miss cavendish always says, well you could be richer and thinner thinner thinner. or more like richer richer richer. and some more richer. nothing stands out more than the nouveau riche. that is, with the exception of the poor. gossip gossip gossip, bently this bella that what have you been doing as of late, being a useless, idle lump of flesh (or is that bones) with impossibly unbecoming eggplant nail varnish (nouveau riche see-- colored nail varnish). where have you been. we thought perhaps you were dead. konets.

i'm always cold cold cold. there are so many blankets in this little place, a blanket to watch t.v. a blanket at the computer a blanket when eating dinner, blankets blankets blankets. i wish i had hardwood floors. there was something else that i meant to say, but i have forgotten it. certainly, this only gets worse as you get older. fin.

could you imagine not wearing stockings, stockings that run up your legs to you thighs, nice warm olive stockings, nice warm brown stockings with a nice purple dress. i hear these songs when i sleep, songs that don't exist and i wish that they would stay, stay just long enough so i can write them down, to have them documented on my pages and pages and pages of blank sheet music. that's what the blank sheet music is for, to be written on not to be sitting sadly, in my drawer amongst the bachs and the mozarts and the corellis and the boccherinis blank and empty. fin.

the bacteria have attacked and latched on to my right kidney and now the nasty nauseating c.i.p.r.o.floxacin is attacking the bacteria and there is fatigue and soreness and pain. do you know what i like the sound of? i like the sound of plings and plucks and plings and plings harpsichords are things to be loved and lusted after. i hate how dirty everything is after you lust and twist and shake and squeal. i hate how easily it lets all these foreign things in. dolling cello will have to stay in the room for a while because i am too 'sick' to carry her fin.

you know what i fucking hate? i fucking hate BLEEDING all over my fucking PRETTY LAVENDER SHEETS. yes yes. that is what i truly fucking hate. the end.

there's only six more weeks of school left. SIX FUCKING WEEKS. raspyraspyraspyraspyraspyraspyraspyraspyraspyraspyraspyraspyraspyraspyraspyraspy oh dolling cello dolling cello look at you mixing your strings with other things with other plings do you like the music you make you know you like the music you make fin.

today is pi day. now go stuff your silly face with a nice slice of pie. the end

conspiracy consPIRACY CONSPIRACY we're all going to die all of us little little people tender little people. are we tender? if we we're slow cooked would we come out tender... oh look, this one sucks she's all bone. that's disturbing i suppose but not so disturbing not so disturbing as when you think you're talking to someone and you're talking to someone else. that's not tender. that leaves a rather dry feeling in your mouth. no slow cooking will help that little thing. it's strange this weather so hot for little march, march is spicing it up letting the sun shine a bit more. she's in league with that mount st helens woman yes yes yes she is those two get all warm and bubbly. who's that standing there, over there in front of me, oh dolling that's me do you know me. she's gotten ahead of myself a bit too far ahead of myself. myself is a bit shaken by it you know because she likes to have things in line working out just fine. have you ever heard of sublimation, yes sublimation where the solid turns to gas. the solid turns to gas without stopping to become a liquid. so many things are like this sublimation.

you hear that, that's the rain, and yes i got in just before it tried to piss all over me, and make my little bones shake. these puffs are fickle deciding to be here and then there and then maybe there but just kidding. i see them sometimes, getting dark dark dark and their little wisps look like laundry lint and they start to growl and grumble and threaten to spin themselves into a fury. all these loud loud things, this loud loud city with its loud loud people its silly people that travel to houses with big greek letters and vomit all over the sink, the sink i have to use. this all irritates me irritates me irritates me like how furiously fast these two days pass by, a "hi" a "bye" a "so long, the end". i sleep and sleep and sleep-i like to do so, becasue you see the dreams that i visit entertain me- they're natural born entertainers. they bubble over with nonsense and babbles and sometimes blood, but then i don't like it so much- the blood, it's messy business. all messy business all this messy business i see and hear messy messy messy. i know all about everything, but he, everything, knows nothing about me and oh yes, darling, i swear if you ask me that one more time, i'll flush all your pretty little things down the fucking toilet.

setting: sather gate old man #1: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" old man #2: "SHUT THE FUCK UP." the end.

ha! i'm fucking losing my mind. fin.

you all've burbbles of drama spilling over. would you like me to clean up the mess? it won't solve the problem if you keep fucking burbbling. fin.

people are fucking brilliant. fin.

visual kei and cabaret wear your slut-faced stockings and bite the metal in your lips visual kei and cabaret wear your slut-faced stockings and bite the metal in your lips they want some ass some tits some hips they want some lad to get a lass' kicks by wearing the dress she bought last week on stage at night they have you shouting in the background take it off, give it all to me they have you dancing in the background they're your biggest fantasy they expose all behind a mask it's performance art, darling it's art that performs itself...

it's silly, this conversation she thinks of beautiful brains and golden lips he thinks of panty stains and crashing hips fin.

so i nearly passed out in the shower this morning. it was actually quite scary. the end.

products of boredom. harry potter goes scheeenster. the end.

the world is quiet here.

random squirbbles whilst in linguistics, bored out of mind and rather frustrated with my sweater... forgive the randomness, for it makes no sense seams and fabric and microscopic seams and threads unthreaded to mean nothing but a pile of strings untied together to make an elaborately fashioned mess the colors intrigue you and the structure intrigues you and oh the texture the fucking texture it's like "sex" the fuzz is the buzz the fuzz is the soft shit the shit of the thread and the thread through the wash is no more than lint the lint is the dust of your pile of nohting your pile of nothings made into something's leftovers the colors disgust you and the structure disgusts you and oh the texture the fucking texture is like running you hand up your unshaved leg

the dresden dolls are hot live. their album most certainly does not do them justice. draco: "Your dress robes are frightfully ugly. Come now Pansy, did you have a mudblood pick out your attire for this affair." Pansy: "Actually it was my mother." Draco: "Surely you protested. I would have. I wouldn't be caught dead in something nearly that ugly." Pansy: "Are you meaning to say that you won't go to the ball with me any more?" Draco: "Of course not. If I meant to say it, I would have said it, naturally. And who else would I have gone with? A half-blood? A non-Slytherin? Really now, Pansy, the things that come to your mind at times..." at the ball... Pansy: "Is that Granger? Come now Draco, look. She almost looks pretty." Draco, observing: scoffs "That mudblood. Who exactly does she think she is, trying to be better, once again, that everybody else. Wait 'till I tell my father." the end.