What? Oh, come on.
Thank le lads for the part-grotesque, part-turn on snapshot of loved Blue #1, Petr Cech. No, I didn't put it as desktop background. No, not cell background either. Hm? What? Yes. Shh. Blues take on Tottenham tonight-- avid readers are no strangers to overwhelming love from me for these clashes. Michael isn't starting, perhaps it's Mikel instead-- with both Joseph John, Deco supporting Anelka.. and his sunshine-reflecting head. God, it blinds me so. White Hart Lane scums secured giant-child/striker Roman P after the Arshavin drama. Watch out for: Modric tearing our midfield apart, Berbatov sulking from the stands.. Deco scoring a screamer with his right foot (can't help it..) and Woodgate's clean haircut to stop long-winded subtle gushes that he is Jesus reincarnated. Proof after the jump. Expect goals, brilliant counter-attacks from both sides (bring it, Ramos!) and extra, extra-stellar saves from Mr. Cech. Champions League draw: Blues are in the group with Roma, Bordeaux and FC Cluj. I can't pronounce the last team but I am sure we are going to run rampant with a long score-sheet. How do I know? Because Manchester lost to Zenit St. Petersburg 2-1 without Arshavin in the first-half. It doesn't relate even a tad bit but it felt glorious to exclaim it so. Atletico Madrid meets the Kops in the group stage-- Aguero versus 'Nando. Best strikers in the world. To me-- it's Aguero-Forlan-Maxi and it's one tough trio to not replete love to, and Ujfaluši's arrival will strengthen the back. Up Atletico! And bonne chance tonight, blue-clad lads.
[MUSIC] Ne-Yo - Closer (I love Ne-Yo. There, I said it.)
Jonathan "Jesus" Woodgate: click!. Robinho isn't coming. I don't care. Mourinho can't stop talking about his fabulous, superfluous squad. What's that I hear? Inter Milan 1 - 1 Sampdoria? Shut up.
Oh sweet Lord.
Excuse le sinful editorial (via Vogue Paris, circa September '08 issue) in the form of Elise Crombez. I don't have much else non-provocative. I kid, I kid. I am.. alone, at home, tackling on the silent spectators, snaking through time, doing what I do best. Yes, laze around. What have I been up to: (i) completed 14 fasting debts within a month-- through 8-hours of lace-ups, Italian fine dining.. and pure, brutal staircases that left me a bit dead inside. Please, do, lend some applause.; (ii) on le 28th: scenarios of a scattered-spirit lithe-- dismantled alarm clock, in bed at 9 o'clock, muttering out loud "forgot", "school..", "I am not home-schooled?" to a tired parent.. all in the name of an auction. But, fret not-- I scored the extra kick-ass slouch blazer from an international vintage e-store. First-class mail, shipped from the Heavens, no less.; (iii) on Vendredi: left for the Hospital. Le Grand-pa's complications. Stable, but fragile. And the ward is next to a mental ward-- and a perhaps-insane lad caught me walking to the elevator, and called up for digits. I ran.; (iv) did Nationals countdown with le Boss last night, a little sweet, a little awkward. Fireworks through the trees-- stellar. Le lads called up, and I.. perhaps, might've sneaked out, for a drive around town. Rap tragedies over the stereo, manic shout-out-louds, drive-through dramas.. fag rounds pre-fasting month. It was orchestraic, dorks on the run.. and I can't love it less. Thanks. Premier League rants: oh God, it's another whole post. Blues versus White Hart Lane scums, Arsenal's legwork (cue: the night before) oozing sex appeal, Aston Villa take on the Kops, Champions League draw, Sergio Aguero?!! Inhale. Exhale.
[MUSIC] Santogold - Starstuck
In love with Balmain's F/W '08 accents popping up in retailers. Red leopard print? Mmm..
God, I am lost.
I am a ghost, I writhe through seconds-- and I am living on three a.m caffeine fixes, Dr. Feelgood in the mouth and.. trans-fat. Trans-fat, trans-fat, trans-fat. Please, help me, erase McDonald's from speed dial. And slap me with a health magazine. I have a bad spine, neck hurts from time to time, mononucleosis (oh God, fucking disappear, please) and I hurt after a 10-minute pilates session. I am fucking fragile as glass, God damn it. Health sessions start tomorrow. No, no.. no, too soon-- October. Yes, October. I don't exist as of late. I scamper like a child over le house's marble tiles, on the stairs, on the remote control.. maniacal. But, here, here-- I had a dream, last night, as kick-ass as a dream could be. Please don't laugh. Snicker, even. I was an assassin, all the swagger of an extra-gangster Italian mob, weapons-inclusive, a sniper in one hand and a Magnum in the other (see, dreams lie..) and I.. hold it-- here's the gore: gunned down each one in an extravagant event, hid behind a Smart car and fled off the scene in a Bugatti. And perhaps.. I might have slit some throats in the process. Pure, unadulterated gore. I am now rethinking career choices. Cupcake baker? Ninja? Assassin? Confusion. Please bear in mind, I do not make quite the ample amount of the word "sense" and I am goddamn (goddamn!) ridiculous. Agh, back to work.
[MUSIC] Dark Captain Light Captain - Robot Command Centre
Erin Wasson for William Rast (forewarning: orgasmic.): exoticon.
No trans-fat. Yes trans-fat.
Fuck all, no? No? Yes. It's almost one-- I am waiting for a McDonald's order of a threesome of beef sets. It's normal, it is. Trans-fat disco nights. Normal. And no, I don't know what I am talking about. On to night rants: it is back to class work, class mates and being a nerd with class starting next morning (for me, all of it starts about.. 9.45 in the morning-- better post-recess, though). I haven't done the ironing. No, not that, not even the extravagant oaths from mid-week to decrease procrastinated workload. Examples: Additional Mathematics, Practice 16-22. Modern Mathematics, Practice 8.1C-8.1D. Equations, Newton's laws.. God, I am a child, damn it. I love 2+2=4, I love.. in-class miniature spelling bee competitions. You can tell in the time span of a week, I haven't grown up. At all. Premier League rants: (i) lacklustre Blues secured a 1-0 win over Wigan Atheletic. Hats off to Valencia, Palacios and De Ridder for troubling dexterous (boring), composed (uncreative) Blues.; (ii) Santa Cruz signs long-term deal at Blackburn. Orgasm-inclusive matches at Ewood Park are sealed until 2013. Yes, I am smiling. Squealing in subtle manners. Please go over to Sportscenter's e-web for more. What's to come in Septembre's wardrobe: vintage frocks, crest-inclusive midnight blue blazer, Sunset Strip zippered 4" pairs and romping through the racks of le men's basics. Don't question about the aftermaths. It includes scissors, bare décolletage and disheveled kicks. I love looking like a mess.
[MUSIC] Logh - A Sunset Knife Fight
No more prominent-jawed, masculine Russian men in spandex, tumbling, kicking.. the pain, oh Lord. And I am recovering with this on repeat (aha, since '06-- I cheat to no men.): Maksim. No, God-- I can't get over it. I expect zero concentration in class tomorrow.
Oh God, idiots.
I ain't dead-- am on a break after being on a roll. Break. Yes. No more scuffling over retail excursions, no more covert bandage skirts under extra-large knits, no more.. hammering clicks of the lace-ups. I can't exclaim how much I love pain and pleasure without depicting a sick, masochist image-- but I do. Higher equals to more love. And I couldn't waste the pre-September sin trips-- but(!) smart enough to decline le temptress fags from femme-devils. I am strong. Applause? Yes, please. Where have I been frolicking around: (i) the Curve-- to tame Chicken Milanese addiction at Italiannies and downing in the night lights.. I love it so, the path, I walked back and forth perhaps more than five.. times?; (ii) to the Twin Towers' retailer-- extravagant steps into Chanel (dear Father, I love thou so..), home queen brought home a Fendi clutch, ignoring the silent screams of "No!" (cough, me) because I hate alphabets. And for 2k.. God damn it, I hate it. And I touched the Swiss Guipure lace. Ooh, aah. Yawn. ; (iii) Vendredi at home-- fasting, hibernating.. waking up at four, routines of a koala.; (iv) two-winged retailer, One-U with a metrosexual lad and a couple resembling Palestine and Israel (cue: smudged make-up, Kleenex, arm pulls.. and public humiliation for me)-- caught You Don't Mess With The Zohan. Genitalia clad disgust. Good God, it was stupid. Spared an hour at le bookstore with Dazed and Confused, Numero 95 (oh Lord, the editorials..), Jalouse and L'Officiel. And no, I don't have explanations over the ironic fact, that I, was in shorts and was fasting. I am no saint. Perhaps a little bit of an idiot, but a part-time idiot. Hold it! Off with confessions. Premier League rants: (i) the Blues loaned Fabio Paim from Sporting. Mixed feelings.; (ii) Fulham(!) trumped the Gunners, the Kops escape with last-gasp goals against Middlesbrough, Tottenham ain't on a winning streak. Come the fuck on.; (iii) faggot icon Ronaldo out until November. Yes. Peace and calm. Signing off!
[MUSIC] Errors - Toes
I can't stop re-shuffling Errors' "It's Not Something But It Is Like Whatever"-- love overwhelm for an instrumental enthusiast. And Japanese four-piece Toe. And lads who stopped me earlier-- keep the love flow. I have never been stopped for a nice(?) blog. Thanks.
Six in the morning. She says, don't touch me, don't look at me. My knees are weak from walking back, walking forth, sitting on the wooden plank looking at her, eyes bloodshot, heart a fracture. Remember, the night before? I watch her. That's all I do. I watch her. Her strawberry strands are tangled up in a cryptex of its own, perfecting its mess on her sculpted jaw, and still her eyes lock with the morning haze. The morning haze in her head. I cannot take it. I cannot stand time, nor the pretend patience I pour over her calculated mind but I do it. I do it to make her smile. I'd gather a constellation to make her smile but all she sees of me are aftermaths of a mistake and everything she measured up to the greatest man decodes into nothing much of a man in the first place. I love you, I say. I say another I love you, but it scatters into silence. I get up. Tired. She doesn't move. I wait for a final word. But she watches the linen bed covers obsessively still and at that moment.. I am no longer whole.
In war with self.
Good God, head hurts-- I am on fasting debts, and it's.. midnight hours on caffeine lack thereof (oh, the haze..) hence, short lines, simple words. I hate the letter "Y" (cue: read latest posts, note absence of "Y") because it disrupts balance so I can't.. agh, shit. What I was up to: (i) Interact Club's International Understanding event-- excuse the luxurious images, I came (whilst fasting-- I am strong!) as a covert femme-pervert, because Max was there, and Max has nice ass(ets). Yes. Shh. And, (ii) the Gardens escapade with boarding school mates-- I love pointless banters over spilled ice-cream tapas, loud gasps in the cinema.. random exchange of horror theatrics back there (for stories, please add me up on Windows Live, end commercial). And I died in the train. Suffocation. Odour. Hawaiian shirts. Premier League rants: (i) Goal.com's "Is Chelsea The New Brazil" debate-- God, one 4-0 against Pompeii and it leads to this? Flattered, no less, but come the fuck on. I am a realist. It was a beautiful first-half, Deco's almost-perfect debut.. best midfield in the League. Yes. Yes-- but it is too soon for lavish exclamations. Please, lads.; (ii) credits to Nasri of the Gunners, for an underrated stunning debut, a goal to add, nice touch.; (iii) Tottenham-- losing to Middlesbrough (albeit, Alves and the Turk often mix into a magical duo) is sad. Overrated intro, Modric(!), dos Santos(!)-- I stood aghast.. but Boro seemed as if a poor man's Gunners. Beautiful.; (iii) Blackburn 3 - 2 Everton-- can't explain much. I was staring at Roque Santa Cruz. Aha, the entire time. Apologies. Sleep! Me, sleep. Goodnight.
[MUSIC] Margot & The Nuclear So and So's - Ocean
Good God, malas nak tengok Olimpik. Semua China menang. Ataupun muka
macam Cina. Ish. And no, I am not a racist. Yes-- I am in denial. Up
the Russians!
