I had an awful morning.
Toast was cold. United conquered the Catalans. You have no idea how painful it is to write such a thing-- and the fact that: the Blues might meet the Devils at Moscow. If, and only if, Fernando's "kicked and pulled" by our rightfully unchivalrous defenders. Bless you, lads! Work it. So. I was drenched in sweat as I head home with an unholy amount of French fries in hand. My unabashed love for trans-fat, damn. It's that Wednesday again-- where I can't find (warnings ahead, grotesque sentence incoming) any underwear. At all. Embarrassing, really. A lass should (!) have enough underwear supplements to last a week. And now it's starting to inflict gag.. moving on! What plastered a smile: "Chuck Bass Tuesdays" on my guilty-pleasure sites, the beautiful French man (points above) and.. mm, French fries. Two barbecues up ahead tonight: rave enthusiasts or semi-drunken lads? By that, I mean rows of the politically-incorrect fags or simply innocent catch-ups? Merrier things: one of the city's fashion clad are offering minimal shipping and tax (oh bless!) costs if you want a little something-something from the States. And then my fingers tap (with righteous hybrid speed) to Net-A-Porter and blindly adds the Miu Miu Spring collection and Proenza Schouler's into my e-cart. And starve for a year. At this moment on-- I'm working on a composition entitled "The Stranger", shifting through Youtube and pinning for the Gunners to keep Flamini (and Hleb!). Yo Frenchman! Rather than "break a transfer record" with Gareth Barry, might as well keep them liquid legs at Emirates? I have love for the Gunners' style of play (well, sort of) and for football itself-- even if Hleb is a Neanderthal. And Blues! Sell Mikel (it fucking rhymes now, don't it!) and grab Sven! Truckloads of love (and luck) for tonight, you mighty Blues. And you Scouser scums. And if it ends with another disgraceful penalty shoot-out.. I'm so out of here.
[MUSIC] Stereolab - Three Women
Christian Siriano/Nina Garcia on the Ugly: here. And more insight on the Cesc Fabre-gay Show (only because he's sexy): here. Overrated, pixie-cut and blonde-- and plays the banjo? Laura Hollins in the Lucky Knitwear: here. A merry Labor Day to you!
I'm on Post-Its overdose.
My Sunday was allegedly meant to be spent on textbooks. And post-its. Neon highlighters and decreasing the amount of workload I've put off since.. January. Or so. Basically. I grabbed my History textbook-- because I love reading about the Romans and headed to the Gardens. With them unconsciously humorous beings. Laid eyes on one gorgeous lad, loveliest in months actually.. and I went home as merry as one can be. And because I ain't got shit to embrace! The lad is, say, a little Boyd (cliche, I know)-- stellar skin, a subtle nose piercing, my knees went weak, felt so underdressed and idiotic, will return in another envy-inflicting ensemble. Soon enough. And he works at an art store. And the retail stores were having a mid-season sale. I had the cash, the energy bars and the spirit but Father had to intervene. Proceeded with a half-an-hour Macbook Air browse. That shit right there is lovely! Other things: le bestfriend is smoking pot and all the unholy things again. Last time I remembered, we shared an oath to skip the green bottles and not O.D? But hey. A lad's got to do what a lad's got to do. My level of enthusiasm for Monday is below-par, I am deathly aggravated by the workloads, the need to ace and.. basically everything else with fringes. What to look forward to: second legs of the Champions League. And Labor Day. And Friday's short classes. And my bake sale to accumulate enough for a 3.1 Phillip Lim GAP button-down or anything Phillip Lim, basically. I need a frock for a late May party.. where some are bound to get tipsy (yawn) and finally step foot to Pavilion to slip in those Luella knock-off skirts at the giant retail store. And Father's lovely act of generosity will commence. How? By whipping out a textbook and writing down artificial notes in front of him, of course. And whoever set my alarm to "Bangun la setan"? God damn it?!
[MUSIC] Toploader - Dancing In The Moonlight (don't you miss this!)
My Lord, am I whipped..
Hold it-- let me stop hyperventilating. Ha. The lads in blue, as dexterous as can be. Fast-paced, stylish (stylish!) and mostly wrought iron on defence. One man stood out. Only because he scored both goals. And because he is death-defyingly sexy. I have a soft spot for old men and curls. Raise your eyebrows, if you may! A tad overdressed, I was with the band of lads. All against the Devils and one unfortunate (F) had to endure our ghastly supportive behavior. Screams. Standing ovations (it wasn't, cough, me). And mostly crude and vulgar accusations that Ronaldo is an actual whiny bitch. Yes! But thank you Lord. Sexy Number Thirteen headed a fine one a couple minutes before the interval, slipped off his jersey (mm, yeah) and held tribute to Pat Lampard. Lamps, we're here for you! And cunt Rooney benefited from our disgraceful pass towards the penalty area.. but then Sexy Number Thirteen made up for it with a nerve-crunching penalty. What a load of tits? Luck? We won. So.. fuck you. Wait-- sorry! And yes. With brilliant assists, a glimpse of Shevchenko (gasp!), Joseph John once again upped his game and mostly of course, and undeniably, the presence of our defensive duo completed by Petr. Other lads worked hard as well-- total gratitude here. So now! Lads! Intense focus on Wednesday's clash against the Kops. At the Bridge once more, good vibes, eh? All smiles. Yes Fernando, no Fernando-- bring it on. So.. my day obviously went well. Headed to the designer goods store, teared a little when I can't afford this magnificent Darryl K zippered dress. Black on black, with asymmetrical zipper, buttons on the side-- heavenly at best. And a 3.1 Phillip Lim black pocketed t-shirt. Price tag that could cater a band of children in Rwanda or so. Dang! And so it is. Classes on Monday. Exams the next Monday. Death the next Monday. I'm a really busy lass, you know.
[MUSIC] Lenny Kravitz - Good Morning
Oh, the glory of days off.
A semi-merry Friday. Classmate classics, drowned in calories of Italian goodness and am too enthused for Saturday's discoveries. Except for the morning Red Crescent gathering-- which I loathe, excluding the fact that I am arguably smoking in the medic t-shirt. Vanity aside! My eyes await an up close glance of a Dries Van Noten piece, or a Commes Des Garconnes. And blindly fall for its beauty. Declining sanity. And everything else. Hold it-- I've yet to transition into the sarcastic cunt I originally am. So, on with it-- what I am up to on Sunday! Supporting a friend's band. Embracing the scantily clad by (hypocritically) being one of them. Shaved legs? Yes. Preparations, lasses. My stems are home to some hideous, indelible scars-- circa when I was too young for the word "manners" and too idiot-infused for the practice of "sanity". And then a trip to the doctors. My excuse? My stems need a healthy dose of sight. Rather than being blackened by them holy tights. Enough about legs. Rants on the League, of course, always ever-so-present: United clash against us in Blue (in capital, with dignity enclosed) at the Bridge. Lamps' mother marked her end, hence the absence of Frankie would be highly understood. The Scousers were one of the firsts to post up condolences. Well done, lads. Thank you. But see you at the Bridge on Wednesday. Where we will retain our two-year reign of superiority and thousands of luck (draws, own goals, biased referees). Oh, you're just jealous. I am painfully shoe-deprived (aching). Reliant on my strappy Chloe-esque patent leather flats for months and it's manifesting fungus (disgusted). Hence am always hesitant to strap my feet in (scared). Solutions: gladiators. Or the semi-hideous, semi-Lanphear Oxford brogues at Forever (broke). It's that morning where you're randomly listening to Lerche's ballads, drenching your sorrows in editorials by underrated photogs, whilst still trying to finish your copy of de Saint-Exupery's Le Petit Prince. Maybe not for you. I have lives to save (what a load of tits!) and idiots to educate in the morning. I command you to watch "Control" by Anton Corbijn, greatness of Ian Curtis! Lads in Blue-- make me proud. Again. I'm rooting for Carvalho and Terry (and Joseph John!) to get salutations. Give back some love, lads!
[MUSIC] Okkervil River - Unless It's Kicks
List Verse unleashed the potential dork in me. In you, too-- perhaps? Google it up.
Thank you, Riise!
What the fuck was that?! It was as good as done! And blithely comes an own goal from an unpredictable source, really-- Riise. Come on now carrot-top Scouse! Ah, however atrocious it is for you Kops.. I was happily looking at the sky shouting holy chants of appreciation to God. Even happier with (finally, God damn it) a second leg at our (cough, over a century of games unbeaten) holy Bridge and even sexier sweat clad men on the greens. The latter seems nonsensical, but hey! Hormones. Our defense proved their worthy (except that one time) and Cech definitely cemented his way to our Helmeted Goalkeepers Hall of Fame. Didier portrayed his slightly uncanny side, an almost "I don't know what I'm doing here when I'm supposed to be in Milan with Jose or am I not, wait what!" and Joseph settled as the dim star alongside Florent. Hold on now-- Joseph? Sounds like someone from The Last Supper.. no, really-- Joseph John Cole was hanging dry of his usual best. I figured Joseph John would be more likely humorous than norm Joe Cole. Rad. This is I, being ridiculously merry hence appalling humor so apologies. Lamps' mess lead to Kuyt reaching the back of the net. Head somewhere else, that lad. Yes, sick parent-- but the club needs only ninety minutes of concentration. What I love: Cech's posthaste reflex on the 84th minute to deny a double from on-form Scouse captain. Raised eyebrows on: Chelski's messy clearings, lack of superiority in counter-attack, rubbish-relevant finishings and a "What the fuck is going on with you?" to Avram for not putting in Kalou instead of Florent. My idea: Kalou and Joseph John (oh my stomach hurts!) giving great assists to Didier and quick one-twos. Michael, thank you for providing essential sexiness and for the volley tries that didn't work. Lads, the Bridge awaits! Eh, hold it-- all eyes on the title race. I think we got a tinge of chance and a whole lot of consistency and charisma. Make me proud. (Did anyone notice Anelka's curiously extra-shiny head, though?).
[MUSIC] Sondre Lerche - My Hands Are Shaking
Comes the dreamy days..
Late for classes-- and had a naughty trip to the fast food chain for a hashbrown or two (two) and coffee. And still had to pick up extra rubbish lingering on the compound. Shit-infused morning? Check. Free period was glorified with our giggly beings, more than normal-- and endless stuffing of logarithms (sad face) in our heads. Ha! Post-party due this Friday. More good things-- the clash of the Blues this morning against the Kops. Potential snooze fest indeed. A draw, then ten-men defense line and probably some nerve-crunching hitting the woodworks. And the whistle goes. What I'm excited about is! United against the Catalans. Undoubtedly I'll be tuning in the tube for Bojan Krkic (cue minor orgasm) and his forward counterpart Messi for their hybrid legs-- and everything else (cough, ass). So-- I found a clothes blog that imports Twenty8Twelve, some vintage Marni perhaps, and past runway frock from Viktor and Rolf. On the cheap. Marni in my closet? I'm hyperventilating. And today's Earth Day. I'm turning off my air conditioner for the whole day yet the Godsent cool breeze's here to stay (since the morning, very heavenly) so-- I'm not scorched yet. And have you seen Google's Earth Day logo? Adorable as fuck. Time being: reshuffling some Sufjan and homo-favorites Boyz II Men. Whoever that spells boys with a "z" should be decapitated and sent to social camps. But in this case, the love ballads have swept me off my feet since day one. And now it's day.. (counts in head, fails miserably-- grabs a Hershey's kiss). Happy Earth Day!
[MUSIC] Sondre Lerche feat Regina Spektor - Hell No
Oh and-- Mourinho for Inter Milan. He signed. Fuck you. And targeting Lamps and Didi to San Siro? Fuck you once more. Well, here's a little hearty thing: here. Cesc Fabre-gay (yet, so very sexy) wants his own show. Insert demonic laugh.
First-- I'm flipped.
Skipped the airport for some lush blanket appreciation. It's one of those Godsent Sundays where you wake up to hair sexily tousled by nature and your skin (and ahem, a twin of things) feeling incredibly supple. Parents were back intact under the same roof; and I was given a little surprise: an original Isaac Mizrahi little black frock. Am pleased. Even more pleasured (!) with the predictable draw United got away with at Ewood Park against Blackburn. The abnormally hunky Santa Cruz saved the day along with Gamst who've always been a threat-- so thank you boys! All the lads (in blue, of course) need is a victory at the Bridge and continuing the winning steak when the Kops throw a visit for the second leg of Champions League. Whipped, enthused as fuck, everything in a can. Anyhow! Saturday also witnessed a replacement of the lost beanie. And yours truly stuck in a rut upon checking her purse, and there's no dollar bills left for her Venti coffee? My never-ending calamities. Manchester City against Pompeii tonight-- guilty pleasure: David James in a cap and Corluka running up and down. Sexily. Yes, okay. Back to the usual Monday blues tomorrow, and extra Physics class to be endured. And yes! Saturday was also the day (it ain't no history, still) I successfully refrained from the petrifying (in delicious ways) pavlova or the Black Forest in a glass. I had such strength? Ha. Side note: contemplating on a shorter, more fuss-free cut ala Mrs Cruise, or a pixie as Anja Rubik. For now, it's all pulled back. I'm a walking mythical beast.
[MUSIC] Bjork - Wanderlust
Oh my Lord, the amplitude of humor! It's Will Ferrell and a little foul-mouthed landlord: here. And then, watch "Good Cop, Baby Cop": here. Plus, Architecture in Helsinki drops a video and a new number. Whipped? You bet: here. Enjoy!
Semi-excited, wholly relaxed.
It's rather dark in here. Everyone's in their dreamlands, and here I am. Increasing heart palpitations with every tempting glance of Spring's multifaceted moods depicted on the runway. A little insight on my Thursday! Screwed up the (allegedly) oral test that I should have aced. Instead I was facing a crowd of clueless faces-- to my dismay. Really. Anne Frank's glory wasn't welcomed at all. Steps on taking care of your hamsters are. It wasn't even half funny. After too many crude remarks surfacing in my head, I got back to my scribbles and the cheese cracker in hand. The amount of bullshit, my Lord. Aha, and so-- the lads at home are doing good with occasional arguments on who's to take out the rubbish. I can't. I had a traumatic experience once, sworn never to be repeated again. Speaking of rubbish! The coach spoke about on signing Messi (hah!) in the summer and I was on the floor (ahem, rolling) with hysterics. Don't speak of what you don't know, old man. And so. The infamous London retailer debuted it's Fall collection. It's not a collection. It's a stack of the previous Spring (and Fall) runways modified and enhanced (not necessarily in the best ways)-- because all I see is Miu Miu's color palette, harlequins and blousons; Rick Owen's aesthetics of sheer things and a once Carolina Herrera design. Needless to say, my heart skipped a beat to the thought of affordable Miu Miu-esque things on the cheap but oh my Lord it is so obvious? Ha. Links after the jump. Weekend's frown: shortage on finance. The goods: mashed potatoes and dessert to be barbarically galloped (while maintaining subtle hints of an actual female behind the fast-paced cutlery) at Delicious, bandage skirt rendezvous and the occasional it-wouldn't-hurt candy to the eyes. A Godsent thing is calling my name. From far, it looks rather-- blueberried and oh my God, whipped cream.. I think it needs a closer inspection? A merry Friday to you!
[MUSIC] the Virgins - Rich Girls (by far, coolest song discovered last year)
To witness Topshop infusing blatant Miu Miu in their line: here. The original Godsent things: Miu Miu!. Side note: how abnormally cool is this haunting thing? Very Erin Wasson: :-). Amplitudes of luck to the Blues at Merseyside!
What I am up to.
The draw on Monday night probably have sprinkled gold glitters on United's (cemented) way to the title. Cech was back, and is continuing his runs in the goal. Happy faces, lads and lasses! Season's almost over-- be it United draw at Blackburn and lose at the Bridge, then the lads have something to work on. Since the chances are as slim as (pictured) Kate, then I shall rant about the future. What we need: (a) a chance for Sheva to prove himself in the seventieth minute of every game; (b) youngster Di Santo (no, not Dos Santos-- but he's on my Dream Team) to have a short run in the first eleven; (c) a new coach (cough, Riijkard, cough). What will be interesting to see: (a) if Didier goes, or if Lamps sign a new contract (gasp!); (b) a new striker (?). Hence! Probabilities on improvement. On the F-industry: Lanphear hunting down Nina Garcia's old post on Elle. And a film! On Coco! The one who invented the Godsent quilted lambskin Chanel 2.55. And Audrey Tautou! Because Amelie was extravagantly adorable-- this one should foresee adoring claps and rave reviews. The French government are making it illegal to be deathly skinny. Really. A little hazy-- how can you ban anorexia and not obesity as well? Unhealthy? Double checks. Blatant ribcages are welcomed to the law still. And, fall into the gap! The collaborations (Michael Bastian, Phillip Lim, double skips of merry) on staple white button-down are here. I'm contemplating on having a charity (okay, semi-charity) bake sale for one. And Scarlett Jo covers Tom Waits-- I like it. Quite. I don't know. A certain classmate made me gasp with this: "Have you ever heard of Stereogum?". Modernity practiced in my class? Really? (And I do, love, Stereogum.)
[MUSIC] Scarlett Johansson - Anywhere I Lay My Head
For the record (and atrocious cover art): here. And the thin-not-in: here.
Why, subtly of course.
Unconsciously! My tide-high spirits falter in between text book emissions and the (decreasing) amount of free periods. A little left out amidst the hearty conversations that float about. I, myself-- hold on. I constantly find myself depicting disinterest rather than the celebrated continuous banters of child-like humor, which is terrible. I look smug. A fatuous disposition. I try! I do. Proper English is a paved invite to momentary glances, and it ain't good. A little plea of help during the hardest classes (if you can't tell which, sorrows for you!) are blatantly looked down upon. As if there's this orchestra of intellects and ones who're a little unlucky are named as the unappreciated audience. Who only look on with awe. Dropped jaws and all. Cue vibrant clapped hands. I can't be autodidactic. Suppose, I'm merriest with self-proclaimed social enthusiasts. Embracing the non-serious part of our lives, frolicking in sheer things, learning the power of saying yes, or saying no-- because I'm not looking for spirited conversations about Lanvin. Or Yves Saint Laurent's pantsuits (that's another high!)-- the point is! The socially handicapped and the youth-embracing scantily clad cannot mix. Even after all those years of trying, the juxtaposition demands a name for itself. And the name, clearly states, impossibility. I'm sorry, lasses. But I honestly am on the verge of semi-insanity in class, where workloads walk hand in hand with alphabets in your report cards. Intelligence is coveted. In my world, intelligence and social abilities do not spell doom. It's perfectly mortal to let loose, lasses. Smile!
[MUSIC] Tokyo Police Club - Juno
