Nov. 16th, 2015

what am i?

As of November 2011, expect that 90% of this journal from here on out will be friends-locked.
You know the usual drill: Shoot me a message or comment to be added. I'm not picky about who I add, just restricting access to most of my entries.

inspiration.

it's time to check your ram.


Come mid-January I go back to vague unemployment, I'm seriously considering signing up for makeup classes at the Academy.

Tags:

Diary.

what am i?
And Misty said, "Nobody paint paints. Not anymore."
If anybody she knew still painted at all, they used their own blood or semen. And they painted on live dogs from the animal shelter, or on molded gelatin desserts, but never on canvas.
And Peter said, "I bet you still paint on canvas."
"Why?" Misty said. "Because I'm retarded? Because I don't know any better?"
And Peter said, "Just fucking paint."
They were supposed to be above representational art. Making pretty pictures. They were supposed to learn visual sarcasm. Misty said they were paying too much tuition not to practice the techniques of effective irony. She said a pretty picture didn't teach the world anything.
And Peter said, "We're not old enough to buy beer, what are we supposed to teach the world?" There on his back in their nest of weeds, one arm behind his head, Peter said, "All the effort in the world won't matter if you're not inspired."
In case you didn't fucking notice, you big boob, Misty really wanted you to like her. Just for the record, her, her sandals and floppy straw hat, she was all dressed up for you. If you'd just touch her hair you'd hear it crackle with hair spray.
She wore so much Wind Song perfume she was attracting bees.
And Peter set the blank canvas on her easel. He said, "Maura Kincaid never went to fucking art school." He spit a wad of green lobber. picked up another weed stem and stuck it in his mouth. His tongue stained green, he said, "I bet if you painted what's in your heart, it could hang in a museum."
What was in her heart, Misty said, was pretty much just silly crap.
And Peter just looked at her. He said, "So what's the point of painting anything you don't love?"
What she loved, Misty told him, would never sell. People wouldn't buy it.
...
Her fantasy houses and cobblestone streets. Her seagulls circling the oyster boats as they came back from shoals she'd never seen. The window boxes overflowing with snap-dragons and zinnias. No fucking way in hell she was going to paint that crap.
...
It wasn't until one of her kids died, he said, that Maura Kincaid ever painted a picture. He said, "Maybe people really have to suffer before they can risk doing what they love."

I don't think that counts.

O____O
Erm. Bragging about doing Courtney Love's hair isn't something I'd be proud of since she usually looks like, y'know, trash.
what am i?
Weirdest conversation I've had: I had to translate NorCal slang (IE: hella) to someone from Wisconsin. Ghost riding the whip I can explain but do you know how difficult it is to put into words what hyphy means?

tell me more.
I had to help an old lady tape her shirt onto herself last night.

Tags:

god save the queen.

O____O
Repo? The Genetic Opera?







WHAT COMPELLED ME TO WATCH THIS?!

Tags:

mrs. jonas.

O____O

Tags:

newsflash.

OHM NOM NOM.


-- THAT'S WHY HIS HAIR'S SO BIG,
IT'S FULL OF SECRETS~*

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what am i?
shoutingasong
Dorothy dreams of tornadoes

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