"Stranded in this spooky town
Stoplights are swaying and the phone lines are down
This floor is crackling cold
She took my heart, I think she took my soul
With the moon I run
Far from the carnage of the fiery sun..."
*Tries to gather brain together*
People have been leaving comments on my journal.
This makes me smile.
I tend to read them at 2am when I read all news of the outside world. I think, 'I'm brain dead - I'll reply tomorrow' and then never do. Sorry. I like your comments - all of them - I read them and think thoughts back and everything.
What's going on? Oh, fekk knows. I have Chavs and Vampires to draw - swathes of them in fact - which is cool if mildly daunting as usual. (How did I draw in the last books? Oh god, does that look shit? I can't draw *that* - will Grim mind if I just pretend I misunderstood and draw *this* instead? Oh shit my inner goth is trying to make everything tragically EGL and pretty, even the Chavs, - stoppitstoppitstoppit. etcetc.)
What else? I told my mother that since there was nothing to be done she had to make a choice - to either accept her situation and find what happiness she could, or refuse her situation and be miserable for the rest of her life. As a speech this might have been both more poignant and more useful if it was likely that my mother would remember it tomorrow. Gah. I dunno - is this some sort of karma for all the times I've been stupidly depressed and someone else has had to deal with it? Maybe; dear gods I hope I was never that bad.
I'm writing dodgy fiction. It's dodgy because it's totally pointless, not because it's pornographic or particularly shit. It's not even M7 (for which I know I have a {extremely select} audience. It's glorified sleeve-notes for a playlist of songs that remind me of Sherlock Holmes. But whatever, apparently it helps my neurons de-crazyify at the end of the day, so I guess that's it's purpose.
I'm here til Friday, far as I can tell, although gods help me it might be longer. I have no cigarettes. I have no way of procuring such since the shops are reachable only by car, I don't drive, and my father must on no account know I smoke - even if it is only one cigarette a day. This is bad. Should anyone post me a pack of SilkcutSilver (Raven Morrison, Springham Oast, Grove Hill, Hellingly, Sussex, BN27 4HF) I will readily return to them coins/fiction/art/spells/gratitude/notquitesexualfavours/etc.
Alternately Laudanum will do just fine. (Aaand absinthe could well substitute for the opium tincture - being more on the legal side.)
Both would be spectacular.
Heh. Anyone sends me a (proper Victorian poison) bottle filled with laudanum/absinthe and an elegant (silver - yeah, I'm pushing my luck) cigarette case of fixings, suitably packaged and presented, will receive an on-the-spot proposal of marriage (uh, if they want it) just for shear style and oh-i-love-you brilliance of it all.
This floor is crackling cold
She took my heart, I think she took my soul
With the moon I run
Far from the carnage of the fiery sun..."
*Tries to gather brain together*
People have been leaving comments on my journal.
This makes me smile.
I tend to read them at 2am when I read all news of the outside world. I think, 'I'm brain dead - I'll reply tomorrow' and then never do. Sorry. I like your comments - all of them - I read them and think thoughts back and everything.
What's going on? Oh, fekk knows. I have Chavs and Vampires to draw - swathes of them in fact - which is cool if mildly daunting as usual. (How did I draw in the last books? Oh god, does that look shit? I can't draw *that* - will Grim mind if I just pretend I misunderstood and draw *this* instead? Oh shit my inner goth is trying to make everything tragically EGL and pretty, even the Chavs, - stoppitstoppitstoppit. etcetc.)
What else? I told my mother that since there was nothing to be done she had to make a choice - to either accept her situation and find what happiness she could, or refuse her situation and be miserable for the rest of her life. As a speech this might have been both more poignant and more useful if it was likely that my mother would remember it tomorrow. Gah. I dunno - is this some sort of karma for all the times I've been stupidly depressed and someone else has had to deal with it? Maybe; dear gods I hope I was never that bad.
I'm writing dodgy fiction. It's dodgy because it's totally pointless, not because it's pornographic or particularly shit. It's not even M7 (for which I know I have a {extremely select} audience. It's glorified sleeve-notes for a playlist of songs that remind me of Sherlock Holmes. But whatever, apparently it helps my neurons de-crazyify at the end of the day, so I guess that's it's purpose.
I'm here til Friday, far as I can tell, although gods help me it might be longer. I have no cigarettes. I have no way of procuring such since the shops are reachable only by car, I don't drive, and my father must on no account know I smoke - even if it is only one cigarette a day. This is bad. Should anyone post me a pack of SilkcutSilver (Raven Morrison, Springham Oast, Grove Hill, Hellingly, Sussex, BN27 4HF) I will readily return to them coins/fiction/art/spells/gratitude/notquitesexualfavours/etc.
Alternately Laudanum will do just fine. (Aaand absinthe could well substitute for the opium tincture - being more on the legal side.)
Both would be spectacular.
Heh. Anyone sends me a (proper Victorian poison) bottle filled with laudanum/absinthe and an elegant (silver - yeah, I'm pushing my luck) cigarette case of fixings, suitably packaged and presented, will receive an on-the-spot proposal of marriage (uh, if they want it) just for shear style and oh-i-love-you brilliance of it all.