Lightning speed, please.
Side note: Father and I share(d) love for the same brand of fags. Rather cute, I say. Like father, like daughter. I'm whipped. Classes have been swell-- I've made self oaths to not miss anymore classes of importance (note: importance) and actually pay attention. Rather than being me: sleeping on the other side of the textbook. Righteous. I swear. My perpetuate love-hate affair on going to the movies will end with a trip for Be Kind, Rewind. Two things. Michel Gondry and Science of Sleep. I was one of those who were left baffled (with awe) once it hit credits. Imaginative animation in a fast-paced motion. Different angular of thoughts. Random. And the Kite Runner screens on the weekend-- undoubtedly, you'll see me along the other hyped crowd. Oh, the anticipation. I have shed more tears on the book than-- hold on, the Notebook can still shelf the award. Don't snicker. I'm a wholehearted sap, yo. Moving on: Champions League fixtures. Merry, merry me. Three in the morning and traces of chocolate on the corner of my lips? Righteous once more! Financially blessed at the moment. Hence! Saving up for a classic white button-down at GAP by Phillip Lim (ace!) or Michael Bastian. Reachable sources and a favorite designer on the tag? I'm in like sin.
[MUSIC] Good Shoes - Sophia
I'm not exactly a tidy lass.
Merry as one can be! Reason why: the mighty Blues coming down on July 29th (confirmed, whipped as fuck-- anticipating!) and Manchester City planning an Asian tour that (gasps) includes our capital state. Two words: Vedran Corluka. I'd love to shake his hands. And a follow-up, ahem, rape. In that manner. Weekends up, and I have Horse the Band in mind: to go, or not to go. Education or electronic metal sounds-- I don't know. Spring cleaning's hiatus is contributing to the atrocious state of (i) room and, (ii) closet; but I keep it fairly behind closed doors. Genius. Part of April's resolutions include (!) stocking up on granola bars, cutting down on whipped cream, set up appointments for braces and crossing my fingers all throughout for a wholehearted win against Manchester United come April 26th. The arrogant Portuguese prick tearing our guards down. Hate to admit it, but he's the best I've seen. Taking additional Accounts subject to round them to ten, since I have nine and still contemplating on the use of Additional Mathematics (out of giving up on Question 2, of course). Side notes: disciplinary teacher called a familiar name (cough, mine) and demanded a parent-teacher consultation. Excuse me, I am a good seed. I swear. Or was it the girl-on-girl throwdown I had last month? Dang.
[MUSIC] Be Your Own Pet - Food Fight
Should I insert a smile?
Academics Day, really. Eye-rolls and yawns were the theme. Until I had a shopping cart in hand-- and a merciless budget. Whip! Granola bars, ice (cough, whipped) cream and fruit-based things. I swear my cart looked like a child invasion. Happy so far, at ten in the morning. Had a second consultation at the doctors-- it's good, I'm monitored for another two weeks and we shall see if it's a cut biopsy (it sounds inhumane, I know) or simply no medications at all. The thick, deterring Additional Mathematics books is rightfully in place. How uncomfortable, right in the face. Numbers: my 16 year old hate, and counting. Thereby I still refuse allegations (and epiphanies) from fascist siblings that I am indeed an idiot. Come on, give this lass a chance. Wankers. April's Nylon magazine cover: Anja Rubik, Clemence Poesy and Chloe Sevigny in none other than Chloe of course-- a final appreciation and last interpretation of Paolo Melim Andersson's creations for the French brand. Hence! Dollar bills to be sacrificed for the purpose of reminiscing (insert yawns). More ridiculous things: fish and fruit diet. Atrocious. How can you not go barbaric on red meat? Tell me. And up here is a Simpsons' designer spread (cue: Lisa in Lanvin, Evangelista and Alber Elbaz who looks curiously like Family Guy) back in August, last year. Classy. On to the next ridiculous shit: Whitney Port of the Hills (I don't watch it, I swear) pronouncing Givenchy like an American. In Paris! Cue dropped jaws. I can't be bothered with the amplitude of shit compressed in that show-- Lauren Conrad is in no way more influential than Lagerfeld. Excuse me, what world do you live in?
[MUSIC] the Raconteurs - Salute Your Solution
Whitney's disgrace: here. And Alex Turner demands to be shagged, hard: here. And of course, the Lauren Conrad article: here. Please appreciate the kindness. Laugh, have a minor orgasm and laugh again.
Major, major swooning.
It's been long since I have found tunes that make me smile (except in cases where, Keith Murray does offbeat covers of pop tragedies) and alas! I found it. The "Volume One" compressed with chic, ethereal sounds of (she) Zooey Deschanel and him-counterpart M. Ward. Rather airy country vibe at some, amidst the songs that leaves you drifting past afternoons. Love, in short. Perhaps actress cum indie singer Zooey D would reminisce the 30 Seconds to Mars that provoked love-hate-- love it, hate it, grab the album and wind off! And hey! I made a Vox post on a band, circa thirty minutes after I heard the quirky melodramatic rendition of "Take It Back" and numbers that make lasses weak at the knees, such as "Sentimental Heart" and my personal favorite at the time being: "Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?". I ain't backdated, aren't I? This week, I find myself unconsciously reshuffling Be Your Own Pet (rediscovered love!) and the Rumble Strips' "Clouds" for 'child playing with a kite' references along with Tokyo Police Club's new monochromatic tones. I'll leave you to Stereogum's hands: shift through SXSW reviews (think No Age, These New Puritans and Fuck Buttons). And Mark from the Cobra Snake came down a few days ago to much dismay of underaged teenagers (who are chocking selves in disappointment, cough, me) but the pictures of the color enthusiasts clad fell short. You be the judge!
[MUSIC] She & Him - Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?
The Cobra Snake on Kuala Lumpur: here and She & Him's "Volume One" review: here.
Shit, I'm pissed.
Skipped classes for the day-- Monday blues (hold on, I wasn't that sad after the win) married with Additional Mathematics? Undoubtedly inviting man-slaughter level of angst. Alas I went over the hospital for a consultation. Not that I have noticed, but I have four swollen lymph nodes. That I can curiously play with. Really. Scary? Hilarious! Perhaps it wasn't that hilarious (at all, might I add) when I had a needle poking through my thin skin. Checking for Tuberculosis instead: I ain't got the faintest idea how it ended up in that direction. Moments earlier on, Mother asked if I wanted to attend some international school. I was ecstatic, thrilled. Enthused. Then she added, "in Dubai." I was still enthused. But dang, this lass ain't got what it takes to live up there on her own. Thing is, I can't seem to bother about shit yet ironically constant merriness is very much alive. Easily pissed at the littlest things. Fierce patience failing at times. Rapid growth of Youtube addiction. All hail for the filming of the Upper East Side lasses in (predictable) Ksubi jeans, so I have something to do besides falling asleep in between pages of Chemistry. And really. Most of me are turning into an expert laconic conversationalist. Please don't talk to me. For now.
[MUSIC] Pete Yorn & Kinky - Use Me
Oh, I feel so proud--
Honest to God, I wasn't expecting such impressive lads. It was perhaps almost eighty games ago that we lost to Arsenal at our own holy grounds. From one goal down to two goals up. I was in awe. Them lads in Blue graced the green field, almost reminiscing old Jose days-- perfect chemistry, quick touches and assists, brilliant one-twos and special credits to Didi. For being, of course, the magnificent self he's been. Perhaps, if it's the last season-- he could help us to the utmost top and kiss the coveted trophy once again? It ain't "big dreams". The said game proved we can play stylish football, and we're here to impress. Now! The game earlier-- the Red Devils eased past ten-men Liverpool with three goals. Expected. Liverpool was immobile right until Benayoun came on, provided some tactical goods but then again-- Rafa was too late. Mascherano pulled a bold, atrociously stupid decision to argue the referee's rightful decision on Torres' yellow. Come on. You're fucking booked, lad. Get on with it! The referee should've gave him a harsh warning instead, rather than a straight red. He changed the game. Fans of the Reds might be (deathly) furious of his decisions. Thank God we had good referee Mark for the midnight clash. Oh the love for God-- suppose He played a big part of this and I can't produce enough gratification. Coming up: the Blues against the rascal-esque Middlesbrough, then against Fenerbahce (whip!) and Wigan Athletic. Lads' got the balls to do it all :-)
[MUSIC] the Fratellis - Chelsea Dagger
Spirited song for a spirited night! Right on, lads in blue! Medical scan tomorrow morning? Yawn. And yes! How much sexier can Michael Ballack be with those sweat-clad curls and that oh-so-spankable ass? I was so horny it wasn't funny.
So-- yo.
No, don't know the man. Rather cool, ain't it? Stole the picture from some sarcasm-based web blog. Ha! After endless spree deprivation-- I have now resolved in drowning my sorrows in the unholiest, fattening (yet, attractive as God) whipped cream once more. I swear I put on pounds on those Godsent creams. Suppose it's the new fag. The new sin. Tried on tea dresses throughout the whole week-- had enough cash for one, bought none. Three coffee joints later! I'm here at home, legs all hairy and feeling not so snazzy. Come thirty minutes, game time. Clash of the reds. No, no-- I won't elaborate much more. No fret, lasses! Ha. Films to catch via illegal downloads: August Rush, the Great Debaters (as of Em's recommendations), Chapter 27 though a fat Jared Leto and raven-haired Lohan is bound to bore. Must in list: My Blueberry Nights. Quirky title aside, high ratings? Check. The handsome (wanker, I know) Jude Law? Check. And the movie Priceless; with the loved Amelie Poulain. So, I'm blessed. Needs Wolfmother's album-- the Raconteurs' new coming out next week and May's (perhaps) row of parties calls for the saying, "curl up your locks, roll out your frocks!"-- and I ain't got none of those. But my hair looks smashing at night. Yawn. Happy Sunday!
[MUSIC] Men Without Pants - And The Girls Go
Be Your Own Pet mixed with a little offbeat screams. You be the judge!
So, apologies.
Perhaps the two consecutive posts on self rants (about the most predictable subject) weren't that appreciated. I suppose. Ha! Back to the usuals. Graced the marble floors of three malls: the aristocratic haven attached to the Twin Towers, the Gardens, and the Curve. The first! Ah, passing through the Chanel retailer was like magic. Explosions. The quilted lambskin leather encapsulates the bags. The ever-so-present gold chain strap. Fuck. Then pushed the doors open for Prada, saw the coveted pair of shoes. Embodied with the Rem Koolhaas quality, as we know Miuccia and he are peas in a pod. Tulip heels. What on Earth could sound so perfect? Alas! The bags didn't demand a credit card's presence over the counter top. Enough. Purchased nothing throughout the three trips. Lack of interest despite a rather blossomed budget (cue: stealing leftover balances from the bill, withdrawing an extra fifty note from Mother's account) and seemingly karma caught up, I suppose? Snickers. Of course it wasn't stealing. Them ladies saw me curiously grabbing the bill, subsequently hides it under the table and grabbed the leftover notes. Do it all the time, even. Ate alone at Burger King. Purchased the mini Vogue instead: shit-filled content. Thank me later. Successfully refrained from purchasing caffeine. Sang an amusing off-key version of Duffy's "Mercy". Don't put me on the spot! Off to Pavilion tomorrow. Floral button-down, come here thou.
[MUSIC] Robots in Disguise - Turn It Up
And it comes!
Drinks, friends of the opposing teams, glorious jerseys and endless gloat-induced talks on who's the best top scorer in the league. All in a man's agenda come Sunday night. Clash of the reds: most-awaited. The likes of the Portugese legs of wonder against the on-form Spanish number nine. I say: home win. Undoubtedly. A freekick, a corner-- Manchester has got the balls to nick it in at the most untimely moments. Liverpool's brilliant marking tactics: superb. Say, the opposing side topples the home side-- I would let out a shared gasp along with the baffled crowd. The Red Devils has the goods to take home the title once more. However! A slip-up is a could-be, hence one of the trios would gladly take pleasure in closing the gap. On to the next fixture: the mighty Blues against the Gunners. I'll spare biased comments. Perhaps. The new-found form we have depicts brilliance on field, improved pace and the usual creative set-pieces. Heard on the tube that the Gunners haven't been consistent in mental strength, bad finishing most of the time and Rosicky left out: good things for the Blues, bad news for the Gunners. Hold it-- I stand firm that the Gunners and the Red Devils are the two teams that play the most stylish football. Agreed, aware and afraid. How they can pull a comeback will not surprise, but how they overcome the amount of draws in past fixtures? My thoughts await. Hleb, Cesc and Flamini will rampage through our defence and midfield-- it is up to the semi-insane Avram Grant to put in appropriate lads and rightly-proposed strategies rather than a last minute line-up (cue: defeat to Spurs on Carling Cup final). The man continues to puzzle us, no? Perhaps a hint of sanity in the first eleven would do good. Sure pick: Joe Cole. Best season of his career? Might be. Magnificent himself, or paired up with Kalou for great one-twos hence enviable assists near the opposing end. Lampard and Ballack: who I want to see, despite the sexiness galore (cough, excuse hormonal intervention), it could be them producing magic or Essien and Makalele, with Lampard. Striker of choice: can't tell. Didi would be the sane choice, with Anelka or Sheva on bench. Defence line-up? Oh, at this point-- I'm chanting little prayers that they have learned their lesson and stop clearing the ball so atrociously. Really. Fingers crossed for a home win. High doubts on a loss, our unbeaten run at the Bridge itself is hard-earned. Is he, or isn't he, Petr Cech? I am exasperated. I miss them Godsent hands of his!
[MUSIC] Be Your Own Pet - Bicycle, Bicycle You Are My Bicycle
Social updates: (a) going out with loved beings on Saturday, perhaps to the two-winged retailer or the Gardens; (b) proposed medical check-up (for real, I swear) on Monday morning; (c) growing love for Jason Castro!
I remember it well.
Back in December, Boxing Day-- to be exact. The same thing. The same scoreline. The same, scattered defense line-up that looked as promising as wrought iron. Has Carlo aged that bad out of his superiority? Whatever happened to the goalkeeper that earned a Golden Glove winning season-- has those hands turned rusty in two seasons? Tell me. I almost could not contain my composure. Don't say I am flipped out over a scoreline. It is not a scoreline. It is dropping two possible points from the top. And dropping perhaps two more this Sunday-- I can only predict a draw. We are not good enough. We are certainly not going to regain our glorious runs, winning trophies here and there in the past seasons. The defense line-up's attempts to clear the ball, defend against possible goals throughout corners, oh God it was despicable. Atrocious, might I add. I have never felt more disappointed with the Blues. Cruising with ease against Spurs is impossible. Please. After the Ramos takeover, they have been rightly praised in every way. Their clash against Man City last Sunday was the weekend's most brilliant game. But of course. To be amongst the top four, oh so close to the points we could attain-- my heart palpations were audible within miles. Lamps was immobile. Joe Cole should be praised and be offered a move to Bernabeu (a sign that you've made it big). Drogba was being himself, selfish most of the time. Makalele and Essien performed good, with the latter providing an impressive flick of the ball to the back of the net. Again, the defense line-up. I repeat: atrocious. Terry was all over the place, yet redeemed himself because he's literally the spinal cord of the team. Influencing referees, as usual. Carvalho wasn't the appreciated Portugese that usually demands an applause for his saves. We put comfort in trusting their legs; Carvalho and Terry. What happened? Ashley was being a bastard all throughout-- disrespectful, vulgar. Unappreciative of the supposed red card rather than receiving a generous yellow instead. Hilario would have made a better replacement of Cech, it ain't Carlo. Rusty hands don't belong! I mutely beg for a better side of the Blues at the Bridge come Sunday, against the Gunners. One can only leave trust upon those experienced legs and the allegedly creative set-pieces. I'm pissed.
[MUSIC] Phoenix - Napoleon Says
I regret depicting the game in such words-- some were meritorious. Good set-pieces, superb chemistry between Kalou and Joe Cole with Didi as the lone striker. I love the top halves. Them Africans and the sole Londoner left me proud. Lads, keep working on it :-)
