chocolatebuns
Would you be shocked if I put on something more comfortable ?
posted
The smell. I can't explain it sufficiently, it's a combination of clean skin and Johnsons.
It's totally unique and only very young babies seem to have it. My hormones have taken over and all I can think about is him; the way his skin feels, the way he smells, the way his lip twitches with wind.
It's amazing how nature takes over, how we're engineered to feel this way. It feels like he's been here forever, I can't quite remember life before him even though it's only been 12 days now. I have to stop myself holding him too tight. I'm bursting with love for him, more than I thought possible.
Our parents were right - love is not a measurable thing, it's not finite and you can always manage more for each and every child that comes along.
posted
felt stupid after i'd posted - like i was too open, you know? anyway, here you go Kovie...
i came home at half past midnight on the top deck of the night bus from vauxhall to maida vale. i rested my face against the window and watched the people and streets of london go by. i watched the man up front lay his head in his hands in either a moment of despair or drunkeness. i forgot i was a little nervous on the bus by myself - it's the first time i've been on the night bus alone. i didn't feel lonely though. i watched the drunk people and i smiled at them. the bus stopped along edgeware road and a group of turkish boys were looking at me, so i stuck out my tongue at them and i made my eyes cross over and we laughed at each other. i stared really hard at the streetlights until my vision went blurry and looked at the spiderman tattoo on my wrist. i thought it had looked cool yesterday afternoon when i licked the spit until the transfer sealed itself on my skin, but by the evening i thought it looked pretty stupid. and now i can't get it off - even with soapy water. last night 4 of us went to the pub for an hour then back to the flat to watch 8-mile on kitty's bed. it's the 2nd time i've seen it and i seem to have developed this odd mini-crush on eminem. i got home and i wanted to have a rude dream about fucking him, but was slightly afraid i would vomit during the night and choke all by myself in the kingsize bed with no one there to assist me in my time of need. it's strangely compelling to have these thoughts about a boy with funny lips and horridly bleached hair. especially when i'm 29. are these sort of crushes allowed? shouldn't i be appreciating his musical talent instead of having thougths about fucking his brains out in some sort of cinematic frenzy? perhaps, but they're my thoughts and therefore i'm not upsetting anyone. last night i wanted to wrap kitty up in my arms, really tight. i wanted to wrap her up until we became one person, but i couldn't. she's so delicate and fragile and perfect, yet so strong - even though she doesn't realise. i wanted to sit her at the kitchen table and talk straight, but i couldn't. i didn't know how and anyway, it wouldn't have been appropriate with the boys there, and i wasn't sure she'd want either. i felt quite lost and redundant. i went through stages of boistrousness and solitude because i thought neither were the right thing. i'm listening to dire straits - tunnel of love. i love this song - it's one of my favourites - it reminds me of when i was little and dad used to take us to the spanish city on a saturday afternoon. i want to buy this lovely work suit i saw in mango a month ago. it was £130 then, but it's been reduced to £48 and there's only one left in my size and i just know that someone else is going to buy it before i can afford to. i scuffed the toes of my work shoes and i can't afford new ones just yet, so i coloured the scuff in with magic marker. shoes are important. you can be wearing the most amazing attire, yet if your shoes are scruffy or just wrong then it knocks the entire outfit to fuck. my neice or nephew will be born in around 7 weeks and i'm not that excited. perhaps i will be when it's finally here. i dunno - i think it's because i'm not around all the excitement. because i'm here in london and it's all happening at home. i want to be a brilliant auntie. i yearn to have the same sort of relationship i have with my uncle david - uncontrolled furious unconditional love. i want to take this baby everywhere and have a special bond, but the distance disturbs me - i won't be able to play the part like i need to. uncle dave is one of my best friends - we have a special relationship - one that i've never experienced with any one else. he's like the father i didn't have - even though i have a father. actually i have two, but i wont go into that. i want to know why my dad never calls me. why does he justify his lack of input into my life by sending cheques a couple of times a year. why does he think that because i'm all grown up theat he doesn't need to be part of anything i am? why does he not understand me, or even begin to try? why do i always seem to be on the side line? is it because i didn't play to the rules he had set out for me? university - career - steady relationship - marriage - children..? i might have done it in the wrong order and fucked up along the way, but i have the important things to me. i've lived, albeit not entirely acceptably in his eyes, however, i don't have his respect. not like my brother with his career and mercades and mortgage and coming soon baby...i've seen my dad for 20 minutes in 4 years. 20 fucking minutes and even then the first words uttered were 'el, you're too skinny and that coat is horrible - what have you done to your hair and why are you living in sodding london?' whilst my brother got admiring glances and big-me-up words in his designer clothes and flashy girlfriend with the almost bump. i need my mum. and last night i needed ruby...
-------------------- And then the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom...
quote:Originally posted by kovacs: Today i was invited to model alongside this girl.
Old story but I'll tell it again. Ages and ages ago I was invited by a fairly well known fashion photographer to model alongside some eccentric looking beautiful Japanese-Swedish model for some kinda Americana-Hoxton crossover spread in i-D magazine. I turned up two hours late and extremely hungover at the studio over off City Road North somewhere. I guess they wanted me cuz they needed freak chic. Whatever, it was an experience, right? So I got dressed up in the too tight Americana-Hoxton streetwear, retro Arizona stuff, and she in gorgeous and delicate Ghost-type intricate floaty dress. We got made up. I looked about the same I thought, she like, well, a ghost or some kind of evil angel. Then we went off to be photographed in and around The City and in the back of one of those big ass old skool 70s turbo Yank mobiles. Like off the film Dazed & Confused you get me? it felt strange being told which position to abngle yourself into, and to have to keep up that stance. One of these shots involved this quite stunning model's slender leg hanging over mine and her hand on my crotch. The level of will power involved on my part was immense. Anyway the shoot was fun and kinda hard work actually. Oh to be cool again...
quote:Do not respond to previous posts on this thread in any way, do not quote, do not comment. If a particular post gets you all excited and seems worth discussing in detail, or if it inspires you in some other way, then start a thread about it elsewhere.
posted
I've been sat here all day being called a girl. What is it about my writing that makes me a girl? I blame that elvis 69 fella. I don't remember a '69 comeback special Elvis. I remember a '68 where he wore black leather and looked so fertile his tears would make you pregnant. What was all that about? Ho hum.
-------------------- and the porpoise was waving "goodbye goodbye" Posts: 381
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posted
Is it possible to be clinically depressed for 8 hours a day but then when the bell rings to be ok again?
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Astromariner
Going the right way for a smacked bottom
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I feel your pain, Bob. In my brief sojourn here I've been called a) a man; b) a gay man; c) an "oddball transsexual". I have been deeply traumatised by the experience and have considered changing my name to SparklyFairyLady99 or similar.
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Octavia
I hate Valentine's Day. Stupid commercialised crap
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quote:Originally posted by squirrelandgman: Is it possible to be clinically depressed for 8 hours a day but then when the bell rings to be ok again?
Yes, it is also possible to be so terminally exhausted during the day that you have to pop into the loos to catch forty winks slumped inelegantly against the side of the cubicle, but to then be so perkily wide awake in the evening that your friends curse you when they want to go home and you don't and you're sleeping in their spare room...
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quote:Originally posted by Bob: I don't remember a '69 comeback special Elvis. I remember a '68 where he wore black leather and looked so fertile his tears would make you pregnant.
This is right. The comeback was 68. I liked the childish 69 because I have an annoying and immature sense of humour. I'm Jim Davidson does Elvis.
Hell Bob, let's bond. Which famous Bob said: beeaans , socatash, beeaans. And where?
posted
Nah. Bob Dylan, in Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid.
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scrawny
One Mojito, two Gin and Tonics, Three Bacardi Lime Sodas, and a couple of pints of Stella please.
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I'm in tonight. I'm in on my own.
After two weeks of social climbing, good quality time spent and bad quality time wasted, I have fought this whole city off one at a time, a city that breeds ands seethes with a billion Agent Smiths, all wearing faces that I know and proffering drinks that I recognise, to win myself just one night to myself.
I have a glass of amaretto with ice and the new Harry Potter. My feet in a footbath. A pack of Marlboro Lights and a a chilli and lemon grass chicken thing, which is smelling good behind me. The only people who would object to me smoking in the house are not here. My only two links to the outside world are moving swiftly towards a big red button marked off. I don't want to talk tonight, or think tonight. My feet are aching from the bones to the blisters, and my back knotted with fatigue and tension. A massage would be nice, but only if could do it myself - massage means people, and people are not invited, no sir. Ain't nobody here but me and my lemongrass.
About every 20 minutes, my perfectly constructed and defended sheeny sphere of independence flickers slightly. I might be a little bit lonely. After all, I am in a space that I have only ever experienced in conjunction with the constant pressure of skin on skin, of hands held, legs stroked, arms wrapped around and lips on tired foreheads. My nerves are lonely. I have never slept in this bed on my own before. I don't know how the boiler works. The people opposite that I don't recognise are having a party. Maybe if I wasn't alone I would be invited. The order of the cutlery in the kitchen drawer is foreign and nonsensical. I've never cooked for one here before. I have never watched the sky get dark through these windows before without being able to point out the Simpsons clouds pinned to the sky to somebody I know will smile and agree.
But another surge, and the generator hum of my comforting solitude is back, constant and reassuring. I am alone, but I'm not lonely. All my friends are here - sweet and genuine alcohol, mouthy and pushy nicotine, sympathetic and constant food. Us four, we go way back. I gather them to me, and breathe in and out, listening to the noise that almost isn't, the simmering sauce behind me, the sliding silver shiver that is icecubes against glass, and if I focus really carefully, I can even hear nicotine straining for attention, that beautiful sparking sound of drag taken and cigarette burning, the sound of touch paper and flint. I don't even need to talk, I just listen to them filling me in on their news and gossip. Old friends are the same every time you hook up, no matter how long it's been.
So I'm in tonight. I'm in on my own. But I'm not lonely, and I don't even think I'm alone.
-------------------- ...because that's the kind of guy you are.
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Why haven't you called me? I know I haven't been around for a week but you should be able to tell by the power of thought transference that I'm back. I know I could call you but that would mean I have to organise again. Make decisions. I've had enough of that this week. 1,500 miles and £10,000. Father throwing his toys out of the pram, sighing loudly and pointedly like a teenage boy every ten seconds. Rushing up and down Spanish motorways against the clock and mañana, mañana. Hauling boxes in the blazing heat and painful shoes.
But I'm back now. You should know it. And you should ply me with beer and sex.
posted
ah, I see. A couple of weeks ago I was referring to a previous discussion where we discussed the evolution of the ironic usage of the phrase "X rocks" as opposed to its original American teen banger etymology.
From this we mindjump to Devil Fingers = "rock & roll" fingers, i.e. index and little finger pointed, others curled in. Not sure of the origin of this but I thought it was something to do with the devil's horns, used as a curse or insult in some cultures as pointed out in recent HSBC ad campaign.
Yes, Hippy has gone off on a bizarre tangent yet again.
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I think a small fly just flew in my ear and got stuck in wax or something. Its itching like buggery and I am sure I saw some black small dead fly stuff just come out under my finger nail I was just poking around in there.
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jonesy: afterthought for avoidance of doubt and possible offence, the devil fingers thing a couple of weeks ago meant I was using 'rocks' in its original usage, i.e. not ironically. Bless.
Can I take this opportunity to apologise for completely derailing this thread, though you should really blame jonesy.
quote:Originally posted by Hippychick: jonesy: afterthought for avoidance of doubt and possible offence, the devil fingers thing a couple of weeks ago meant I was using 'rocks' in its original usage, i.e. not ironically. Bless.
You mean the ' \m/ ' ? It is suppossedly representative of the horns of satan, and its representation of the number 666. Unfortunately it also seems to appear automatically in every photo I appear in somehow. I really must grow up....
-------------------- Noli nothis permittere te terere
posted
For some reason, I am reminded of Howard Chaykin's thinly-veiled pron comic "Black Kiss". This tome always reminds me of a surreal, beer-fuelled weekend away in a Welsh town (that shall remain anonymous for now). How are these two linked? It's a long story - probably more than 200 words, but I will summarise as best I can.
My "posse" or "crew" were very impressed with Mr. Chaykins lewd publication. So much so, that they decided to create a short play based upon the story. The sponsor, who I believe was Stella Artois (or perhaps McEwans Export - I forget the details) made some subtle changes to the dramatisation.
The "theatre" was a mobile medical screen which we had found in the lodgings we were borrowing for the duration of the weekend - a local "Red Cross" clubhouse. A faded portrait of Princess Diana gazed serenely down on the proceedings.
The puppet-play featured a small, grubby plastic doll which we named "Dagmar" after the character in Black Kiss. She had an altercation with the Black Worm and the Red Worm - two lonely, single socks we'd found in the same "toybox" as Dagmar. To my knowledge, these characters did not appear in the original.
It sounds pretty poor now, but believe you me, at the time it was hilarious. Perhaps it was the beer talking. Perhaps you just had to be there.
I just remember everyone laughing heartily, tears streaming down their lager-reddened cheeks... Apart from one chap who was sat on the edge of his camping bed, wearing his headphones to stop the moths getting into his ears.
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