This is what people in my land used to wear like 150 years ago:

Try this, it's very good:

I wish there was a clicks counter on that thing.

I lifted weights yesterday for the first time in over six months, and now I can't touch my head.

A friend and I went to a Cobrasnake party the other night. I left with some (act-|wait-)tress who, instead of taking her clothes off, decided to spend two hours explaining how she knew Emmy Rossum was a lez. My friend, on the other hand, got to leave with Cory Kennedy. I called him the next morning to find out how it was. He said:

“So amazing that it would be unconscionable for me to even attempt to relate the details to you.”

“Come on, tell me.”

“I will tell you five amazing things, and you must tell me which amazing thing comes closest to capturing the raw emotion of the experience.”

“OK.”

“OK. You ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“Number one. It was like riding on the back of a giant sea turtle, across the middle of the ocean at night, while, high overhead, the heat death of the universe begins.”

“OK.”

“Number two. It was like feeling the warm, sweet breath of a unicorn on your face and neck as it nuzzles you awake, deep inside an enchanted forest, on the morning of the final day of an epic quest.

“No.”

“You sound sure.”

“Come on.”

“Number three. It was like being made love to by a wind-wraith, a being both nowhere and everywhere all at once, an invisible yet sensate creature able to hover gently above every pleasure cell and erogenous zone all over your entire body–I mean each individual hair on your head, your fingers and palms, your lips and eyelids, the insides of your forearms and thighs, all of them–and trigger them simultaneously.”

“A wind-wraith.”

“Number four. You’ve been to the Playboy Mansion.”

“You know I haven’t.”

“It was like entering a place of unspeakable pornography, and being given the Holy Communion. Amidst the most horrifying perversion, you feel the touch of God, light upon your forehead, and are moved to tears. You are transformed utterly, but in the exact opposite of the way that you expected. Number five.”

“OK.”

“Number five. It was like a soul splitting in two. The ethereal half floats gently up to the ceiling, to gaze down upon the corporeal half and Cory, as they continue their primal, atavisitic ravaging of each other’s bodies. Then–at the exact moment of orgasm–the ethereal spirit ejaculates starshine all across the room. It cascades down and seeps into your skins. Your minds are suddenly flooded with visions. You are Anthony and Cleopatra. Lancelot and Guinivere. Jesus and Mary Magdalene. You are Adam and Eve. You are every couple, ever, from the beginning until the end of time.”

I thought for a moment. “Come on. It wasn’t like any of those things.”

He was silent.

I said: “You fucked her for 8 minutes and wished she’d squirm around a little more. She asked if you had any coke and you made an excuse about having to be at work early. Like it always is.”

“No.”

“Like it always is with girls like her.”

“There aren’t girls like her.”

“It wasn’t like any of those things,” I insisted.

He whispered: “It was.”

I cut my friend's hair the other day, and it actually turned out fine. People gave her compliments on it haha. I was nervous as hell though, if it turned out badly I probably would have balled.

My friend's brother is the most awesome, sweetest guy ever.

I want this coat badly

that's a cute coat

we got drunk and went shopping at the galleria today

more crap/clothes i don't need, grrrrrrrreat

You know, I bet I could make it. It doesn't look complicated.

Maybe I'll look for a pattern that's similar.

who's the designer?

I have no clue, I just came across the picture and liked the coat.

I should go to bed, and get up early to take pictures.

Pictures of what?

Sorry, just curious

Oh anything really.

I was supposed to get another digital SLR from my great aunt the other day (she's mostly blind now and can't use it) but she misplaced the thing once again (she also has a hoarding problem)

Anyways, she ended up giving me a film SLR (newer than the film one I have ) a zoom lens, a macro lens and a crap load of expired film.

Since the film is prepaid, I figure I'll test out a roll and see if they're all work using because it wont cost me shit but will save me time. I would hate to use 20 rolls of film just to find out the pictures aren't worth it.

I think I have poison ivy on my leg, and I'm fucking hoping it's just a massive bug bite. MOTHER FUCKER.

I was just on Flickr, and was about to comment about how some guys model looks like PJ Harvey, then I saw that he called the photo Is This Desire.

Poison ivy doesn't look much like a bug bite. You're safe unless it starts spreading.

hahahaha i didn't write that, i found it on some website. i sent it to cory.

knowing her it would've been like as dude number two put it
“You fucked her for 8 minutes and wished she’d squirm around a little more. She asked if you had any coke and you made an excuse about having to be at work early. Like it always is.”

i have no clue if any of that ever happened. but it was funny as hell when i read it.

You were staring at all that remained of Steven Tyler: some bones and skin and feathered hair, held together by a complex arrangement of silk scarves. He was lying in bed waiting for you, his heart monitor bleating softly in the background beneath the first single off the new Aerosmith album. Some release party. Why did your friend have to enter you in this contest? Why did you have to win?

Everyone had known Steven wasn’t going to be able to wheel himself around stage one more time, so instead of a tour, the record company had put together this contest to coincide with the release of their 25th album. “A Night Of Fucknication With Steven Tyler.” That was the name of the album, A Night Of Fucknication. Was that supposed to be a play on “fornication?” Honestly, whatever had happened to creativity. When you found out you’d won, you’d said “Well at least it’s not A Night of Fucknication with Aerosmith!” Bad joke; the other members had been dead for years. Steven was the only one still breathing (more to do with contractual obligation than personal volition), and everyone knew the album was just a bunch of old samples and outtakes from previous records, chopped and scratched, rehashed. There was even a crossover song with the second Britneybot.

You undressed down to your underwear (which felt naked enough), and slid into the bed. Steven moved slightly, sensing your presence. Oh, the skin on his face. Years of rubbery over-emotiveness, all that screaming and scatting and playfully saucy mugging, had rendered it slaggy and lifeless. You put your hands on his face and pushed his skin around until his lips were over where they were supposed to be. You leaned in to kiss him, but hesitated.

GOING DOWN HA HA HA his electronic voice prosthesis croaked.

Oh god. How were you going to get through this. Having sex with Steven Tyler wasn’t really the prize; clearly it wasn’t any prize, just a useful marketing hook. You would also get credits and medicine that you desperately needed, but not until the act was finished, not until the press got their complete account of the event.

You got to lose to know how to win, he had said, a lifetime ago.

Behind you, someone in the press box cleared his throat.

You took a deep breath and threw the sheets back.



hahahahaha