Your line, ‘lick and finger every other mortal with whom he comes into close proximity in this sacred space’, did you nick that from Sade? You devil you!
My only shenanigans tonight have been eating homemade chocolate brownies at a friend’s house just up the road from my own. Out-of-this-world tasty. Oh wherefore art thou self-control? I can’t stop feeling horny. I literally cannot stop…
I hadn’t heard these before. Very entertaining. I just listened to them in the kitchen with my housemates whilst we attempted to make three separate meals in one square foot of space. It lifted the atmosphere, which had been charged with frustration and exasperation from all the clambering over each other and fighting for utensils. Sometimes I wonder if it’s every British mans destiny to end up a dirty old perv, having surreptitious lonely wanks over the sprawling tits of brainless, hapless females they will never meet.
Sorry I didn’t reply sooner, the Internet connection at work was non-existent today.
So yes, it did induce feelings of happiness; followed closely by guilt with a hint of self-loathing, but I’m over it now. Nevermind. Tomorrow is another day and all that, one that can be filled by the gaping void that will replace smoking and eating calorific food.
I am very well, thank you. I do hope your poor shoulder isn’t causing you too much pain. A six-pack is something to do with American beer isn’t it?
It took me four hours to put up a window blind (that included a lot of running back and forth to the hardware store). Then I had my hair cut and my ‘friend’ did not do it how I wanted. I’ve written NOTHING, until now.
An hour was spent on the phone to my Aunt who kindly told me how to live my life. Apparently I’m doing it all wrong, and should be setting up a nice little nest for when I have children. I corrected her with ‘IF’, which she ignored.
Some Buddhists came round to chant with my housemate and instead of chanting with them I stayed in my bedroom drilling holes in the wall and wishing they would fuck off.
My dear, you are a master of concoction. The feast of literary delights you have produced is both sublime and disgusting. To attract and repel so forcefully through the power of each sentence is talent indeed. I can only imagine how your audience must be filled with the desire to mount the stage and throw themselves, lust-ridden and half-crazed at your feet whilst simultaneously scanning for the nearest exit from which to run, screaming.
I’ve been in all day. Got cabin fever. Managed to write a little bit more of my dominatrix dream sequence, have two successful wanks (bit tender now though, I had to try really hard, don’t know why) and then The Duchess came round for tea bringing with her a box of pop-tarts. Mmmm.
That video is hilarious. The auto-tuned backing vocal is terrifying, but overall I think I quite like the song. I see what you mean though, now that you’ve pointed it out, it is a little bit camp isn’t it.
Emailing is shit. You try and write something humorous and when you read it back you just sound thick.
My housemates have fucked off to Wales and Glastonbury so I am home alone for a couple of days. Bliss, this has never happened before and probably never will again.
Heavy Water is fantastic in its renaissance style imagery. I instantly thought of Persephone, Goddess of death and the many romantic paintings of her and in turn, the Cocteau Twins – always a dreary joy.
My day has been fucking unproductive but quite nice. My new housemate came home and we spent all afternoon having in depth discussions and cooking. I’ve just spent two hours on the phone with an old friend who I don’t see enough of, unravelling each others deepest darkest emotions – quite exhausting! He was the bassist in my old band and we were reminiscing about gigs. One of them was at the Carling Academy, perhaps the worst show I’ve ever played. We supported the usual black-clad anorexics, who sounded, of course, like a bleak, boggy landscape. They wouldn’t let us share their dressing room because we weren’t very good.
I confess that I used to be rather fond of ambient metal. I don’t know why, it’s very depressing.
This week I have been mostly fantasizing about claustrophobic sex. The kind where your bodies are pressed so closely together you can barely move. Hands over mouths, eyes locked, no sense of time. Spiritual sex I suppose… whilst masturbating with my ankles tied together.
Do you mind if we don’t? I didn’t realise you lived that side of London. I’ve just looked at the trains and to be honest, it’s put me off the whole idea.
Words and image by Rachel James