Kerrist, no wonder I don't have a boyfriend.
"This one had it comming
This one found a vein
This one was an accident, but never gave me pain..."
I am at the Oast. No one else is here. They left on friday. No one else will be here until monday eve. I am alone with my art and my thoughts and whatever ghosts, stories or internet friends flit through. It's very peaceful actually and generally speaking my worst excesses of behaviour are absenting themselves.
Peaceful roses, metaphorically speaking, but right now I'm snagged on a thorn.
Looking at the White Mischief site, I came across a photo of me from their last event. I'd forgotten anyone had taken one. The problem is, I remember when I went out, all dressed up, I was un-neurotic and quite pleased with my appearance. I knew I wasn't sex on a stick or anything, but I was happy enough and thought I'd do.
The photo shows a crooked girl with messy red hair in a bad khaki corset with dodgey contact lenses and some unpleasantly livid scars on her arms. (And no, I'm not putting a link, fekk off.) And all at once my neurons deflated. Because they knew although the photo was not the kindest, it wasn't inaccurate either.
A friend just sent me a song - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oBYkj7LQMzw& and the lyrics made me smile unpleasantly 'cos they're true and the rest of it just made me wish I wasn't me and hadn't made ten thousand unsightly red-fade-to-silver ridges all over myself.
You ever had that? When someone says 'found this and thought of you!' and you know they're right, even though you wish they bloody weren't.
The moral to this? There isn't one. Other than I should always wear long sleeves/gloves and tell photographers to fekk off.
"This one was the last one,
I don't remember how
But I remember blood and rain
And I never saw it coming again...
Yes, I am made of scars -
That's what I'm made of!"
This one found a vein
This one was an accident, but never gave me pain..."
I am at the Oast. No one else is here. They left on friday. No one else will be here until monday eve. I am alone with my art and my thoughts and whatever ghosts, stories or internet friends flit through. It's very peaceful actually and generally speaking my worst excesses of behaviour are absenting themselves.
Peaceful roses, metaphorically speaking, but right now I'm snagged on a thorn.
Looking at the White Mischief site, I came across a photo of me from their last event. I'd forgotten anyone had taken one. The problem is, I remember when I went out, all dressed up, I was un-neurotic and quite pleased with my appearance. I knew I wasn't sex on a stick or anything, but I was happy enough and thought I'd do.
The photo shows a crooked girl with messy red hair in a bad khaki corset with dodgey contact lenses and some unpleasantly livid scars on her arms. (And no, I'm not putting a link, fekk off.) And all at once my neurons deflated. Because they knew although the photo was not the kindest, it wasn't inaccurate either.
A friend just sent me a song - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oBYkj7LQMzw& and the lyrics made me smile unpleasantly 'cos they're true and the rest of it just made me wish I wasn't me and hadn't made ten thousand unsightly red-fade-to-silver ridges all over myself.
You ever had that? When someone says 'found this and thought of you!' and you know they're right, even though you wish they bloody weren't.
The moral to this? There isn't one. Other than I should always wear long sleeves/gloves and tell photographers to fekk off.
"This one was the last one,
I don't remember how
But I remember blood and rain
And I never saw it coming again...
Yes, I am made of scars -
That's what I'm made of!"