Arsed, gutted.
I am in an abstruse phase-- rewinding nostalgic bound (hmm, often orchestraic; often Sufjan/Mew) tunes to evolving into a partial arse-clown to sitting in a nook.. coming to a sempiternal conclusion that I might be an actual idiot. Damn. And rejoice in the femme-clad circles with mirth. Again. It revolves around said disease, then-- thoughts about leather, what a frolicsome night out with Bojan Krkic'd be like (oh.. don't go there!) and talking in codes with a Chinese lad in class. What happened on the 27th? Hmm.. a hormone powered excursion, affixed in a delirium state, stealing glances at le retail lad, Telawi Street escapade, trapped in a train, grinding (in accident) with repulsive men, posed to a flash-inclusive photo (dear God, help us both) to JUICE Magazine's Streetstyle column. I love it so. It is sort of.. mm, certificates for modé mavens? No? Oh? No. I donned the oil-slicked faux-leather pants, an empiré smock, a vintage prep blazer and a chain-strap bag.. Em was cavorting in a tea blouse, skinnies and a vintage brown bag. Em and I are juxtaposed, aren't we? One is a potential dominatrix/sadomasochist/probable pedophile. Another is a nonchalant, simplistic lass. Ah-ha, testosterone rants to round up the monotonous post: (i) the Blue brigade up against an irksome Hull-- I am going to revert to Atletico Madrid if a win does not proceed. No, but-- I am dead-beat serious. Come on, now, Blues. A spot below Hull is a thought no man (I'm a man!) coats warmth with. Joseph John is a plausible (super)substitute. A 1-0 loss to the Kops was a micro-fissure at the Bridge. Come on, lads. Don't get so cocked up, chavtastic slimes.
[MUSIC] Bound Stems - Cloak of Blue Sky
A miniature something-something for Lampard lovers: click!.
4 Years, 8 months.
God, kicking us ungrateful Blues fans who perhaps, like me-- muttered on the 10th minute; "Ah, 80 minutes to go. I see.. 2-1, or a 3-1."; even so far to name the plausible goal scoring candidate: "Hmm, Lampard'll do double, perhaps one for little star Kalou.." and there. It goes down on the papers. Unbeaten run. Beaten with a deflected goal. Pangs of pain. An extremist-clad C4 pain. Interpreting the lads on field: the Blues shoved up chances, runs down the flank (kudos Bosingwa, with/without unibrow-- love cemented from me.) but for Anelka to fucking decline each hard-earned assist. Thanks, cunt. Please pack 'em bags and move to Queens Park Rangers. 4-goal Anelka in Milan. Pssh. Bullshit. Post-match reactions? I laughed. Borderline insane, to round it off. Kalou didn't have a good one-- Malouda flipped in a couple of kick-arse assists into the box. But assists into the box falls to the firsthand sluggard whom we all have come to a conclusion, is a full-blown cunt. Kudos to: Deco-- smooth legwork dribbling over the ball, troubling the Kop's center, not to an extent where it was enough, but still; Lamps-- passes were excellent as per forever, albeit could've done better with offbeat long-range strikes, no? The titanium-coated defence line: John, Rick-- dear God isn't with us tonight. God was with us throughout our wins from deflected goals. Tonight wasn't our night. I am guessing.. the Blues are raking in a striker (not bald/cunt/French/ex-Gunner) and a midfielder come New Year. But, rejoice! Next fixtures recommend an ease to the top: vs Hull (oh, come on!), vs Sunderland, vs Blackburn, vs West Brom, vs Newcastle-- then vs Arsenal on Nov 30th. And, congratulations to Liverpool. For the 11-man defensive line-up, as usual. Cough, Scouse cunts.. I kid. No.. no, I don't kid. The Kops are the Anti-Christ.
[MUSIC] Ra Ra Riot - Winter '05
In random order: Donnie Darko; Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels; Eastern Promises; the Usual Suspects; This Is England; the Science of Sleep; Lord of the Rings: Return of the King; Anchorman; Thank You For Smoking.
Warning: pseudostate rants.
God damn it, what time is it-- 3:13? Scamps don't sleep on the witching hour.. hence, here I am-- immobile, a partial paraplegic, resisting motions as if I've ravaged the world for seven decades long. Pseudostate rants-- please expect obscure amount of delirious off-topic derivation. Yes. Post-exam scenarios perhaps unleashed a manic anti-social lithe, uh, me-- what seemed as an innocent, view-the-world excursion turned into a minuscule (not) detriment to bank account balance. Ah-ha. Where is self-control when I need it so? Le Queen was an extra-kind wonder-- sleuthed a split on the pricetag on a [warning: cliche, semi-idiotic] luxurious noir leather jacket. Little men's section. Box cut, angular bad-ass zippers and other.. masculine aesthetics(?). I am a step closer to become a self-proclaimed femme/dominatrix. Leather conquest? Check. Sharp accoutrements that doubles as a weapon? Check. Potential sadomasochist? Uh.. check? I kid, I kid. If sloth-empowered alternate ego does not take over.. pictures could surface. Questions/revelations as of late: (i) Metallica's new album. I am excited(?); (ii) hours of no movement: conquering James Bond from the earlier decades. Yes! It's a process of learning and discovering.; (iii) Sigur Ros to come down Kuala Lumpur? No? Yes? God, please?; (iv) the Blues to emerge victorious against the Kops-- please, God damn it, no draws, lads. 2-1, 3-2-- high aspect ratio to the Blues, no less.; (v) post about Top 10 Godsent Movies to come. Oh, come on. I am so much more than soccer and threads. Hold that thought-- ah-ha. So. Much. More.
[MUSIC] Marnie Stern - The Devil Is In The Details
What a tagline.
Norm sloth aesthetics aside (read: lounging, choking on chocolates, choking on almonds..)-- I am on the Champions League interval. No, interval over. But, thing is-- the first part was a lull factor, Totti has declined to premature aging (not hot!) and the Blue brigade are on beautiful.. slow(?) football. Who the fuck does slow and beautiful? I scamper over the remote (placed 20 metres from me, God behold first-degree slaughtering to such an idiot) and flip to Sergio Aguero. 0-1 to the Reds, no less. Yawn. I am going to get back to this because! I hear upbeat commentaries from beer-bellied pundits! Yes! 4-0, please? [Post-match] Hmm, an unconvincing but appreciated in all degrees win, 1-0-- a marvel header from the marvel ambassador himself, John.. thanks. I love him so. Words can't sum up the pang of disgusting/cute glee when his name is on the starting line-up. A defensive (and cough, chiselled) Roma side perhaps suffocated us, the Blue brigade.. but a battle entangled in passes a slop and Anelka a twat isn't an ease in the first place. Roma ain't Middlesbrough/Macclesfield/(insert inhumane, unpronounceable Coca-Cola Championship team names here). Ah, Godsent kicks.. exam holds captive of no purchase-deprived lithe come Vendredi afternoon. Cue off pitch "Freedom, freedom!" gospels. And I am on the verge of an alleged-impromptu e-spending on a surf threads site. A rib vest almost too luxurious, it shouts holistic whispers. "Swipe the plastic, lass!" I am built weak towards talking clothes.
[MUSIC] the Invisible Men - Make It Bounce
Post-midnight solitude.
I am a partial euphoria-clad being in the making-- hours glide smooth and minuscule heartbreaks are.. minuscule. Chelsea 5 - 0 Middlesbrough. Kick-arse, thanks. An obnoxious, heftig slap to me for not stamping on 100% faith on the Blues' depth in squad. Apologies, lads. Belletti's long-range screamer, the fluid passes, Malouda settling in (great, ain't it?) excites me so that I crossed the line from exuberant to plain insane. Yes. Normal. Thanks, thanks, thanks. Deco is back, Torres is out (cough, Chelsea - Liverpool on 25th), Captain Marvel is a fucking mental titanium-coated man/Robocop (ain't nothing gon' get through, eh?). Prior the cough, kick-arse, cough game-- I ravaged Pavilion with le famille in faux-leather pants, lace-ups and a t-shirt (black-on-black, lasses-- we hail Queen Lanphear now.) to settle esoteric desires.. ranging from studded luxuries to 4-5" promiscuous shoes. None. Tear-inducing bore. Scene lads reigned. Colored skinnies a rainbow. But I am not going to go there because I do not label/judge/interpret God's creatures. In the process, but still-- words of encouragement are welcomed. Quests as of late: (i) lace-capsuled dress. Yawn, please do.; (ii) midnight blue sequined jumper (idea from a dream, good work); (iii) flat buckled boots/4" fringed boots (Christophe, it is thou who made me so weak..). Yawn again. Please do. But I wanted it long before a Baker knock-off-- fell in love when it resided on Net-A-Porter. Agh! It makes me mad.; (iv) studded shorts at Topshop. Where?!? Mmm.. and-- I have DIY projects to work on post-exam: mini sewing machine, zippers, attempts on a self-made coin waistcoat (God will be beside me). And a coif! Jet-black threads on the head has a life of it's own. Off to Real Madrid vs Atletico Madrid-- with Olio! Yes! God loves me.
[MUSIC] Do Make Say Think - Reitshule
Out of luck.
I am an inanimate, headache-driven, sloth-clad object lounging around the house. In the evening, I sleep. At night.. I am a costumed vigilante? Dear God, humor skills decreasing. Exam week continues-- hitting me hard with sad/predictable revelations (read: idiot), offbeat halted brain movement, trans-fat disco nights (alarming growth of fan club members in the house) and smiling like a first-class loon because.. [sings off-pitch hurrahs] soccer action commence in approx. 20 hours. Justice is served. I skipped two exams due to low tolerance towards headaches/magnetic-radioactive field growing in the head-- Additional Mathematics and historic studies. In short, extra time to rehearse numerical atrocities and governments of the old. Yawn. Random/testosterone rants: (i) Blues to send pre-pubescent lads against Middlesbrough? Hmm. I could roll with that.; (ii) Atletico Madrid vs. Real Madrid-- Kun, spare us the 6-1 pain. Decrease it to.. 3-1? A wall shout-out at his Facebook profile? Done. Lame, ain't it!; (iii) Yoann Gourcuff = new Maksim Kalinichenko. Up Bordeaux! God sends down beautiful creatures to be ogled and lathered chocolate/whipped cream/(insert choice here) on.; (iv) emaciated out of shoe needs: I need new shoes. New shoes rakes in self-pleasure. Self-pleasure is good. The good kind. Please: Chelsea 3 - 1 Middlesbrough.
[MUSIC] Japancakes - The Waiting
In quest for: faux-fur vest, studded shoes/bag/pants, padded shoulder t-shirt ala Margiela from Topshop (stoked!), lace tights.. more to come. PLEASE HELP ME: Remember Kate Moss For Topshop's coin vest? I need it. Need. It's been circling on the head for three months now. HELP.
Dear God, lighten the pain.
Apologies for the absence. Unintended. Yes. I co-exist as of late-- retail excursions a none, silent social movement.. damn it, I am mutating into a full-fledged nerd. And.. here I am. Immobilized. Admitting defeat to overwhelming mucus, intermittent shivers/hunger pangs/I don't know what-- thanks, God. Kick-arse timing. Finals due next week. I haven't picked up a Science bible whilst not in a pseudostate or engulfing trans-fat materials.. so it doesn't count, hmm? I don't have world-changing news to report except.. the rapid (and growing into a potential colossal obsession) love towards bad-ass accents (leather, zippers, gold studs.. name it.) and I am fighting off Animal Plant-esque urges to decline bank account crisis/losing a part of the Chanel Small Petite Tote trustfund. It's hard. Please don't snicker. Hmm. Part of the Blue brigade are on international work-- Captain Marvel is out, Mikel is excused, Anelka is still a cunt (Goal.com report: "Anelka just needs a hug"-- cunt cum child?) and Bojan Krkic has glorious abs. Abs I want to make French toast on. I'd include a snapshot of it-- but then I can't concentrate. Right on. Yes, I am not going to school. Mucus is verging on world domination at this point. Oh and I am putting Margot and The Nuclear So & So's album "Animals" on repeat, aside from.. John Legend(?) and re-loving At the Drive-In classics. For avid fans? Please search up "Quarantine" on Youtube-- fucking opening bass line is legend. I am not the most interesting person when involved in a Kleenex mess. Dude.
[MUSIC] Margot and The Nuclear So & So's - Hello Vagina (hello back!)
Boo Gossip Girl postponement. Yes to Chuck Season 2! Yes to Ian Curtis! Yes to Daniel Craig! (Oops?)
Ten to kick off.
Atletico de Madrid versus the Catalans. Three words: Kun versus Messi. I love both, I do-- Messi resides in the Dream Team (alongside other prominent-jawed, brooding football Gods), so does Kun.. and so does Bojan Krkic whom I'll drug and molest when I step foot in Barcelona-- but that's not the point. I am excited. Yes. Sexiness galore. Football-wise, and men-wise. Hormones talking. Paris Fashion Week is almost over. Lanvin is closing-- oh dear God, Alber Elbaz, take us to paradise. And I am rustling over a pile of numerical workload, who shoots me spiteful glances and threatens me with a knife when I do it wrong. Evil. Testosterone news: the Gunners secured a late draw against Sunderland (Sunderland!), a Cesc-exi header no less, on the 93rd minute. What a game. 2-1 to Hull, 4-0 Porto and 1-1 Sunderland? There's a reason I commit to the Blue brigade. Consistent Blue brigade. Ha-- what's that? Shh. United netted two against Blackburn. Again I can't describe the goals because I am transfixed upon Roque Santa Cruz and his coif's parting and his shorts. Magical things. Mmm.. I don't know who the Blues are deporting for Aston Villa's clash-- di Santo and some other pre-pubescent lads are training the last time I checked at the Offside, and.. fuck it, another striker and a winger. Sell Anelka to Queens Park Rangers!
[MUSIC] the Kooks - Naive
