DEAR GOD I'M A GOOD CHRISTIAN MAN
Blog Posts
How The Tattooing Began
Speaking of tattoos, I need to steal some handwriting for a specific phrase. Also I'm starting work again at 9.30 on Monday morning, same place as last time. Anyone who therefore fancies dining with me after 5pm at Mamsuka on weekdays is welcome, because I intend to abuse the dicks out of that delicious place.
In the Geschichtedorf Club, no one is ever certain which season will fall when the sun rises. On some nights snow flakes successfully fall all the way through the maze of cracks and crumbling architecture down into the tabled area, only to melt in someone's wine; on others it is sweltering and every scrap of paper is put into use as an inelegant hand-held fan. Sometimes, both: the nights at the Geschichtedorf Club are long.
"A strange thing happened to me, on the way here tonight," says Max Severing, his ink-dirty fingers and fingerless gloves playing a restless rhythm on the side of his wine glass. His cigarette slumps between his lips.
"It is not your turn," Kurt says, stern as any schhoomistress, leaning back in his seat. His customary glass of unadulterated water sits before him.
"Pshaw, we take turns?" Severing snorts, and so saying he swills a mouthful of dark red wine about his mouth. "Where was I when this military order was being imposed?"
"Drunk."
"Where is our darling little soldier?" Severing continues, swallowing. "He is missing and so is our gracious hostess."
He bares his iron-coated teeth in a dark-grey grin and knocks his boot against Kurt's. Kurt's expression does not change.
"Do you suppose --"
"No," says Kurt, pulling his foot away. "I do not suppose."
Enjoying E.M. Forster's Collected Short Stories, as predicted - I am taking a break from Master of Reality due to the braincrazies: I am also being a lazy fuck and have spent the evening doing draft listings for jewellery, which I ordinarily DETEST, because I knew I was supposed to be doing something else. Which I detest even more. THERAPEUTIC SELF-WORK BULLSHIT. I HATE IT SO MUCH. BUT IT NEEDS TO BE DONE BECAUSE I REFUSE TO BE THIS FUCKED UP ANY MORE.
How The Tattooing Began
Speaking of tattoos, I need to steal some handwriting for a specific phrase. Also I'm starting work again at 9.30 on Monday morning, same place as last time. Anyone who therefore fancies dining with me after 5pm at Mamsuka on weekdays is welcome, because I intend to abuse the dicks out of that delicious place.
In the Geschichtedorf Club, no one is ever certain which season will fall when the sun rises. On some nights snow flakes successfully fall all the way through the maze of cracks and crumbling architecture down into the tabled area, only to melt in someone's wine; on others it is sweltering and every scrap of paper is put into use as an inelegant hand-held fan. Sometimes, both: the nights at the Geschichtedorf Club are long.
"A strange thing happened to me, on the way here tonight," says Max Severing, his ink-dirty fingers and fingerless gloves playing a restless rhythm on the side of his wine glass. His cigarette slumps between his lips.
"It is not your turn," Kurt says, stern as any schhoomistress, leaning back in his seat. His customary glass of unadulterated water sits before him.
"Pshaw, we take turns?" Severing snorts, and so saying he swills a mouthful of dark red wine about his mouth. "Where was I when this military order was being imposed?"
"Drunk."
"Where is our darling little soldier?" Severing continues, swallowing. "He is missing and so is our gracious hostess."
He bares his iron-coated teeth in a dark-grey grin and knocks his boot against Kurt's. Kurt's expression does not change.
"Do you suppose --"
"No," says Kurt, pulling his foot away. "I do not suppose."
Enjoying E.M. Forster's Collected Short Stories, as predicted - I am taking a break from Master of Reality due to the braincrazies: I am also being a lazy fuck and have spent the evening doing draft listings for jewellery, which I ordinarily DETEST, because I knew I was supposed to be doing something else. Which I detest even more. THERAPEUTIC SELF-WORK BULLSHIT. I HATE IT SO MUCH. BUT IT NEEDS TO BE DONE BECAUSE I REFUSE TO BE THIS FUCKED UP ANY MORE.