Family; Writing for Pay; Perfume, You Dig?; Writing for Me; Basketball Diaries
It is entirely possible that I hate my mother's family even more than my father's. I feel awkward and uncomfortable around both sides (hi jumbo elephant herds that we all must ignore!), but my time with the V- family was far more limited and thus I was perhaps spared all of their crazy. I seek only to avoid them. But the Y- family? Oh, firey, towering loathing, rage of unspeakable proportions.
PSYCHOTROPIC MEDICATIONS PRESCRIBED BY A DOCTOR ARE NOT HEROIN. NOT HEROIN, I REPEAT, NOT HEROIN. Just because you sold family heirlooms for skag does not mean everyone is an addict. It's not me with the meds, fyi, if I have psych problems they have remained undiagnosed and untreated. I am just the rude one who is possibly retarded or some kind of idiot savant. Oh, fist of rage, be still, be still.
Even if I forgave them for myself, I can't for my mother. They still don't quite understand that you do not mess with my mother, not unless you are going to kill people to keep me from finding out. I don't care who are, I don't care if you're my mother's mother, I am not cool with it.
On the other hand, I have discovered a meagre but very helpful source of income. Writing articles for the web. Totally lame articles for people who are too stupid to read the warning labels of bottles of Liquid Paper, but their stupidity is now my $15 a pop. Bring it on, morons.
I also have at long last acquired a decant of BPAL's Stardust (2005): When the holidays roll around, not everyone has mistletoe, caroling and cookies on their minds. This scent is a paean to celebrating hard: nights covered in glitter and dusted with cocaine, flutes of Cristal clutched in shaky hands, leather and lace, the Spiders From Mars in the background, and twisting, sweaty limbs entangled in dark corners. Hairspray and cigarette smoke is the incense in this temple to decadence, strobe and mirrors replace the devotional candles, and Bolan sings the hymns. This scent is for everyone that has every drifted off into Quaalude-induced reverie to the beat of a tribal 4-on-the-floor: the sound of Mott the Hoople, Sweet, Slade or the Dolls. This scent reflects the futurism, self-indulgence and excess of the Glitter 70’s: champagne, hyacinth, tuberose, ylang ylang and flashing white musk with jonquil, tobacco flower, white sandalwood and a pale poppy.
When I first put it on, my poor heart almost broke. It stunk, quite frankly, like that nasty cheap perfume and even had a trickle of, oh god, cat pee. I didn't have the heart to go scrub it off immediately, and oh wonder of wonders, five minutes transformed it into something lovely. Ylang ylang, I love you so. All this sweet floral, so giddy, almost silly, and drop dead gorgeous, but sweet with a distinctly sensual edge and that musk, mmmm. Juuust musky enough, just enough to make you smell outrageously good. Just a hint of musky sleaze, a bare hint, to remind you of the lunar orgies but not enough to bring you back down to earth and fall in the morning after comedown muck. Keeps you well above ground. My faith in scent, it is restored! I WANT TO GO TO PLANET GLAM AND HAVE FREAKY LUNAR ORGIES WITH TRASHY SPECTACULAR BEAUTIES. WHY CAN'T I?
Also digging Jezebel, possibly Helena, Les Fleurs du Mal, Magdalene, and Seraglio. Getting this weird bubblegumy thing from Desdemona (must discover what that's about, it's disappointing) and a kind of rising berry vibe from Queen Mab which I don't remember having any berry in it. Tried a Violette Market scent, too, Ms. Dolly's Frock Shop (French gardenia, pink carnation, steamed milk, pepper and clove) which would be very nice if it wasn't for the clove, because when it hits my skin clove becomes CLOVE, THE DESTROYER OF SCENTS. There is also a hint of creaminess, and the result is that the outer edge of my left hand smells strongly of chai tea. I keep getting these whiffs of chai tea and thinking, mmm, chai, but I have no chai to drink. It's messing with me. But If I wash that off, I wash off the sexiness of Stardust and Jezebel on the other test spots and I can't do that yet.
My dialog is weak, as I know it is. This whole matter of a character's voice expressed in their speech patterns, this is something that eludes me in day to day life. I have a bad ear for spoken language.
Had the urge to read The Basketball Diaries again. Doing so. This is such a thing of beauty. I will, and have, written more about it and may do so again.
PSYCHOTROPIC MEDICATIONS PRESCRIBED BY A DOCTOR ARE NOT HEROIN. NOT HEROIN, I REPEAT, NOT HEROIN. Just because you sold family heirlooms for skag does not mean everyone is an addict. It's not me with the meds, fyi, if I have psych problems they have remained undiagnosed and untreated. I am just the rude one who is possibly retarded or some kind of idiot savant. Oh, fist of rage, be still, be still.
Even if I forgave them for myself, I can't for my mother. They still don't quite understand that you do not mess with my mother, not unless you are going to kill people to keep me from finding out. I don't care who are, I don't care if you're my mother's mother, I am not cool with it.
On the other hand, I have discovered a meagre but very helpful source of income. Writing articles for the web. Totally lame articles for people who are too stupid to read the warning labels of bottles of Liquid Paper, but their stupidity is now my $15 a pop. Bring it on, morons.
I also have at long last acquired a decant of BPAL's Stardust (2005): When the holidays roll around, not everyone has mistletoe, caroling and cookies on their minds. This scent is a paean to celebrating hard: nights covered in glitter and dusted with cocaine, flutes of Cristal clutched in shaky hands, leather and lace, the Spiders From Mars in the background, and twisting, sweaty limbs entangled in dark corners. Hairspray and cigarette smoke is the incense in this temple to decadence, strobe and mirrors replace the devotional candles, and Bolan sings the hymns. This scent is for everyone that has every drifted off into Quaalude-induced reverie to the beat of a tribal 4-on-the-floor: the sound of Mott the Hoople, Sweet, Slade or the Dolls. This scent reflects the futurism, self-indulgence and excess of the Glitter 70’s: champagne, hyacinth, tuberose, ylang ylang and flashing white musk with jonquil, tobacco flower, white sandalwood and a pale poppy.
When I first put it on, my poor heart almost broke. It stunk, quite frankly, like that nasty cheap perfume and even had a trickle of, oh god, cat pee. I didn't have the heart to go scrub it off immediately, and oh wonder of wonders, five minutes transformed it into something lovely. Ylang ylang, I love you so. All this sweet floral, so giddy, almost silly, and drop dead gorgeous, but sweet with a distinctly sensual edge and that musk, mmmm. Juuust musky enough, just enough to make you smell outrageously good. Just a hint of musky sleaze, a bare hint, to remind you of the lunar orgies but not enough to bring you back down to earth and fall in the morning after comedown muck. Keeps you well above ground. My faith in scent, it is restored! I WANT TO GO TO PLANET GLAM AND HAVE FREAKY LUNAR ORGIES WITH TRASHY SPECTACULAR BEAUTIES. WHY CAN'T I?
Also digging Jezebel, possibly Helena, Les Fleurs du Mal, Magdalene, and Seraglio. Getting this weird bubblegumy thing from Desdemona (must discover what that's about, it's disappointing) and a kind of rising berry vibe from Queen Mab which I don't remember having any berry in it. Tried a Violette Market scent, too, Ms. Dolly's Frock Shop (French gardenia, pink carnation, steamed milk, pepper and clove) which would be very nice if it wasn't for the clove, because when it hits my skin clove becomes CLOVE, THE DESTROYER OF SCENTS. There is also a hint of creaminess, and the result is that the outer edge of my left hand smells strongly of chai tea. I keep getting these whiffs of chai tea and thinking, mmm, chai, but I have no chai to drink. It's messing with me. But If I wash that off, I wash off the sexiness of Stardust and Jezebel on the other test spots and I can't do that yet.
My dialog is weak, as I know it is. This whole matter of a character's voice expressed in their speech patterns, this is something that eludes me in day to day life. I have a bad ear for spoken language.
Had the urge to read The Basketball Diaries again. Doing so. This is such a thing of beauty. I will, and have, written more about it and may do so again.