Lil Kim reminds me of my spiritual teacher Lisa (I’m the Ka and she’s the Li in KALI) and my Auntie Norma.

I didn’t stop thinking of my Auntie Norma when I was in Brighton. So if she comes across this post, HI AUNTIE NORMA I LOVE YOU. All of my favourite ladies are total Bianca Mouseseses.

The video above is for Lil Kim's "I am Kimmy Blanco", uploaded by

SOOOO. I went to Brighton on Tuesday for the evening. I went to a STRIP CLUB. The adult industry has been missing me, I can tell because none of the girls know how to dance (unless they’ve been ‘watching youtube’) and if they do know how to dance they must be too shy. If you want to learn how to dance, ask a black man to dance with you. I mean a black man over fifty years old. It’ll be embarrassing but you’ll be dancing like this months later, promise.

First of all – don’t rush into any small town gossip, I’ve had issues with that before and while it made me notorious in a town occupied by four main streets, people (jelly women) also used conversations about me as an opportunity to spread bizarre misinformation (lies) that I didn’t have a chance to correct until it was way too late and way too awkward for people to man up and apologise for the damage they had done to my personal life. There is no conversation I won’t have, no topic I shy away from. If you want the honest truth about something, ask me. Or read it here first, whatever.

After a night at the strip club – I had a local come up to me and ask if I was a prostitute – not out of any kind of personal judgement but a genuine inquiry.

One and all, I’ve been celibate for two years – that includes very, very rarely masturbating – and I only have sex with people I’m in love with and if I actively want to get pregnant.
I would not allow someone to pay me for sex wherein I intended to get pregnant because my future child(ren) would be really insulted if I asked for anything less than several billion yen – because I’m royalty (legit, and I know – even I had a nervous breakdown when I found out too) and I do what I want. (Within reason, I mean I know all your children obsess over me and it’s important to me, to try my very best to set a good example.) and if I had kids I’d have to be able to afford for them to be able to dress and eat well, and go to expensive schools. I am all for the communist manifesto and being a bit scummy, but that is a personal and educated choice that they deserve to make themselves – like veganism or vegetarianism – when they have also been educated – if that is right for them and how they want to be portrayed.

So – no I’m not a prostitute. I don’t accept money or payment in exchange for sex. That includes all the before-sex stuff too – I do not exchange sexual favours for cash either. I enjoy that you’d assume as much from how I dress or act, but that is my feminist persona. Truly. Any boyfriend I have ever had (my relationships generally last 3+ years) will confirm that I am adequately vanilla and eye-closing and that I only wear cute underwear or sexy pyjamas if they’ve been cheating on me and have an attractive friend staying over or I’ve put some make up on and I’m taking selfies.

I may apply my make up to look like the town bicycle, I sure as hell look my best when I dress like the town bicycle – I even ACT like the town bicycle when I’ve had one of those funky ‘cocktails’ that Platinum Lace ‘bartender’ was serving – but I’m definitely not the town bicycle. Introduce me to your town bicycle, I’ll give her lady lessons.

I am – however – the kind of person to charge for conversation. That is how good I am at it.

So. Do not ask me if I am a prostitute, do not insinuate I am a prostitute – I will embarrass the fuck out of you. Politely. Do not use me to make your girlfriend jealous, I will probably prefer your girlfriend to you.

I am an advocate for ethical, ethically taxed and ethically moderated sex work and sex workers and I believe it’s important for women to feel comfortable walking around dressed provocatively without feeling that they are inviting male attention – I’m not afraid of male attention, or polite interactions. If you see me – I’m new in town as of next month. COME SAY HI. INVITE ME FOR A DRINK. TAKE ME SHOPPING.


I dressed up and everything.
This was an outfit you’d of had to of come to Platinum Lace to of seen. Platinum Lace is the local strip club. It’s my new favourite spot.
I got publicly spanked by one of those fresh-out-of-prison bare-knuckle-ADHD-boxers from Leeds (you are not allowed to touch the dancers – I was there as a customer – please never go to a strip club and attempt to touch one of their dancers), I got kicked out by a bartender pretending that he owned the club because a guy had a tantrum when I asked him for £700 to take him and two of his favourite dancers personal shopping for an all inclusive shopping spree – and then verbally abused by one of those big belly security guards that don’t understand how Strip Clubs work cos he doesn’t get that no one wants to invest in a dance from someone he’s been touching up for freeeeEeeEeEEe. To the owners of Platinum Lace – might I suggest that you employ my sexy bare knuckle boxer from Leeds? He’s attractive, pure muscle, a great listener and if anyone hurts one of the girls he can telephone one of his drug baron mates from Leeds to come have some fun – no police involvement necessary. See, I know more about bouncer work than flabbytubby tubbins who should’ve thought twice before he thought to abuse me in front of a dancer that – now – will never, ever get invested in by me when I later visit the club as a CUSTOMER.

Unless she apologises, I always accept a sincere apology.

(Re: The spank: it didn’t hurt but it inspired me to consider opening a spanking booth.) (TROLOLOLOL amirite?)

The video above depicts a scene from 'Cool Runnings', where the
team comprised of your favourite Jamaicans ever enterprise 
to gather the funds to invest towards an entry to the Olympics.

Uploaded by @TheSmasher93

I stayed the night in a backpackers hostel, the one adjacent to the Casino. I shared an inexpensive £10 bunkbed in a room with lots of girls and it was interesting to gain an insight into what was actually one of the nicer living arrangements for people who have to spent nights in hostels. (I do think they ought to invest in lockers for the rooms.)

I remembered how much patience I have when a girl’s alarm kept going off and she continuously put it on snooze.

If you’re staying in a hostel, turn the pillow case inside out or bring your own. Stuff your valuables in the pillow while you sleep if you’re sharing a room with other people. Here  I was smoking on the beach, having my early morning cigarette in yesterdays make up. I resemble one of those adorable fluffed up pigeons that expand their bodies by fifty times to get comfortable and warm. And actually I was warm enough – I still haven’t found the temperature in Brighton acceptable enough for people to be wearing puffer jackets or puffer coats. I’ll get to this later – but if you’re a woman – WEAR.A.SLIP. WEAR.A.VEST.


Here’s how I dressed the following day. I was sitting outside a cafe called Chapter XIII.
A ruffled dress with dead daisy print, an Isabel Marant rara skirt, a knitted snood (Asos, 2005) and a faux fur stole.


A local lady told me I looked beautiful and my heart fluttered. No man that has ever complimented me has had the same heart-response. She made me remember how much I enjoy telling beautiful women that they’re beautiful.

I’m moving not far off Brighton’s coast in March, ifffff I don’t get the job as a youth worker in Haringey.

Haringey council apparently wants people who have degrees in social work. Spare me the absolute fucking insult of the hint or suggestion that I’m under-qualified. I grew up with the most emotionally abusive family you can imagine, watching my sister have thousands spent on her and getting £20 or so spending money a month for a travel card to go see my then-boyfriend on the weekends while she shopped/frequented expensive clubs/went on yacht trips with her friends – and a severely autistic brother who was so fucked up about our home life that he had to abuse drugs to find happiness. His only decent memories involved being on drugs. The only good time he has ever had has been at quarry raves with kids. He was robbed of being the coolest person in the World to being abused by the police from Dubai to London town and reduced to the false help that psychiatrists still endeavour to pretend they’re offering by forcing spiritual masters to take pills. And my “father” was too cowardly to know how to protect him, my “mother” too fixated on the sad 50s borderline BDSM housewife-protected-by-men dynamic that advertising companies were selling to women (it’s the WOMEN in the 50’s you wanted to be afraid of) and my sister too invested in being given everything she wanted to notice how fucking terrible she looked to anyone that knew what was going on.

The people with “degrees” who’ve been “helping” my brother for sixteen years of his stolen life still haven’t done anything to help or make a difference. And then years later I realised I’d been a victim of a pedophile ring in a block of police flats in Ealing when I was being child-minded by a family my mother thought of as born again Christians. It’s okay – it’s FUNNY to me – it HAS TO BE.

At the very least I can teach society’s victims to LAUGH about it. Thats what got me through the kind of bullying and abuse that most people would’ve ended up committing suicide over. I grew up with a compulsive liar for a sister too – I mean she really can’t help it and whats worse is that my mother sent her to a performing arts school.

If you knew the average salary for one of those ‘ward nurses’ and what their actual job description entailed (stuff I’d do for free but sadly I gotta live and I gotta eat) you’d be absolutely furious about how your taxes were being wasted.

These little boys who run away from abusive homes and being bullied in school to join gangs deserve better than someone with a degree, who had to be taught what they need to reintegrate into a society that abused the fuck out of them in the first place.

I was a streetkid. You didn’t know but you know now. You couldn’t tell. Maybe you could. Some people have the eye, some people do not. We thought real pedophiles were hilarious – your local birthday party entertainers are NOT pedophiles. The last people that pedophiles want around them are families taking photos of them at their children’s birthday parties.

Kids in London have no where to hang out anymore because their families think that the only way to avoid pedophiles or a broken arm are to keep their kids at home glued to computers. Sad. I LOVE computers – I LIVE on them – but you won’t find many people with a more colourful life than mine. Even when I was little, at times quite possibly having been drugged before sleeping at relatives homes – I made time to walk around gardens and play amongst nature. I wasn’t scared to pick up insects or stick my hands into ponds to fish out the amphibians or follow a dog down a ditch in the British rain and the mud.

Society really needs scary people, you know. We keep you safer than your local police do. The only people that the police are loyal to at this point in time, are the police. They protect one another when they commit serious crimes and in that way they blackmail one another into dishonesty. If you think the police don’t stalk me, you’d be mistaken. (I actually feel it’s becoming embarrassing for the police for us to be in the same place at the same time – as it should be. Nothing dangerous happens when I’m around – and if it does the police are responsible. I’m also stalked by international diplomatic security. Our family warned you – but did you listen? No.) (The police ought to know how it works but they might need more time to accept it.)

My advice is to not let my brother’s circumstances get to this – (notice the little star of Davids on the military helmets?) (we’re subtle)

Don’t ever forgive a person who calls the police on you, or invites them into your life. Especially if it’s because you threw their shoes out of a window cos they were cheating on you with your “bestfriends”. Know better than to lazily buy little children toys with ‘cute’ police men on – that is mind control and propaganda. Teaching children to trust civil servants with subconscious imagery. It isn’t motivated by keeping society safe, it’s motivated to keep society under technically – illegal control.

And if the police pretend to be your friend, RUN. Or beg your scary friends (ones that have already been touched up by the police – stay away from the ones that haven’t) to watch out for you.

Or try to be a decent person, don’t go out for drinks with people you don’t know. Don’t make friends with people that only ever get in touch to ask for favours. Don’t be a person who only ever gets in touch to ask for favours. Iunno. Once the police start stalking someone they’ll find ways to keep trying to get in touch with you. Police men are weird/stupid and stalkerish. Don’t renounce the work of your great grandfather to make friends with people you don’t know. He was more educated than you and all of your friends combined. I’ll continue to pretend you and they don’t read what I write. It’s less awkward that way for both of us later.


Please visit this place if you are interested in permanent make up or hand poked tattoos. I’m going to have my eyebrows tattooed on – the lady at the shoppe kindly discussed microblading versus tattooing (which she prefers, as it affords more detail and precision – and lasts longer).

I do have further questions about the treatments she offers – but she was very decently priced, her face looked gooood – and a flip through her work made me feel positive about her standards. I will definitely be investing at a later date and I’ll let you know my thoughts. My grandmother had make up tattooed to her face at eighty. How epic, right?
My blog is the bestfriend I share my life with.



I think I’d like to join the beachside Gun Club. Apparently there are a few. I’ll make the rounds. I visited C&H Weston for an induction, it was an establishment run by really helpful gentlemen who kindly gave me an induction to some of their pistols and rifles – and gave me the details for a local instructor. I’d like to invest in a new hobby and apparently there’s a clay shooting club near my new home.



I visited a florists! These are painted gypsophila. Every nook and cranny of this florist’s shoppe was thoughtfully and beautifully decorated with unique art pieces and pressed flowers – and even if you find floristry a little bit morbid (I live for all things morbid) – if you’re interested in interior design I strongly advise you to visit. I didn’t catch the shoppe’s name but I’d know it if I walked in, so I’ll try to capture a photograph of the shoppe front next time. It was so colourful and exciting. I’d love to be able to budget to be able to invest in bunches of flowers to decorate my flat with.

It’s important for local economies that locals and tourists try to shop at independently owned establishments because it keeps them thriving and it keeps towns like Brighton interesting. I love Ealing when I don’t not-love Ealing, but the most noticeable locations are full of franchised shoppes (which are equally as important when you’re buying either sanitary items or necessities like water, because for some things – a company needs to be able to afford to be accountable for closely monitoring their produce.) that lack the freedom to express an interchanging character. Franchises have to adhere to visual merchandising standards, because it’s important for them to be visually consistent.


I bought some stamps from a local stamp collector’s shoppe. The gentleman who owned the shoppe selected them for me, and with perfect judgement too. You can read more about the shoppe >> here, on TripAdvisor. <<

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If you’re the letter writing sort – I’m most certainly the bitch-fit by first-class-signed-for-correspondence sort – and you have a chance to visit Brighton – or you’re a local, please visit this stamp shoppe.

Screen Shot 2019-02-09 at 05.06.30.png

There is a stamp for EVERYONE. Something you didn’t know: as a child I really, really, really wanted to collect stamps.

Screen Shot 2019-02-09 at 05.07.53.png

I went to ‘Opposition’, an independent restaurant that imports Italian produce. They kindly invited me in, asking if I was looking for work. I was given a three day trial shift – for next week. So I guess I’ll be going back to that casino-side hostel over looking the beach.
I wanted to try some of their food prior to doing that shift. If you want to be a waitress for a restaurant, I advise that you try some of the dishes until you find one you truly like, so you have something to honestly recommend to customers.

The cafe had a tomato and basil pasta garnished with parsley, for under five pounds. I was really impressed that there was an option on the menu for people with lower incomes that might also like to go out for a meal. The Minnie mouse table cover was perfect too.  I ate outside, so I could smoke and people watch.

I had my pasta with lemon. Fresh lemon always. I even put a segment in my tap water to make it fancy.


I had this lunch at about half past eleven, so I only ate a small portion and I took the rest home to finish later. (I added lots of mozzarella cheese, edam, sliced ham, mushrooms and spices to my version – and I reheated it in the oven – not the microwave.)

two independent cafes before catching my train home – I bought a book by Perle Besserman. This book touched my heart so deeply when I read through it the following day (in the Job Centre, of all places to start reading your new favourite book) that I almost on three occasions – started crying. Not out of any kind of sadness, but just because particular sentences in the text (THE INTRODUCTION. NOT EVEN THE MEATY BIT OF THE BOOK) resonated so deeply.


There was a page in the introduction that said that practitioners of Kabbalah ought to endeavour to try to actively live amongst their communities and it was poignant because I have spent so many years avoiding societal life. Walking around Brighton on my own prior to the purchase gave me the opportunity to greet, converse amongst and immerse amongst people I wouldn’t normally have invited conversation with. I’m sure some of them knew of me but the conversation never felt forced or unusual or creepy.

If you are around my age, that is – old enough to live alone, responsible enough to make decisions for yourself, old enough to buy yourself an alcoholic drink – if you want to learn how to speak like an adult, talk to older men. I mean – men over fifty. They are the best conversation. Don’t EVER make older men feel creepy for trying to actively contribute towards a vibrant society, if you feel uncomfortable around someone – learn to politely excuse yourself from conversation. I did not feel uncomfortable talking to anyone in Brighton – except for the creepy, fat security guard who was being unprofessional in a Strip Club and the guy serving drinks at the Strip Club.

“you picked the wrong sister and don’t think i’ll let you forget it”

Published by KARINITA


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