For pleasure and pain.
I'm half charmed, half intoxicated. The latter being.. these lean fingers have wrapped the monochrome mug six times too many. Rich, noir. Love in the form of consciousness-- which I lack thereof. What God blessed: post-sunrise shoe wholesale. Juice (and shriek) inclusive femme friends. Dollar bills for manly shoes. It ain't no surprise how it's once more, the demon witching hour, and I can't get my self-proclaimed sexy self off the swivel chair. What I'm facing: Playboy France editorial. By the gloves of Karl-- magnificent to the heavens. Erotic yet.. immaculate at first (and afterwards, too) glance. If one can only amuse me with such dandy news on the whereabouts of a French Vogue locally.. oh good Lord. Sell my shoes I'd do such sin. Undoubtedly. And perhaps, unconsciously, too. What I'm stoked about: perpetuate alleged gladiator conquests. Experiencing demure heart attacks upon Chloe shoes. Truly righteous. And white button-down with rolled-up sleeves-- perfect for frolicking incandescently through summer remains. Lavish heaven-sent goods aside! Blues fans, cherish upon this: ten Cate sacked. One who provoked angst in John (John!) and curiously bears resemblance to a turtle. In the past-life, perhaps. I'm a nervous wreck-- with aplomb. Summer signings are a puzzle, millions aren't spent fast enough, and-- what's this about Tottenham wanting dos Santos! I am mad. Pissed. Baffled. Every anger-induced adjective in the dictionary. As much as I'd produce love to linger around much longer-- yawns have become kings. A merry weekend to you!
[MUSIC] the Bluetones - Never Going Nowhere
Flattery! Thank you, lads-- whom admitted without shame with their consequent visits here. I'll give subtle wit a shot (or have I already..) and yes, I shall excuse myself to deflate. And, and, and-- selling clothes, mint condition, on the cheap: visit!
As promised.
Scenic as it is-- my mornings are awakened by the sound of jets soaring through fey skies. Loud, deafening. Crisp lunches over afternoons. One of the best nights: Wednesday, post dusk. The lads await, three bottles of vodka no less-- circling around the campfire with marshmallows on single sticks. Stories were exchanged, hints of subtle irony.. and le drunkards vomiting behind the scene. Rarely a night they capitulate towards severe simplicity, us being us. Laid back dorks borderline rebels. I loved every moment. My shirt unbuttoned enough for a tinge of flesh, in lazy blue monotones, burning cocktails.. sipping heat and poignant thoughts from way back when. Safely home before midnight though, with fatigued stems barely able for subsequent motions. Three in the morning, the English lads had me jolted-- and John with the armband (and a goal) left me a merry cunt come morning. What I'm stoked about: the pulchritudinous Prinsloo in undoubtedly.. one of my favorites: the Virgin's "Rich Girls" video. Noted wearing only Agent Provocateur two-piece and a Burberry trench. I'll take two of those.. and Proenza Schouler debuting a vast shoe-line. Fucking radical. Honest to God. I can't remember in actuality where I was on Monday.. or Tuesday-- intoxicated not, blame game on caffeine however. And the Blues can't decide on a manager-- high hopes on Mancini of Milan or Riijkard of the Catalans (loveliest with Messi, ain't it!). Fingers crossed for the dainty repairman to fix my connection. French Vogue editorials, Geraldine Saglio dailies, the Blues updates, transfer rumors.. ah, sobs aplenty. A merry Friday to you.
[MUSIC] Airborne Toxic Event - Does This Mean You're Moving On
In case it's not fixed-- idyllic Friday morning: shoe wholesale. Saturday's a femmes-only, and I intend to rake in good karma. Persuasion and a significant Marc by Marc Jacobs thingamajig.. in the same sentence. Note: ready to sacrifice card balance.
Praise the Lord.
Apologies ahead. Week-long absence of line connection has brought.. awkwardly placed merriness amidst being skinned cash-wise. Frugal attempts fell short. Pancakes at Dome, Chicken Avocado sandwiches at Delicious-- trans-fat goods at night.. but it ain't news. What I endured: an almost self man-slaughter, restocking Knicker Bucket and an unhealthy amount of ironing. Premeditated plans to hang self was stopped by.. a Hershey's kiss. Heaven-sent beyond extremity. Truly. Knicker allowance: seamless underpants. Four words for lifetime loyalty to a lingerie house. Yes. My apathy have shortened it's life span. The Thursday morning loss. Healing. Still. Previous Friday witnessed us, ditching the alleged "Super Sweet Sixteen" and graced Skate Park instead. Scantily clad. Unholy. At such a place under moonlight. Righteous. The next morning-- my conscience and I had plans. An all day rendezvous with our homo-erotic films, trans-fat next to caffeine, siblings confused as primates enveloped by a nightly miss of jersey clad lads on the greens. Sad, isn't it. I'm on the August-countdown. Remains of my weekend was utmost stellar. Dirtied swanky marble floors, unconscious galloping of Olios: ever present. Night falls, us foursome resided at Annexe for Acoustic Night. An unappreciated sibling went on with Lovesick Avenue as an extra guitarist. Acid jazz multitones. Beat enthusiasts run in the genes, perhaps? More fact than fiction it is.
[MUSIC] Phoenix - One Time Too Many
We were the better team.
Admit it, Devil cunts. When you look back at a game, and see your team outplay such brilliance in red-- you think, "Why, God, why?" because we truly, truly deserved such a win. Hit the woodwork three times. Tiny Joseph John ran his heart out. Created set-piece after set-piece, giving precise long balls all the way. You can only let out a sigh that Didier merely slapped Vidic.. hence the red card. The atmosphere post Anelka miss was perhaps one of those moments where you capitulate to heartbreak. Because in the end, however good we were on the field, blue clad lads on the greens-- it wasn't enough. And how fantastically cruel was that Terry slipped while he took the kick? How. Tell me. It wasn't meant to be. But what I loved was that, we created chances. Truly. And we didn't play shit-like. And we outplayed the Devils in the second half. Didn't get nervy after that Ronaldo header. Man of the match? I can't say. Terry for brilliant, brilliant defense. Cech for that double-save, his posthaste reflex-- his neon kit, even. Joseph John was spectacular-- running up and down, Essien didn't do his job-- and Makalele often seen covering his position which is quite awkward to look at. Hence leading to that corner-kick, where no one marked Ronaldo. But! I can only console with the fact that we were the better team. Come on. You have to admit, Devil cunts. And a win by penalty shoot-outs is a disgrace (what, I'm pissed!). It was raining. Pitch was, perhaps, atrocious. But.. in the end, it wasn't us with the trophy. You can only hold your head up high. Continue. And thank the lads in Blue for wearing our (the fans) hearts on their sleeves on the pitch. And giving their all. Truly a heartbreak. Chin up, lads!
[MUSIC] the Strokes - You Only Live Once
I moped around for days. I have a sweet sixteen to attend to-- perhaps will dandify my tragic calamities. Hopeful to God. International friendlies to beautify absence of Premier League: go Croatia. Go.. Spain? Yes. I love those Torres trademark quick-turn-and-finish goals.. and.. freckles.
Oh, the almost..
A duo of papers left, and after that cheeky Physical Ed paper-- by all means, I'm heading down to the two-winged retailer (once more, yes) with reunited femmes. It's no question how much love I carry for these trio of shrieks aplenty.. and how my card is loaded with such superior amount (for an average lass, ahem) ups merriness to an almost grotesque level. Think Muppets-happy. Yes. You know I'm extra jubilant when I'm not making sense. And I've recently discovered how sheer pantyhose makes your legs look skinnier when reflected by light.. somehow-- in that Physics-induced continuum. But, yes. A trick worthy a mention. It's only a matter of time before I burst into a fit of cusses. Reason why? Easy. Insulted by such vulgar comments from another Devil cunt: "They don't try to score goals if they're one up, unlike we do, and they get a little defensive." Pardon me while I mass produce laughter. We ain't the Kops, lads. And that also happened to be the sole reason why I'm not a fan of any of the reds-- except the Gunners, because of the brave, vibrant youths.. and hear me out, hear me out well: that's 2002 World Cup England, and we ain't none of that. That one egghead deserves some Ricardo Carvalho nasties in Moscow on Wednesday.. another broken metatarsal perhaps? Oh by the beard of Zeus.. yes. The Blues lads are safely placed somewhere near Luzhniki Stadium-- I'm not the most confident avid Blues but, one wish abound: outplay them. And London's the Sun article: "Reffing Hell, It's Michel!", meaning the same wanker, Lubos Michel-- who gave away Luis Garcia's Phantom Goal and caused us damage. Remember? Honest shitfest. But! Truckloads of love, luck and everything nice!
[MUSIC] Good Shoes - In The City
Essien with Michael will mass produce magic, or Lamps-- and start Joseph John later on because, well, because he can save us. Sent down by the Gods, that Cole. Not the cunt, the nice one. Yes. Kalou, yes. Mikel, die.. and the usual wrought iron duo: John and Carvalho. And other lads. And Cech! Hybridman!
Monday and it's blues.
Unconsciously.. out of misery perhaps-- I sent a plea letter to the Honky Tonk Orchestra whom have yet to reply. But I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Good bands don't deserve an end. And because Daniel Danger is fucking Godsent. Text book emissions absent, still-- headed down to the Curve in thrifted high-waisted glory and tucked white t-shirt tattered by God knows how many machine washes. A book hunt that ended with Cormac McCarthy's "No Country For Old Men"-- because the part with the coin toss was ever intriguing. And the script is proportional to the novel itself.. so I'm doing the double: film/novel conquering. And nothing surprising, but-- the infinite line of Didier haters have surfaced with newcomers. Right before the Champions League clash and belongs to a certain cunt cult in red. Familiar, no? Be it. Upper East Side repertoire ends tonight. Sad faces everywhere I bet. No more Chuck Bass Tuesdays, no more neon orange trenchcoats, no more shark sweaters.. damn it, I'm too attached. What I need, for now: leather glory, a miniature discount on a Marc by Marc tan carry-all, obnoxious shoes to flatter absence of height-- and Friday night's clothing schedule. Really. Ludicrous, I know. Enough. There's chapters to be embedded through this awfully thick skull, and to surrender towards late-night caffeine abuse to accumulate enthusiasm for tomorrow's Science duo and one History. A shit festival. Yes.
[MUSIC] Blonde Redhead - Silently
Not a hey-day Sunday.
What is an almost-migraine? A fucked up shit festival going in your head, without your approval yet seemingly more drunken when you're mad.. at it. Yes. Bad news over good: (i) the Honky Tonk Orchestra-- one of my favorites whom brilliantly have saxophoned my nights away have called it quits.. but I've scored a piece or four (heh) from their album, so it's good; (ii) absent retail goods to blind the already blinded; (iii) the Friday night alleged "party" in an alleged "budget-hotel"-- but, why is it bad news? I don't know. I don't even know what my next sentence is. But remain calm. What I'm stoked about: the film (points) "I'm Not There"-- because I love musicians' biographies made into movies. And re-embracing love for Breakfast At Tiffany's, hence soon owning a cat named Cat. And Monday's merry ways of scheduled text book references, caffeine abuse, trans-fat consuming.. and early morning Chuck Bass rendezvous. Recently, or so, whatever-- the Sun produced an article about post-Tiesto surroundings and was "blatantly shocked" and it "did not make sense"-- but I mean.. youths going back to their non-shared hotel rooms for their early Subuh prayers are very much expected post rave concert. What can I say? Welcome to the new world. Sports-wise: the Blues should offer Cech a new deal, because if he goes and I.. go. Yes. Dare I say it out loud. And perhaps get some talented youths and promote passion for the club instead of avaricious wankers? Yes.. that too. Perhaps I've said too much. I love you, Blues!
[MUSIC] the Honky Tonk Orchestra - Comma Criminals
Lollapalooza line-up, oh my Lord.. the amplitude of greatness concealed. Fucking magical.
Oh, damn it..
I'm not in my knickers. And
I'm certainly not in bed with Arshavin-- but I feel extra jubilant.
Which often leads to another rambling cum sports journalism post where
I note down five times too many on how unearthly sexy (insert name and
jersey number) is or, how I wore pants on a Friday. Religious reasons.
Pants. Hah. But-- thing is, I'm here for a reason. And the picture
(points) serves as a juxtaposition. I had truckloads of laughter served
on a platter in different ways. One: Cesc Fabregas' manic yet adorable
antics. Two: the Kops wanting a little something-something from us,
believe it or not (believe it), it's Malouda. Three: the Blues depict
multifaceted idiocy (like me with Additional Mathematics) by placing a
brave and stupid bid on.. drum rolls, please? Torres. Ha! Come on,
wankers. I mean.. come on! Just, you know-- come the fuck on. But to
balance out the idiots I love.. I discovered a thing or three (three!)
about Cesc: (a) he loves Desperate Housewives, saying: "It's like you
watch one episode, and you can't stop."; (b) his infinite love for
Krispy Kremes, hence post-match "doughnut parties"; (c) loves XBox with
shorts and socks on. However petulant or puerile he is, you have to
admit-- son of a gun is mighty hilarious. And my life nowadays is
complete, when I found Who Ate All The Pies from a Soccernet fan-- it's
that kind of in-your-face humor enveloped with audacious comments from
cunts (Spurs fans!) alike. Because I am, too, a cunt-- a covert one,
but every inch of a cunt indeed. And Avram's ways of trying: "I'm not
the Special One. I'm the normal one. But my wife says I'm special." and
footballer cum Scouser cum giraffe Peter Crouch's lovely yet very true
answer to "What would you be had you not become a footballer?"-- "A
virgin." With absolution I nod. Other profanities that I shall blurt
out: Pay Day has arrived. Thank you, God. Lads bulging in skinny pants:
keep your balls tucked away please. Conquests as of yet: sheer
pantyhose, Oxford shoes, Luella-inspired skirts, a pixie 'do. Tucking
in early tonight, barbecue at Gran's up north and I'm.. stoked? Ha.
[MUSIC] At the Drive-In - Quarantine
Cesc's doughnut discos: here. Cesc loves Desperate Housewives: here. Disgusting, yet highly enjoyable-- lads backflips into jeans! Amazing: here. Until then.. a merry weekend to you, and I can't find anything good to listen to anymore. Sad.
It is what is is.
A
beautiful Friday afternoon. Exasperated being no more. Smiles. Connection's
back, and I am merrily prancing through Web favorites-- what's
new with the Blues, what is
Geraldine Saglio wearing (short hemlines intact, I love you) and the
Resort runway preview from Galliano, de la Renta and Fendi alike. Lack
of diversity status? Demolished. Newcomer Dominican stunner Arlenis
Pena, and notably coveted Jourdan Dunn reigned supreme. Love me some
chocolate goods, eh? Thing is-- I'm on a four-day holiday. Manic
frolicking, irresponsible romp, whatever you call it. Come Sunday! What to expect:
Pay Day (whip!), quest to find obnoxious shoes; anything masculine. Really. Three-day absence from
the tech world-- what have I been up to? Ass-scratching. Re-reading
child affection "the Little Prince", re-wept
(please, do, pick up this Antoine de Saint-Exupery copy!) and
completed some films I missed. Independent brilliance: the film Teeth.
About abstinence (ahem), a "vagina dentata", and ever-awkward yet
intriguing role of Dawn. Lovely. And it led to a movie vault where I
found prehistoric comedy magnificence of Ron Burgundy. "I love.. lamp",
Afternoon Delight and a curiously Gangs Of New York-ish fight scene?
With Mexican percussions? Classic, I tell you. Thursday morning's
idyllic sunrise perfected the earlier win of Zenit St. Petersburg's
first European trophy-- and Arshavin's boyish twist of fate led to my ahem.. potentially grotesque hormone levels. Simply because he's a sexy,
sexy and oh my Lord, sexy.. but onto the bad. Tuesday's over-intoxication by the act of
numbers scattered apathy afterwards. Because I left the paper
unscathed. Certainly it's not my nature to excel in numerical shitfests. And
reiterating-- it is what it is. And it was an F.
[MUSIC] 1990s - See You At The Lights
Stoked about: the Davids in Idol finals. Rooting for? Can't tell, charmed by both. And I'd sell my soul, literally-- to be one of this French Vogue team: Je'taime. Truckloads of love to the Blues come next Thursday. Play to infinite glory, lads-- because we deserve it. And bring Messi to the Bridge! Enough gossip already.
It's that time again.
I'm on the tabs. Reminiscing amidst the demon witching hour. I can't sleep, I refuse to-- because I can, and Father's not home. Yet. Before the need for a posthaste scamper-- a random disposition. What I miss. Want, covet. I miss poker games with a straight face. And intentional hints of strip poker. "I don't care, you amaze me," followed by amplitude amounts of coffee. Polaroids. Prancing alone in strapped-up flats on curiously swanky marble floors. Shoe conquests. Quesadillas and sour cream. Recipes. Fading cooking skills that I previously owned. What I want: audible heart palpitations upon dream-shoes. Promises. Witnessing sunrise anew beneath lush blankets. Popcorns and summer movies (cue: Judd Apatow's new!). A trophy for the blue clad chaps; just because. A Marc by Marc Dr. Q tan carry-all. Or, say-- a Miu Miu blouson. The harlequin-print creation of art, even. Chignons. A pixie 'do. Ever-inviting pavlovas next to starch goods. Continuous runs of face glow. Masculine-inspired things. Surreptitious desires for a personal Gaspard Ulliel. And frolicking in between theater plays. Ralph Wiggum's brave wit on a Sunday. Game nights; with runs on the gun and "Fire in the hole!" lines. Late night capitulation to trans-fat at unchivalrous fast food chains. Dreamscape editorials by Ryan McGinley. Father's home. Goodnight.
[MUSIC] Eisley - Ten Cent Blues
