinfeev.. but mostly, all over again for David Silva (a Gunner by next season, perhaps?). God damn it-- where the fuck is August 16th?

[MUSIC] the Fratellis - Tell Me A Lie

Whoa. Modernization? Astro's Kirana is somewhat, bordering on extra-ordinary. Miranda July's "Me And You And Everyone We Know" airs soon (count me in!), and I once caught a Japanese remake of Donnie Darko. Sidenote: You're not as original as I thought. Shame.

Full-fledged homme love.

Oh dear Lord, I am extra-euphoric. Two words: Viva Espana! Towering whites of lacklustre Germans couldn't contain a superfluous Spain, counter-attacks brilliant as it can be (hey ho, Fabre) and great runs down the flank. I am pleased. A sad sack for main man Michael-- overwhelming manliness (take note, Fabre!) falls second to the good; but, truly.. what a man. And about men (homme, lads, twats-- to each his own); Spring runway telecasts over the e-tube revived me into a jovial disposition. Men have taken over. Prominent jawline appreciation (for I, the weak, holds no defense..) and far-fetched fabric glossary perfectly draped upon skin and.. bones. Whom I hail: (i) Jil Sander. Fresh clean cuts, bandage reminiscent-- an ease of breeze, and because Raf Simons is God of Menswear to me; (ii) Commes Des Garcons; it's Rei-- compiling every inch of lunacy and swathes of black on black, and say.. the idea of the testosterone clad in skirts; (iii) Stefano Pilati for Yves Saint Laurent. I love simple aesthetics. And, simultaneous awe-inspiring tailoring (and cough, sweatshirt dressing); (iv) final credits for Kris Van Assche; envy-worthy twists on formality and casual get-ups in between Sunday luncheons where fags rule your fingers.. and all that homme-hybrid sexiness. Whilst I am partly built by testosterone covertly embedded by the Almighty (why, God, why!)-- conquests as of late pops up with neon marquees, screaming for a thousand kind of floral jumpsuits, cage-like footwear and plaid sacks in a multiple palette to drown in (and roll up its' sleeves, heh). The simple bliss a patched cloth can bring. Ah-- while I'm in the moment, where's that goddamned fag I hid..

[MUSIC] Minus the Bear - Throwin' Shapes

Cinematic pleasures to catch: inevitably, "Wanted" and "My Blueberry Nights", yes.. mindless occurrence of confused sexuality, a favorite of mine, in "Garden Party"-- and "An American Crime". Workload calling.

Mean streaks, round-ups..

I hate traditional weddings. What I conclude: (i) live karaoke inspires manslaughter; (ii) children, often running, screaming (at the same time) spoils the alleged gaiety; (iii) uneven tarred roads are bitter enemies of the five-inch that caged my ankles; (iv) the caterers wink at you. Of course, all until the platter is unveiled. And then, I am an avid fan. It was.. worth the while, a good few hours with a married homme sibling-- a father-to-be, too (oh Lord, aunt to two!)-- and our dearly missed good humor slicing through Father's favorite Klasik Nasional radio station. Oh Lord, the pain.. a galore of peril. I can't stand it. But it's somewhat-- in a twisted, sick continuum; partly adorable. Fatigue chained me to momentary bed arrest, re-loving the Mars Volta's "Bedlam in Goliath" and mouthing Bixler-Zavala's demented metaphors. The next morning-- breakfast with tea. Clock's at eleven. I donned charcoal monotones, strapped on a tattered gold twosome. A nano-second reflection of the mirror. God, cunt of a hair. Le lad friend and I exchanged lines over coffee at a local Starbucks. It's been long. Gig acts, occasional slip of "I'd tap Michael over lunch, dinner.." and squeals over the Blues coming to town. Care to join?

[MUSIC] the Boggs - Arm In Arm (Shy Child remix)

Read me, or read "me"-- get it? Ha! Link, for fun: here.

Amused, enthralled.

It's six, and I'm here, at last. A pale pout, sipping in the amplitude of calm. June's final days reigned with apathy; amidst the hectic things thrown into a turmoil.. and I, well-- I am quite the same. Nights go on as routines, ousting sleep for caffeine in a war tangled between heavy eyelids and classes' workloads. Wednesday is where I mute into oblivion. High school superiority is best covert-- if not; for the scantily clad freshmen. Baked goods and empty trays come heavy sunshine and I left it at that. Thursday's a naughty one; slipped into sibling's cause of perplexity: a brown plaid shirt buttoned high enough for a tinge of skin, ever-coy bandage skirt and non-lambskin non-Chanel quilted bag. Shy at first, the trio.. but after hours of commute chemistry works it's magic. Demure chaos a little after two. I whispered a hello at the retail worker (whom compliments I have missed, dang) and got to the racks. Topman has the best shirts to drown in. Perfect silhouettes. Love took over, in the form of a noir frock, for summer; and bronze ankle-grazing gladiators. Other object of affections I refuse to leave, but did because I was skinned cash-wise: (i) checkered shirt for men, Jil Sander-ish clean cuts; (ii) idyllic magenta keyhole number; (iii) floral jumpsuit. Oh God, love at first sight. I squealed subtly, maintaining composure.. and picked it up. Defeated upon sight of pricetag. Checked out. Scampered to Rock Corner for compact discs, magic-inclusive. Torn between best of Radiohead and Portishead. But I left both 'heads. Fratellis conquers. Even if "Here We Stand" is a little old soul, slow-paced, riff-heavy.. Jon Fratelli and I have a strange bond. Euro-wise: Germans take on the brilliant Spanish side. I am torn, nonetheless. It's like in a familiar aisle on the market. Whipped cream. Weight gain? Happiness? I have always hated options.

[MUSIC] the Fratellis - Acid Jazz Singer

Note: Please don't rip off my work. My daily musings, previous winter's poetries-- nor my friends' work. I don't do e-bitchslaps. Save some pride and remove it before I consider exploring malicious high-tech viruses. Kidding. Or, not. "You complicate, I hibernate"? Come on, lass.

What's been going on--

Oh God, ice-cream dessert resembling Zeus greatness. Sibling rivalry, cutlery inclusive. Disheveled cunts post Italian fine dining. Le art lad and I smiling to each other. The "I want to get to know you" smile. Except when followed by a whistle, but that's for walking in taunting pathways. I gushed. Subtly, of course. Saturday's start, picturesque-- almost sealed with a kiss from the Heavens with a gladiator that screams man! masculine! tough! but I couldn't get it pass the pricetag, even if I wouldn't be handing the bills-- and it wasn't kryptonite. I left the birthday lad (turned twenty one, club-ready!) on his own, wild eyes over window displays. Sister, not quite strong as I-- capitulated her plastic towards an Anya Hindmarch monochrome hobo. Righteous. It was, say.. partly haunting Margiela-style and partly old English with vines and a goose tag. Sixteen hundred, gone. The next day I, strolled down the park.. with a thousand kind of reasons to fret, perspire-- I hope he's alright, though, Father. I hear the hurricane's passing by en route to Taiwan, but for your blood it's only a matter of time you turn into a sad sack. But, good things: (i) Thursday's premeditated "fever" to experience non-demure chaos at Topshop. Member's sale. A virgin, still-- but I am aiming for early morning queue lines, granola bars and enthusiasm in the form of le bestfriend Emily. Here's to: pansy-print blouses, plaid sacks, high-waisted anything!-- and shoes to go. Pants? I hate pants. Only pants I emit love for is period pants. Grotesque, true, but it's one of those one-off wonders when morning anew, and you don't have to change your bedsheet. Ah, the joys of femininity. Fuck, I want balls already, God. And; (ii) fingers crossed for zero casualties: I, baking brownies, public community.. eh, don't mix. And Spain got through, along with lanky Germans and vibrant Soviets. Injustice from Up There. I can't fucking choose. Arshavin? Michael? David Silva? Altintop? Kidding. Final note; (iii) the mini-gig come July shall foresee micro-frissons and sibling's plaid shirt befriending pants instead. Stay tuned.

[MUSIC] the Fratellis - Look Out Sunshine!

Mono is coming. Caliban is coming. Death Cab is coming.. to Singapore. What! Fuck! What! And Shitdisco is coming.. to Zouk, of all places. I miss Telawi findings. Wheatbread on raw, avocado on the sides.. bandage skirt rendezvous. And Urbanscapes! Oh God, Kokokaina. I am in like sin.