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.
God, one step ahead.
I love post-midnight discoveries. It starts with a single idiot, partly disheveled after a good nap-- and comes another lad who's, say.. in the higher echelons of the primate hierarchy; ranting about hunger pangs, whilst rehearsing acid jazz on electronic five-strings-- then another, customarily baffled upon no reason. There, perfect. Three o'clock living room repertoire. Friday: pants-only. Le femme friend called from middle of nowhere, morning mist and rubber trees inclusive.. and I attempted a dreary hello. On evenings I hibernate. And drop F-bombs and C-bombs on occasion. Conversation did precede with two-way exchange of sarcasm and wit. Ah, I have missed such lovely things. Forthcoming weekends: (i) Saturday-- le famille celebrating brother K's birthday at La Bodega, Pavilion before he ventures to Mecca on July's end. And Mother's tweak of generosity: manlier, awe-worthy gladiators. I am stoked. Thursday night's quarter final paved way for the Germans.. notably my five-year dirty daydream material Michael headed a fine one. Croatia take on Turkey in the next hour. Extra-jovial for: playmaker Luka Modric and adventure-shy Vedran Corluka. Sad how Volkan's banned for a match. Remember fingertip save of Ronaldo's freekick? Stellar stuff. But I can't look forward towards such else except the Azzuris versus Spain, without Pirlo and Gattuso and facing El Nino with counterpart David Villa. I am rooting for the Spanish side to not underachieve, and the Italians to make a comeback. Oranje take on the Soviets-- two words: Sneijder. Arshavin. Lush things! A merry weekend to you.
[MUSIC] Andrew Bird - Imitosis
Ha, Cech in his drawers-- what's not to love? And Joe Cole extras. Watch the Blues!
Thursday's a fine one.
Morning a whiff-- Arshavin's boyish twist of fate and I, ever merry with perverted dreamscapes. Another casual early morning, really. And the Soviets a rush of blood, brilliant with the playmaker around, extra points with Pavlyuchenko (oh Lord, Kalinichenko's team-mate!) prancing around giving superb assists. Oh, and yes. In attempts to divert yawn machine self into a somewhat, focused projector-- dirty daydreams, Lily Donaldson and I, embracing whipped cream. Subsequently. Lord, help me. And not quite a vintage throwback-- but I'm manly most when it's unconsciously.. bulging out. Pun intended. Following conversation occurred between an impending homosexual and a confused femme. Why, simultaneously, of course. "---I can't remember what season---" "Oh God. I am a man." "What?" "I'm talking to you about Diego Forlan." "So--" "In a Nike shop." "And?" "Holding Motor Trader in one hand. And the other Euro coverage." "Are you bulging?" And I was in skinny pants. Pun intended, once more. It's not one of those impromptu brilliant conversations. Yes. But the retail worker with devastating hair coloring results did subtly chuckle. And I tried to emit feminine vibes afterwards. Walking chest forward. Hair tousles a trio come sixty seconds. Unnatural. And God-sent Cathy Horyn had Vogue Italia July's all-black edition previews. God, of course I squealed. Amidst the ignorant editorials-- the stick stems offer you a question, tormenting no less, unapologetic beyond extremity. Size zero, size two, size four. Less is more. It's grotesque. Disgusting, sick. Every dirty adjective. And it's no bad news I am inclusive, with my dainty drainpipes hitting back with a simper. Cruel. Isn't it?
[MUSIC] Vanessa Paradis - Chet Baker
Fucked with fever.
I like cursing as much as I magnify hatred towards breathing inability-- and ousting Rudolph. Monday's early morning bland had me waking up at five in the evening the next day. Almost broke a record there. Leftover hours of the day were well spent.. on e-Bay, sucking on Strepsils (seven, thus far) and refraining with utmost strength to not let Sister catapult into bankruptcy by ordering the Miu Miu harlequin blouson I loudly covet, two pair of Marni shoes.. a wholesome of American Apparel leotards (kidding!). Because I hold power (credit card number) in these hands. An epiphany dropped by in between the thirteen hours of hibernation. Claiming I should muster up courage, bravery, ambition to take the Chanel 2.55 trustfund into reality. What a load of tits. Seven thousand can bring me: (i) a decade or two of trans-fat; (ii) a slimming programme after the decade or two of trans-fat; (iii) a Balenciaga up-to-the-calves gladiator shoes; (iv) an arranged marriage to a prominent-jawed homme hooker (ole!) or; (v) a trip to Stamford Bridge and an Oxford Street exploration. A quartet (plus one) of reasonable explanations. Revelations of Tuesday: I am infatuated by the semi-manly, semi-sexy Le Smoking pantsuit. Updated list of quests: charcoal pantsuit, lace-up Oxfords (I can't find this cunt anywhere!), tea dresses and metallic sneakers. But, what's for sure is-- cashing out on Numero July. Think more Alix Malka (cue: 'Sub-aquatic Beauty' editorial in Numero Tokyo), haunting Siri Tollerod, Coco in a rose clad bathtub.. saucy. Truckloads of luck towards the Italian sex gods and Les Bleus!
[MUSIC] Blonde Redhead - Spring And By Summer, Fall
