I felt like I’d had one of those lazy days then I kind of realised I didn’t and that people have no idea how much I achieve in a day if I stop daydreaming (meditating, visualising, whatever you want to call it) for several minutes

This is a Madame Bijoux Dior ad. I love Madame Bijoux.


This is Ryvita with philadelphia cheese. One of these has chia, tomato pureé (Tinned tomato), paté, lemon juice and afew different kinds of seasoning. The other has chia seeds, manuka honey and nutella. I served myself using Killi’s saucer. (I decided that Tintin and I could share the mug but I bought a brown tin mug recently so I think he’ll have that instead.) (It looks vintage)


I designed a label for a pink sweets bag. It’s a wedge I free-hand scalpelled out of black card. I could’ve been one of those epic surgeons if you’ve seen my cuts and my stitches.


This dress began as a bow weeks ago, and then while I was doing a meditation with Jane of SethSpeaks I illustrated over with some glossy housepaint and a dress happened. Then I added to it with some bits I cut out of card months later, today.


Imagine if I’d of had the pennies to design the things I’d like to wear. That I’d like to dress women in.




Art takes years. And if it doesn’t it’s not the “best you can do”

a tweet worthy of note

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Ginger hair is a biohazard but you’re genuinely funny and probably the most hardworking ginger guy in the World that isn’t a wrestler? with a vendetta against me

ACTUALLY taking a moment to defend another ginger. There are three gingers I don’t mind. I don’t know any of them.

One is Lily Cole – an elegant redhead and I once visualised a very tall, very skinny Eve that had walked out of a renaissance painting. Years later I actually saw her modelling. (Years later I visualised another Eve, and she was a black woman with a bun, so I think she had very soft hair.)

Another is Pyrocynical who I think will be a hottie once he finds his look. I watched a lot of his videos on youtube when I was having a shitty time living with a rapist the NHS set me up with so they could take turns raping me at night through him.

The world isn’t really ready for people who were born after the 1990s – Lisa’s Ascended Masters – because they’re all here to have fun with their clothes and the only people who were remotely good at clothes were people who could afford very expensive ones and who were venerated as celebrities.

The third is Conor Mcgregor. I’m going to defend him because I’ve come to the conclusion based on kicking and punching a skinny gay guy that started on me in a bank when I was holding a bird (he was wearing a jockstrap, trust me – you can flick a penis and it’ll hurt the person) and he did a great performance of ‘feeling nothing’. I physically felt held back and weighed down by something when I made that little assault (I assure you it was a reflex and that it would have been correct to ask him not to threaten me before hitting him for it. And while I am prepared to take the blame, I have all sorts of explanations – it doesn’t change that these sports are unethical, the results planned in advance with all sorts of ulterior motives and whether I predicted accurately or not – it is very possible to cheat through a kind of physical control detailed in this post.)

Don’t fight to compete, pick a fighting partner that is your physical equal and evolve together because everything relating to sports, particularly televised sports that people bet upon – horse racing most likely included – is a fucking lie.



I woke up at six in the morning, tried to order a cheese and chicken royale from burger king at about nine in the morning, with no success, donned one of the charity shoppe dresses I bought years ago in Woking and my Bloch ballet shoes stained with period blood. I don’t really fit into many flat shoes because I have “weird feet”.


Theres an Iraqi punk artist I like called Jason Atomic, and I read once that he had a jacket that had all sorts of bodily fluids on it (vomit, saliva, semen, blood) and actually – that directly inspired these ballet shoes. He used to be married to a Japanese woman but he ran off to date a stalker that made him feel beautiful, I imagine, and if he hadn’t of, he’d probably not have become the person he is. I found him on SuicideGirls many years ago.


My job as a self proclaimed artist is to make a vision from my life 
experiences and the terrible things that I've been a witness of. 
I'd sell bloody ballet shoes but I wouldn't know I wasn't selling 
miscarriage blood and that's really quite a strange thing to make 
money from. 

I found that shell by the sea. 
That was a plate with a peacock on that broke awhile ago and I 
intend to sand down the edges and collage it to a piece of art.

I sauntered on over to the corner shoppe and bought myself a £1 ham and cheese sandwich (I don’t enjoy brown bread but I bought it anyway) and some ferrero rochers because my angel guide Lucifer LOVES them. “Delicious” apparently. (I can’t afford the angel Gabriel. The angel Gabriel doesn’t like cheap jewels or metals or clothes and it gets altogether very sexual when I have to take them off because they physically BURN.)

(But not really. Sorry, I can’t make actual jokes anymore because I can’t be certain that the people reading them won’t convince themselves I MEAN IT.)

The angel Lucifer is not the BaphOMet. The angel Lucifer is a balanced being with both male and female energy and the BaphOMet is physically a female being and I imagine the reason she has been depicted here with a goats head is because you should be able to love something without needing to ever see it’s face.

[image ref]

OM is a vibration and I’m sure you can enquire further with any hippie. All I know is that I wanted Abe’s paramite and scrab tattoos and I got the letters O and M.

“What’s in a name” MORE THAN YOU CAN IMAGINE.

entirely of my own learning the moon became a symbol of a deception
and through non judgement where it was appropriate, a symbol of that which is illusory
here the baphomet says, the light is an illusion and the dark is an illusion
(My name is Anna Karina, I fucking wrote everything here)

And at a time she must have existed on a Planet that allowed her to see
and to see the moon

This is an illustration by Eliphas Levi Del sourced on google and the tattoo on the forearms of the baphomet read “solve coagula” – and it’s an alchemical formuli but it is also latin for greet (I know because my form tutor at Saint James taught latin and thats how she’d greet her students, “salve” – I was never TAUGHT) and I think, part. It is a cycle we experience with those we stand most to grow from being with and experiencing some new form of love with. There are many forms of love. If you love with your penis or your cunt you’re probably not really loving anyone. Especially if you wake up the next morning feeling like shit, and make the other person feel like shit too.

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I bought myself a memory board from a local charity shoppe. Actually I bought two of them. I wanted to decorate my living space a bit for a Miss Kittie video. I have no idea how those handmade (they were handmade and not by efficient Chinese factory workers but by someone VERY insecure because the insecurity transferred when I touched them.) (If you really loved them there is no way that you’d of let these pieces go.)

_MG_5335.JPGIt is actually perhaps strange also that when I read the words “if you really loved those pieces there’s no way you’d of let them go” that I also thought – if I loved a person I’d very easily let them go if I thought it would make them happy, so I wouldn’t be an inconvenience to them. I am much more possessive about my belongings.

The psych ward stole expensive jewellery from me, a cat ear Maison Michel headband made of metal with spikes that I once channelled Queen Khleopatra wearing (there was a dance, I did where segments of the metal changed colour and I recorded using a heat sensitive setting on my laptop camera. The video magically disappeared but I know that I can get the video back – a lot of people saw that and a lot of people downloaded it.) amongst those expensive stolen things.

My family arranged to have my belongings sent to storage and a lot of them did not come back. I put so much effort into my belongings actually. I love belongings more than I can ever allow myself to love towards people. ASK before you take something and if I let you keep something, GIVE ME SOMETHING BACK. If you have stolen I’d prefer the item to be returned to me, to a replacement or even to cash –

my items are often difficult to price because you can’t put a money on ‘love’ can you?

WOW. THAT. “you cant put a money on love”. First of all: I am not stoned. I am sober. I am very, very, PAINFULLY (I mean it) sober. I can be occupied by complete fucking retards and I’m sorry but something has to be done about them. They are not doing it by accident, they are adamant that they can get away with it. They are doing it on purpose.

What I meant to write, though, was:

it would be tremendously difficult to assign any kind of price tag to my belongings, because it is extremely difficult to quantify the value that I personally offer to everything that I invest my money in. I buy things I know I will want forever, even if my tastes change. My tastes actually don’t change though.


I don’t have a lot of money. I’m owed a lot of money, but it isn’t in my account. It really should be and I know it will be.


I was channelling Maxime Avet to take these, I’m trying to go back in time to all of the photographers that were looming in my subconscious. I imagine that if we all stop being cowardly, come back and claim our former positions the internet will stop being a fucking MESS. 1!!!!!1!!!!1!!!!!!!!!!!!11111!!!!!one


I have two new plant friends. Apparently – and this is a note to self – they water from the bottom up. So you put a little bit of water on a plate and the water travels upwards.


More examples of internet mess and I’m going to go into some detail here because they deserve it. Yesterday I told my “mother” that I wanted a restraining order against Cherrene and her friends and I could hear (not audibly, it’s a turn of phrase – you know ‘I could just IMAGINE) her god-awful fucking histrionic marzia-voice screeching down the phone at her in their defence because what really stings is the embarrassment that her and her friends invested so much uninvited attention my way and never bothered to admit to it because they preferred to steal. Because they preferred to be ‘inspired.

These women are too ‘old’ to pretend that they have any business stalking people my age, which they do, authoring “style” blogs (I keep defining that word and you clearly can’t read so you’re just looking at the pictures.) and that is not because of their age, it is that there isn’t even a reasonable exchange. What do they have to offer back? Because I don’t want their ugly clothes or their money. Or their ugly kids. Unless they’ve stolen some since we met, and it will come out if they have – and I’ll want them returned to suitable parents.

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this is two of my stalkers. really trying to do casual. On a style blog. Why bother? What is this an attempt at really? The questions are rhetorical. I am not inviting a response. Someone will want answers though because you fucked over a lot of people and to pretend otherwise will be some new low for you to drop to.

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Did they. Is it because you worship the divine female form or because you’re really, really taken by art? Especially art depicting the nude female form? What inspired that? Was it, perchance, because you might’ve read somewhere that Princess Charlotte of Wales was taken by ceramics?


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I don’t actually know what is military or even utility ‘chic’ about these satin? hella cheap jackets. These are not military chic and these are not ‘utility chic’ either – you couldn’t wear these in the rain, they don’t have lots of pockets for carrying your items in (so, the military wouldn’t find them useful – do you just like to throw words around, or?) and you couldn’t wear them sauntering through the Amazon on expeditions so they’re not that ‘utility’ either. Or do you mean utilitarian?

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{It was not founded by Jeremy Bentham. And actually I’m not a fan of utilitarianism as a political movement because of the potential the ideology has to remove the individual from the realisation of an identity that could contribute towards their personal evolution – which would benefit everyone else so IUNNO DUDE, IUNNO. BUT DO YOU SEE HOW THESE PEOPLE ARE NOT MY KIND OF PEOPLE, WERE NEVER MY KIND OF PEOPLE, COULD NEVER HAVE BEEN MY KIND OF PEOPLE – WERE THE DIMINISHMENT OF MY KIND OF PEOPLE – LITERALLY – they’d of had absolutely no invitation into my life. There was never any suggestion of consent that my interaction with them could acceptably go beyond the fact that I was doing graphic design work for them and that it was insultingly underpaid. And unused.

They purposely made sure I was given a memory stick containing photographs of them and their family – I mean the kids, the ugly little boys in ugly tracksuits and – really – the kind of family gathering that makes me GLAD I don’t have one. I had thoughts like “are you going to sell it to a publication” (“no, these are boring photos, no one wants to see this” I thought back). I imagine they thought those photos of their footballer husbands were really valuable but I think, I looked through about five images and closed it because I was mortified (was it one of you that was mortified?) at how fucking boring they are. You probably know better, the affect of my making eye contact with you – so what really happened was I was pass the parcelled amongst Cherrene’s friendsssssss. Again.

My “sibling” (again, I will be legally disowning her and arranging for a restraining order. Which is the correct thing to do to stalkers.) liked to rifle through ‘family’ photographs and take the photos where we looked attractive (probably the unattractive ones too but they’d see the memories anyway I imagine) and put them up in her room. I recall a psychic once told me on the phone that afew people had photographs of me and that they used them to “communicate” with me. Work on a psychic line for long enough and the stories repeat themselves, with names, with particular details – that fucking pathetic.

This is why muslim women ‘cover up’, this is why muslim women don’t make ‘physical contact’. Do not lie to me because then you’re shitting on a lot of religious truths. Do not try to protect yourself, tell the truth. I won’t judge a person who can tell the truth. (I mean, if you’re a zoella or a hannah or an emma or a joana etc, I will judge you because I already know you’ve abused me. You are all that fucking repetitive.)

(by the way, a once-a-friend-not-a-friend-of-mine-anymore-did-you-have-anything-to-do-with-it-cos-it-all-happened-in-surrey brought the use of the word ‘chic’ into the internet lexis, accept it. Her mother is a renowned fashion photographer. A lot of people, myself included, were probably urged to take photographs because of her.)

Embarrassment makes people do very peculiar things.

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Chintz is not your thing. Nothing in that photo is chinoiserie. Not even mock-chinoiserie. Don’t call it chintz. That is weird. Do not throw words like ‘minimalist’ around. You don’t know what that word means. It’s a movement. I know you ladies know I was watching some youtube videos about minimalism and then I watched this in Denmark and the lady in florals used the word maximalism, which I’d never heard before. Learning new word is the sad kind of thing that makes me really, really happy.


There were a lot of these women, that were in some way affiliated with footballers and residing in Surrey. They had arranged for my sister and a friend of hers to be moved. At the time I was smoking a lot of weed. I recall being introduced to a few of them and being invited to two of those women’s homes, I recall walking through their ‘shop‘ too. 

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This was taken from their instagram. So fashion. much style.


But yeah, no: I don’t quite know if you have an accurate memory of fifteen years ago, when SuicideGirls and Graphic Novels and Movies and people’s favourite bands were everything to everyone. Do you mean “I had no nice stuff, I found someone to copy and I tried my darned tootin harfest/hardest? to make it impossible for people to find out and I failed”

You did fail. You did.

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This is a pararaah (wow) a paragraph, taken word for word

I wat to

^ Trust me, it’s a real thing. People can occupy me. Easily. Its a human rights abuse and if they can do it to me there are a lot more people that they can do it to.

Leading bookshops of London is one of the best sentences I’ve ever read

(Is it?)

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Carol Ann Duffy is a really special person/writer? to be compared to because she authored a poem that I’ve referenced at least five million times, and it likened the female orgasm to ‘pearls’. Anyone in the online adult industry will know that I was an integral part of us collectively understanding that the female orgasm was real. I DONT MIND YOU DID IT. I WONT HOLD IT AGAINST YOU. JUST TELL THE TRUTH AND ALL IS FORGIVEN. (I’m talking to my shitty babysitters from suicidegirls and godsgirls, I’m over Ahmed so I don’t care that you did what you did.) (You were led into a trap by people I hadn’t met yet. Spend a night at a footballer’s house trying to do some work and years later you realise that they had a really great time making you ill.) (My enemies were picked for me years before I was even born. Their names were picked for them years before I was born.) (Accept it and don’t fucking lie.) (I don’t care if you watched my child self get assraped on a doctors’ table, that’s a pretty anime thing and if I wasn’t sure it’d give me PTSD I’d probably enjoy my childself experiencing that too because sadly we’re all into fucked up hentai and all I ever wanted was to be not only anime, but also hentai)

It was a poem I studied when I did my GCSEs in one of those dreadful government bog standard poetry anthologies: and it was written from the perspective of William Shakespeare’s wife, who I believe must’ve been somewhat affected by the idea of him being infidelitous (her character in that poem was) – more so the idea of people assuming that they didn’t have a sexual relationship. The poem is about a guest-bed in their home.

One sec I’ll find it.

‘Item I gyve unto my wief my second best bed…’
(from Shakespeare’s will)

The bed we loved in was a spinning world
of forests, castles, torchlight, cliff-tops, seas
where he would dive for pearls. My lover’s words
were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses
on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme
to his, now echo, assonance; his touch
a verb dancing in the centre of a noun.
Some nights I dreamed he’d written me, the bed
a page beneath his writer’s hands. Romance
and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste.
In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on,
dribbling their prose. My living laughing love –
I hold him in the casket of my widow’s head
as he held me upon that next best bed.


OH! No! Right – the idea being (god memory flashes) that Shakespeare had bequeathed the guest bed unto his wife and that there would’ve been some suggestion of insult because why not the “fancy” bed? Carol Ann Duffy would’ve argued that that was the bed they used to fuck in. Hence the poem.

{Poem sourced here, 10 August, 2019}

Someone that I actually fancied and hung out with and watched on youtube while I was in Denmark homebirthed a daughter called Pearl. People did not know that she was not actually blonde nor that as far as genetics are concerned, it is impossible for a person with dark brown hair to have a blonde child. It was important because it was deeply connected to “if you stick up for the blonde, it’ll make you really popular”

I could hear my form tutor-cum-headmistress (the word cum, used in that context doesn’t actually mean what you and your really cool boyfriends/friends would like it to mean and I feel compelled to clarify that) in that youtuber’s voice sometimes, months later. Her voice is distinctive and I am really, really good at voices. As in I can hear an actor’s voice in a film and then years later if their voice struck me personally I might be able to identify their voice in an animation. No face needed.

that font, though, it’s called ‘Journal’. It was a godsgirls thing. Do not pretend you have been internetting and that your tastes in graphic design and typefaces are not DIRECTLY RELATED to me

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so i know you’ve seen godsgirls. which explains, to some extent the mess of the lives of everyone involved in that entire industry. (Don’t lie, don’t attempt to lie – when they have the truth they are psychos. these kinda people.)

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If you want to masquerade as some kind of style or fashion icon, or any kind of voice for the nature of clothing – it’s advisable that you’ve some understanding of clothes. That you aren’t regurgitating a style that has probably been influenced by me or some version of ME. An understanding that you didn’t steal from ME – quite badly considering your budgets. If you emulate me, fucking CREDIT ME. I DID THE WORK. A navy waterfall jacket from warehouse goes a long way though, doesn’t it


Anyway. Yesterday and today I spent the last of the cash in my bank account on some books and I probably ought not read them until those women are no longer allowed to use the internet, no longer allowed to astrally project or whatever it is that they do to stalk me, no longer alive ideally but … thats really some kind of Planetary decision that I suppose I am too biased to be neutral about. I saw a book in the shoppe about the death penalty and I think it’s important that we consider

These are creepy women. Don’t pretend you don’t know what ‘inspired’ this shit.

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Do not accept CHEAP imitations (some of my most dedicated stalkers are finally getting the attention they craved and that they really invested towards making my life difficult to get, and I hope they sleep soundly into their 100% Egyptian cotton sheets/pillow cases)

Capsule wardrobes are a thing that Peaches write aboute

That ^ Kill me

Years ago, when I was studying Fashion, Peaches Geldof edited/wrote? an article for I think, the Metro, about Capsule wardrobes. For people who didn’t have a good budget but wanted to be able to dress well. That is all I wanted. Actually all I wanted was to have a lolita/nymphette/dominatrixy wardrobe (just the look) and summer dresses and playsuits to roll around in at home because it’s weird to dress like that at home, or it was to my younger self. I didn’t make an effort at home because my home was hideous. Any money we had was spent on my older sibling.

Capsule wardrobes are for professionals and also for people who are really fucking poor. Not for ‘celebrities’. Again, someone wanted to ‘defend a blonde’ that didn’t need to be defended.

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Note: YOU WERE BULLYING HER. I NEVER BULLIED HER. AT ALL. [image taken from ref]

Peaches Geldof arranged for me to be friends with a girl called Stephanie and – SHES ALIVE. SHE WILL TELL YOU THIS HERSELF. IT’LL BE FUNNY. WE REALLY GET EACH OTHER. I FANCIED HER. SHE WAS ABUSING ME A BIT BECAUSE SHE REALLY THOUGHT THAT WHEN I FOUND OUT WHAT WAS GOING ON, I’D BE IN A THREE PERSON RELATIONSHIP WITH HER, HER HUSBAND TOM (I GUESSED that he was a taurus – from how he served his children food.) AND THAT WE’D BE FRIENDS FOREVER. (I mean say sorry first and let me be a bitch and you can replace the beanie baby in my one man show) (yeah but beanie babies are mine and don’t you dare go back on it or I’ll stay here) – She had seen a lot of my memories, probably been present for my reading with Lisa (was) where Lisa told me that I would be the HEAD of a SECRET SOCIETY – in my next life. (I’m on that life but at what fucking cost.)

Peachy and Kremé both wanted to be elegant gothic lolita girls but they were kept away from the things that they liked. I was peachy’s inner stylist. She was my biggest fan and most dedicated stalker and actually fucking ruined my life with that shit. It meant that any future fans would unconsciously do the same fucking thing to me – pretend not to be a fan, pretend not to have been reading the stuff that I put all of myself into sharing and CURATING on the internet before anyone else was doing it. I put myself in a lot of ‘danger’ with people who tried to control me by making me take stuff down when they didn’t actually know the true story AT ALL. And made her life WORSE by “DEFENDING” her.

 in other news – I realised a girl I went to school with called Joana is prince harry’s twinflame. She is also one of my stalkers and it’s nice to know you have something to talk about.





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It is weird and I’m sure of pure coincidence how much zoe looks like my ex’s mum in this photo, the one that used to abuse me routinely – but also: if you are famouz and your ‘best friend’ is also famouz and she allows you to dress that terribly in public without also looking that fucking terrible, you are not friends

I found this using Hadassah Cordoba’s videos.

I really miss cool British celebrities. This is Katie Jane Garside.

This is an Adreena I made out with in a pub one time after turning eighteen. At the time she was in a relationship with Maxime Avet, a french pornographer AND the eponymous North West’s porn-doppelganger Skin Diamond. She is a british black person and her father was a kids television presenter. There were attempts to ruin her life by attaching her career and his career and that was a method employed by a lot of people for, I’m sure, many stupid reasons and all of them related to jealousy, ultimately. Excuses to control people.


Image sourced by Google.

Image sourced by Google.

North West has a cool big sister, to say the least. I believe that the conception of every baby demands that at least three people fall in love or are mutually attracted towards one another. I think at any given time there are about twelve fertile people on the Planet and that changes minutely. It’s a chat for another time.

I believe that the title of the diary entry is self explanatory though and if I showed you photographs of my mother who looked NOTHING like Zoella in her youth but who makes a cameo in a photograph of her holding hands with my siblings in their infancy you’d probably be as fucking disturbed as I am but I’ll SAVE IT

Here is a document that kind of looks like it was cosigned by my ex boyfriend and zoella in 2012. If I say “this person is a stalker”, trust me.

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My mess is a thing that happened when I left Dubai.

My being messy has nothing to do with my being Arab. And everything to do with my being British. Let it sink in for five minutes. Get offended.

Please do.

This is a British riot girl band fronted by a woman called Katie Jane Garside.

Actually all of the Arabs I’ve met – are psychotic levels of OCD about cleanliness and their self presentation. They usually wash themselves about five or so times a day and they wash their assholes after taking a shit and I promise you – white girls don’t do that. They probably don’t think they need to with their babyshits.

My being messy and vulgar is everything to do with my taste in comedy which is actually mostly British.

My favourite American comedies taught me snobbiness.

I didn’t learn to say “OH DEAR GOD” from Christians (Christians and Catholics avoid using the word ‘God’ as a profanity, it’s considered sinful. If you curse using Jesus Christ’s name or God’s name or the Holy Spirit – you are encouraged to confess it for penance.)

I learned it from a series that at one point I could repeat word for word because it was all I was allowed to watch.

Most young people don’t know anything about British comedy. And so they aren’t really very witty, aren’t especially funny. Aren’t prolific writers either.

Here is your British heritage. The only thing that people really like about the English is your comedy and you guys aren’t funny anymore. If you are funny it is uh. Ironic. That is: you are not funny for the reason you think you are funny. A funny dance is rarely a funny dance.

I learned to be okay with peeing in the sink because I saw British punk girls taking photos of them in hotel rooms doing it and I thought it was awesome. I still do.

One time I was at a party in University and there was an English girl who was a lot younger than me that I felt compelled to invite to stay the night. She slept on my bed, beside me (and a guy that was, at the time, model hot and an actual model.)
She’d been ditched by her friends – and whether she is a nice person or not and whether she knew the town or not, and whether her friends liked her very much or not – they left her alone and so I let her into my room with a guy that I’d invited to that party. She’d done drugs so she found it a struggle to urinate and I let her go in my sink and I made no issue of it. She felt comfortable saying “I can’t pee” and I didn’t laugh at her or make her worried that she’d never be able to urinate again, I said “try turning on the taps.”

One time I watched my spiritual teacher having a really painful episode of diarrhea – she’d just come back from a healing session with a lot of abused women and what energy workers do is they absorb the ‘negative energy’ into their bodies. The energy doesn’t DISAPPEAR. And I was not watching because it’s good-watching – but because I was in a bathtub that had no curtain and I felt embarrassed for people to see me naked in person because when people see me naked I am aware of their observations.
Here’s what I felt/thought when I watched her going:
– At least she’s not constipated because that is so much worse.
– That looks painful. I am so fortunate not to be in that much pain.

If I hadn’t of seen my teacher go, there was a time when I’d of been afraid to use the toilet – I might’ve had to go to hospital because I was terrified to go because I felt I was being watched. So I don’t think she realised how many people she healed that day.

At the time my landlady (sometimes she’s an Irish Gypsy and sometimes she’s other things and I adored that about her.) was living in a messy and inelegant cupboard beneath the stairs and I hadn’t seen her clean once. I felt like I was living with a liberated, educated person who had better things to do than obsess about the cleanliness of her home. Her home was filled with books that she was happy for me to borrow and to some extent it was like reliving a childhood. (Of course I was recovering from a traumatic abortion that I didn’t trust my family enough to tell them – although now I realise that they knew and it terrifies me that they knew because throughout the pregnancy before the abortion I was being verbally abused for and over anything and of course you don’t abuse pregnant women unless they’re abusing you.)

If you think that people needing to use the toilet is funny then you can be sure that you probably won’t ever have children until you don’t.

You’ll find that out of nowhere you develop pretty serious constipation too, especially if I’m the person you think about when you take a shit. Which is not a compliment but it is a SERVICE.

Shitting is not funny unless there is a context towards the narrative that makes it funny.

Farting is not funny because it is a form of rape that you can’t see. It is not trapped gas. It is people trying to penetrate your body without permission.

When my baby Seagull was crapping ALL OVER over my Habitat cushions (they’re hers, I know it) all I could think was “I am SO happy your body works because if it didn’t I’d take it personally”.
I was not congratulating her for being functional but I was honest about how it made me feel that her body was performing the way that bodies are supposed to. Especially having my disability, I project a lot of fears about that onto anyone I’m feeding. Especially animals.
Eventually it was “I know that you can understand every single word I say if you’ve watched my memories, I know that you’ve learned how to speak and that you can speak well too – I know you can gesture yes or no in response to questions most humans can’t really respond to. So either you’re doing this on purpose or someone is occupying you and making you do it. Like me, she struggled not to think about my abusers.

She knew not to fly into glass, I had birds throughout my childhood. I actually HAD birds. She was not my first bird. She was not my first or second rescue bird either.

She could press her beak into a mirror specifically to balance and dance and I would NEVER teach an animal how to dance (I like to hold Tintin and choreograph him but he doesn’t do that without me enabling him) and I did actually ensure that she put her beak on my window and further ensure she knew that there was something there even if it appeared see through.

Well if you want a pet bird, I advise the following:

Wait for it to dry, grab a pumice stone (volcanic rock typically but rock is rock is rock) for most surfaces except marble – and scrub. You can use a good stain remover but I haven’t found my stain remover of choice yet.

I could feel the British actors and thespians I’ve known in my life cackling as they overheard this. Same.

Zoe I will consent to everyone watching my life if only so that they can hear how much of this mess my ‘friends’ at University and I inspired.

Ghost writer – my ass – Zoe. You wrote this by yourself and you deserve all the credit in the world. Ghost writer. What a lie. (I’m sure she will either leave it there, and pretend she doesn’t stalk me online – or she will have it removed. It is ‘Girl Online’. Her debut novel and a book she most definitely wrote (no ghost writer that had studied literature could comfortably even not-put-their-name-to-that – that apparently a lot of your kids have both bought and read.)

I mean it was either her or Alfie’s sister or both that wrote that shit.

I once wrote a 14k word story – no where near finished at that point – and it was an attempt to narrate a pilgrimage of a – blonde – ugh – princess (lets say she was a pleidian) and she travelled to many geographical locations, including Egypt. And she saw beings with the heads of animals and partied with a fox boy and trolls and all of that. I tried to include the legends and myths of beings

One time I will put together a children’s reading list but amongst the books that I personally know your kids will enjoy that aren’t Harry Potter but certainly would’ve been read by J.K Rowling.

[image ref, courtesy of a google image find]

I had an ex that had never read a book before meeting me – he’d been mistreated at school (you try having the name ‘Ahmed HOSNY’ twenty or so years ago. In East London. With an unemployed, easily irate Irish mum and an abusive Egyptian dad that owned a Whimpy for a bit.) he had read plenty of comics but he’d never read a book.
This was the first book he finished. He once performed he mole’s voices for me. He didn’t feel stupid being theatrical or gesticulating or being interesting and I assure you, WASPS really need that. You’re the zombies slash robots, trust me.

I was the first person that was prepared to stick up for him against the punk girls he really fancied who used to joke saying things like “half breed” and “we only acknowledge your irish side” – and that was forward thinking for them. Really it was.

My dog is funnier than your local celebrities.

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Iunno if I said; but I saw my seagull babe Killi outside the corner shoppe owned by asian men (not oriental/azns, the kind of azn that wear saris and bindis) where I bought her favourite foods (except for paté – but the first paté I gave her was from there) and

I mean the excuse I have towards that lack of sensitivity towards races is that I secretly fetishise azns (worse than being racist to the actual azns, I know that, they know that, I put up with the dirty looks from the hot ones because I deserve them) and also amongst the first mothers I had was a Sri-Lankan woman called Mala who used to pick food up with a knife and put it in her mouth. We’d blame her when our cereals got cockroaches in them but that’s common when you live in the desert.

Before I was kicked out of Bernie’s house so that a blonde woman and her pets that neither of them were able to look after could move in, a spirit guide told me to accept that the reason none of the men I was interested in or the people I wanted to be friends with would be in my life was specifically because of my race. He said “It is a race issue.”

Well I wasn’t initially prepared to believe it was just that. It was what they associated with my races but um. I grew up in the United Kingdom. I am a British passport holder.

The midwife that delivered Princes Haryryr and WIlearaarm (Lady Diana’s sons) also delivered ME. In a British hospital and everything. After my family had spent years here, IN SERVICE. My siblings attended private British schools (the kind you pay for) including Queens Gate and some other shit ones with ugly uniforms. They were taught to be good little English kids with names like “OMAR” and “CHOREIN” (that isn’t her name, I could watch her die and feel nothing.)

If I wanted to hang out with British aristocracy – I do not, and would not – but if I did want to, I have the manners and I have the ability to ‘banter’ with them too. You don’t really know what the upper middle classes are like and not many of your youtubers (village people) could probably cope with those kinds of people. I mean you couldn’t have a debate without it becoming an argument and getting offended and thats why you’re proletariat. My friends were people who were from all walks of life financially. My sister chose the kinds of friends who became the people that ran companies like “universal studios London” and my kinds of friends were people whose parents or grandparents were the reason that we know we are in a Universe. Not wealthy money – because they were the kind of people who were kept well away from money because they don’t let clever people have much money in this country. They keep them out of work.

The difference between those friends and myself is that I never really showed off about the things my family had achieved or done for this Planet (MANY – not just Israel, trust me) and if I told someone, often they were rude about it.

[image ref]

I suppose it means something from a green guy with white hair that doesn’t wear cagoules, tracksuits and ugly trainers.

Here is a post I made a few days before going to University on this blog.

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EDITED TO ADD: OH DEAR GOD ITS WORSE. The people who insulted me for not being promiscuous and insinuated I “didn’t know how to have sex” were WHITE PEOPLE who had NEVER HAD ORGASMS and were really struggling with getting pregnant.

Btw – to both Zoella and Pops, I was nice first. So it means something now that I will be cruel to you and if people defend you both for popularity they will be defending people that I really wanted to be friends with. There is no one on this fucking Planet that could suggest otherwise. I really, really wanted to be friends with you and frankly that kind of stupidity gave me a shit time. If you lurk someone or watch stuff they’re doing, don’t pretend otherwise. This was on my ‘affliliated/fan links’ and I’ve since removed it. Zoe had a spot too but I took it down when she started being discreetly abusive towards me on her youtube, having watched me remotely without ever asking for consent and I had been prepared to forgive her for it because I really thought that we’d eventually be friends.

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To alfie – dude if you killed yourself I couldn’t care less but don’t bother. Ariana is gonna be single eventually.

These people are abusers. Do I want you to defend me? No. Don’t you DARE contribute to their suffering. And trust me, I can do a better job of defending myself. Sometimes I invite help from people who might know how it is most appropriate to defend myself but I prefer to do it myself. Do you think that you are the first town to unionise and gang up on me? I HOPE NOT.

By the way – if I taught you how to use the toilet, if I help you or have ever helped you to go to the toilet – that means that firstly – your parents failed you and I picked up the slack and that means that I have kids first.
Especially if I am your egg resource.
That means – more importantly – that
I choose who I give my eggs to.

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I had a friend who said to me that she prayed for a child and then conceived one – I was the only friend of hers that didn’t know she was pregnant and all of her friends, for whatever reasons, discouraged her from having that child. She aborted very late. For a lot of reasons I think it was positive for our Planet because we learned about what those clinics get upto (std clinics, fertility clinics and abortion clinics apparently really need each other) and that she is at heart a selflessly inclined individual who made a terrible sacrifice to some years of suffering later – acquire some very frightening, void of doubt truth about human reproduction. Her child would’ve wanted that because her child would’ve been raised to know about reincarnation, the immortal nature of spirit, truth and service. (There are many spirits, some are annoying and if you tell them to go away and mean it, they really should.)
I was the only friend she didn’t tell and I was the only friend that would’ve encouraged her to keep the child. I’d of told her to excess all of the things that would have made her a fantastic parent because I had always thought so when I hung out with her. I admired that she could cook and that she could keep herself organised and that she could make appointments – she could do things that I personally struggled with and she could have conversations in public that most people would shy away from and there was plenty she knew about that I did not know about. We grew a lot from just exchanging conversations.

I DESPISE of that girl but that doesn’t change that I could leave her with a pet, and that pet would be properly taken care of and not at all treated like some kind of source of entertainment or amusement. My pets are always amusing though. I could leave her with a child and know that child would not be abused. Perhaps made to feel stupid if they did stupid things or called out for questionable behaviours (I’d let her smack my child – I’m not lying) but would I be FRIENDS with her again? NO.

So trust me, when it comes to your family units – it isn’t about whether I like you or not. It’s not personal. But if you are untrustworthy: your future child probably ran away from you too.

And for a time when people don’t rush to insult or to shut me up – I continuously kept repeating to them telepathically that I was more than prepared to give alfieere and perpery’s PARENTS a child. DID YOU DEFEND THE BLONDE THERE TOO :S

It’s okay – I stayed in Denmark for a bit where EVERY woman was blonde and got defended against me. I was in a state of PTSD and I really wasn’t being nasty to anyone but they were still defended. (It’s a weird thing to do, to go to a new country and be nasty to people.) So I’m PREPARED. FULLY PREPARED. I DONT EVEN BLAME YOU.

But I suppose they thought they knew better than me and now I will have nothing to do with them. Find yourself someone else to steal from. You’ve got a whole town of loyal racists who will defend your honours.

Don’t EVER forget that I stuck my hand through a fucking FLAME – ACTUAL FIRE – to defend a woman that is more British than your Queen and who was abused by YOUR QUEEN. Who had a mixed race baby (Pharaohnic lineage so just as much royalty as her repulsive brats – scraped out of her body before she was popped into a new one.)

That was an “im prepared to get hurt to tell the truth” but I did it to save my life because I had a whole town of people trying to make me think I was ‘going to die’. To defend a blonde. That had been hurting me long before we ever started speaking.

I pick the women that selflessly helped me in ways that my parents didn’t and that I’d of preferred to have been my parents. It is small acts like that that shape who you really are, as a person, until my teachers have kids you can literally all fuck yourselves into oblivion (you won’t carry a pregnancy through to full term, even if you convince yourself otherwise – and if you do you’re giving those kids up) because I don’t know how to raise kids until I see them do it first.

Stay the hell away from me.



Awhile ago I made a post where I said “I LOVE my flat.”

Before I moved here I will tell you about some of the places I’ve lived in:

– A number of psychiatric wards filled with nurses and doctors who were not “caring” about or towards a person they believed was ‘ill’ but who felt safe abusing me, invading my privacy knowing that I was neither a danger to myself or anyone else (which you HAVE to be if you get sectioned.), punching me in the stomach, raping me at night, sedating me and otherwise ‘defending a blonde’ to be ‘popular’. I was not ill. I was put with a lot of nurses that had been raised in spiritual homes and who chose to abuse me anyway. They knew I was real. They didn’t even bother trying to talk to me about my spirituality.

– The floor of a drug dealer’s home while I finished the last year of my degree, where my ‘lecturers’ were abusing me. Where I was being roofied occasionally. He did his best and he treated me better than any of my fucked up friends did so I accepted it.

– A halfway house where I could HEAR myself being recorded in my room and where the creepy fellow male residents seemed to know a bit too much about my toiletries.

– The floor of a box room in my mother’s home while my sister slept in a double bed – she had not been living in that house for as long as I had. That is – she was sent to boarding schools, expensive flats etc to live in (and I don’t believe any of her salaries were paying her rent.) I could’ve slept on a sofa but the sofa wasn’t long enough for me to be comfortable.

– A single bed in denmark that I felt uncomfortable in, suffering with my bowel condition and with drug induced parkinsonism. I experienced excruciating levels of pain when I was given parkinsonism. I also was in so much shock I couldn’t speak.

– A room in a house with a psychiatric nurse I had been set up with. He was declining sex with me and preferred to rape me at night. I’ve no idea if everyone else in that house was raping me or not. I don’t want to know.


My flat served, at that point of its primitive interior journey – as simply a place that was oozing with all kinds of potential and that is, for me, something that brings genuine happiness. I mentioned that I knew lots of youtubers that had amassed all kinds of wealth have fancier living arrangements and that for me it was nothing worth envying because I could see that when I had found the look I was going for, my flat would be better. After I posted that I became physically exhausted, as if people were really determined to make sure I didn’t love my flat.


I love my flat even more now.

EDITED TO ADD: True to my feelings upon posting this entry
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My landlord is a reasonable guy and I’ve not been kicked out. But actually the above email was a response to this:

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(I actually said a lot more than Jack could remember. He was staring into space for most fo the conversation.)

My landlord is an elderly gentleman and I think he’s at his wits end with everything. But it’s difficult for elderly people who have to rely on trusting their ‘contacts’ and probably even MORE difficult to realise they’re all fucking LIARS.

Back to the original post:

It’s obviously no where near finished. I live by myself so I have to move everything by myself. I have to do the construction work by myself. I love learning new things so while there’s some delay, it’s worth it. Don’t you think it’s worth it?



This is me, with Killi’s cushions. The purple one I bought recently from ‘Home Sense’ (one of the weirdest shopping experiences ever but there are little things that you’ll be inclined to find if you look carefully.) It is a reference to Blue Velvet. I am easily triggered by David Lynch films but I enjoy his erotica.


Image above taken by David Lynch. 
The Shoes are by Christian Louboutin and are OBVIOUSLY not meant 
for wearing in public. The image was sourced via google.

Oviosuly this is not a flattering photograph of my feet. I know that. But whether I play Toph or someone else plays Toph, these are the kinds of feet you’ll probably have. Realistically a “blind girl” would’ve had to struggle to learn how to balance and that is how my feet happened. If I can make anyone feel less insecure about their feet, that’s awesmoe because when I have cash I am getting my toes filed down and if you get jealous of my feet – and you will hopefully be a bit jealous of my feet – I swear on my life I will have someone execute you.

Anyway, I’ll be purple velvet. In film the colour purple signifies that there will be a death. In classical Art the colour purple indicates royalty.

(Killi Update: She took flight, she wasn’t ready to as far as I’m concerned but I know she has a very discerning and observant and protective boyfriend called Sesshomaru who visited her often and who I’m sure will have brought her meals where I couldn’t. I know she can forage on the ground for food because she most certainly wasn’t even slightly hesitant to stick her beak into my magnus/magnet/maggot farm. I won’t ever do anything to control another being, even one doing something outrightly suicidal. You have the right to experience almost dying, Killi. You have the right to a vibrant emotional landscape that will shape your evolutionary growth and karmic growth for lifetimes. Yes I vampired this body – but I know your inner being will have plenty to work with based on your experiences with me alone. She has an inner being to honour and she was able to say yes and no – with her head. Before you teach anyone words like “mama” and “dada” teach them “YES” and “NO”.

I wish I had filmed her responding to my conversations before she left but I didn’t because I assumed she’d be around for a lot longer.

I even thought: I left her alone for fifteen minute sort of intervals so I could run to the shoppes to buy her food – I know mother birds have to leave their babies alone briefly sometimes in the wild and perhaps the emotions I was pretending I didn’t feel when she left are the emotions that she felt in those intervals and that is our karmic exchange. Killi if you ever read this through either time or space – how could I have taken you with me, when you hate being confined and held so that you cant move around at your own desire?) (and even if I had wanted to bring you with me, it was too hot for you.)

I’m preparing my flat with consideration towards the fact that I like the company of animals and that means I’m practising not leaving pens, scissors, pins, wires etc lying around. For people that do not want to control animals (If you have two dogs trying to kill each other, either let them kill each other, put one on a lead, separate them or consider who they are copying.)

or train them (Let them train you first)

or otherwise treat them like zombies

I care little for people who take offence to this, your treatment of animals is entirely your own business. You can choose any kind of guilt prison you like, it isn’t helpful to anyone. There are primates kept in cages smaller than my tiny studio flat and I imagine atleast one or two of them have found some kind of happiness in that. Suffering is subjective.


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There will be happy dogs belonging to wealthy owners that get luxuries most humans would covet, walked daily through mountainous regions amongst many other happy dogs who find as much suffering in not being given chicken snacks and hotdog snacks as the aforementioned primate. Suffering is relative as much as it is subjective. (There must be some disabled person who is really happy they have MUCH cuter feet than me.)


These are MY values and the idea that you could ever want to manipulate someone for expressing their values or their opinions on their own fucking blog is uh. Bad weird.


Stop trying to manipulate me, or anyone at all – because it numbs me to people who are actually trying to express real emotions and I can’t differentiate between manipulation and the expression of genuine vulnerability and I come across as an insensitive bitch. The opposite is true, that is how I personally became callous. I’m not callous.


But before people start arranging for me to see videos of pathetic looking women with their equally pathetic anime-eyed pets exchanging cute dances that they were TAUGHT (taught, not trained – and i did NOT train Killi to do the ‘scissor step’ I learned in modern dance when I studied it as a kid) to make me feel bad for saying its wrong to ‘train’ animals – I DONT WANT TO SEE IT. DONT BOTHER. I WILL BE NASTY TO THAT WOMAN IN MY HEAD. It’ll hurt her feelings more than it affects mine and she’ll have someone to direct all of her lifes hates towards when actually I’m a person who made eye contact with her for a few minutes of my fucking life.


if you said “LOOK. THIS DOG I HAVE IS A MESS. IF I DIDN’T TEACH HIM/HER/IT TO SIT THE FUCK DOWN AND STAY ON COMMAND – HED PROBABLY REALLY SERIOUSLY INJURE HIMSELF AND OR BE DEAD” based on a knowing of that dogs real personality, not one you had projected onto them but one you had become familiar with over time spent connecting with one another, then I’d say “fair enough” because I had one of those dogs and she had me climbing down a fucking 3 meter tall muddy ditch in the rain (I was about eight or nine or something and I felt very military chic doing it) and she was hella dopey but if I DIDN’T I would’ve lost my only good childhood memories.


Dominos know I ordered double ham 
but they did not give me double ham. 

Whenever someone fucks me over I think 
"which blonde do you think defending will make you popular?" 
(If I give you some attention you will become popular and think 
that your abusing me is in defence of a blonde that I assure you 
abused me in some way. And in your personal lives - you'll learn
what that blonde did to me. And what you're defending her from.
Probably defending her from someone that had a crush on her and
was really, really nice to her until they reached a breaking point) 

It's fine

Most people train animals because it massages their own egos. 
It makes them look good to someone they need to look good to.

If you are connected to your animals and your animals are not being controlled somehow by outside influences (I know it is possible now, and that puts me off having children – that I can’t protect animals and children from stalkers who can’t control feelings of jealousy) then eventually – like me – you’ll have an animal friend that mirrors your closest relationships. A dog that can sit on your lap and snap at someone and you’ll know they’re about to do it so you can grab their mouth just in time for them to scare the person they don’t like talking to you and they don’t get put-down for it.



I’m arting. This will be a jewel tree. For my jewels.


This is a portrait that featured in Miss Kittie’s debut and it is totally Amber Khan. It wasn’t initially intended to be a portrait of her, but it became her. It’s very unfinished and very religious-iconography inspired.

It is also very Joshua Petker inspired.



Years ago he did an exhibition featuring lots of portraits he’d done of various softcore pornstars and I liked his style. I’ve never seen what he looks like and I don’t want to either.

This is some paint I bought from the local hardware shoppe. I’m going with black, cream and grey for my flat.


What do you think of my paintjob?


I went to home sense and I bought these biscuit clips, I also went to another shoppe – I’ve a flyer lying around here and it’s a shoppe that deserves special attention because I really enjoyed perusing their items and I found things that I fell in love with entirely.

These lemon lights are from there.


This beetle is from there. I used to spend hours collecting beetles by a poolside in Dubai and putting them into a little nurses bag. These beetles are my thing if anything is my thing. Also dinosaurs.



there IS something WRONG with you

Disclaimer: yeah, it IS a guilt trip, and yeah it is probably a bit pathetic, but I AVOIDED it for my ENTIRE LIFE because my “family” would have responded with ‘shes looking for attention’ or ‘shes being manipulative’. Letting people evade important conversations is why my life became a mess. “They’ll realise the truth themselves” – well, no. That didn’t happen. People decided that I was an easy person to abuse and then convinced themselves I liked it and further fucked me over.

Being mistreated like that meant that I had a disability that got me raped and kept me out of school. ‘She’s FAKING’ – because I didn’t want to say “I HAVEN’T TAKEN A CRAP IN TWO WEEKS YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT”. I chose “i’m fine, thankyou! how are you?!” because I found personal strength in that.

To me complaining about what is actually-bothering-me is synonymous with crying after an argument, if I cry that person will ‘win’, that person will know they’ve hurt me. Until now: don’t be a crier.

I don’t know any other women who can be verbally bullied by twenty or so peers, standing around her bed while she’s lying down trying to hold in a shit and cope with feelings about Nazi-Germany (History is a thing I feel strongly about) and I never got a written apology for it. I never got flowers or a “we miss you and we’re sorry we ruined your already crap life that we knew way too much about and avoided talking to you about” or a teacher asking me to come back, offering me a scholarship for helping her school shit. I didn’t really get anything I deserved because I never thought it was acceptable to make people aware of what I was contributing to their lives. I chose insecurity and I chose any fucking delusion that could help me cope with the fucking hell my life was.

For me going out for a hot chocolate once in a year was a thing worth documenting. A habit of sorts that later had me labelled as a person pretending to be rich.

I found beauty in life through looking at a nice chair with something from a charity shoppe draped prettily on top of it. That is a difficult thing to learn to do when your “sister” was bought antiques, blankets worth hundreds of pounds and her wardrobe was filled with designer clothes that she insisted she had paid for herself when in fact I don’t think many people working at urban outfitters for a weekend a month or so would’ve been able to make sense of it.

I could forgive them both – my mother and sister – for everything they’d done if they apologised and told the truth but they chose to lie about me instead. They continue to do it. They ‘accidentally’ lurk me and think that I won’t accidentally find out. The thing about lying, and liars – and I know liars – is that they start small. Then it gets worse. And worse. And worse. And if it’s been done once, it will be done again. (So if you’re going to pick people, the same kinds of people to relive the same fucking hurts over and over, go for the hottest/most talented ones that you can find.) (you get a chance and then I get over you. I get what I need in five minutes – no it’s not love, no it’s not sex.)

They know my passwords but they don’t need them. If I didn’t need money, I’d disown both and I’d arrange for a restraining order but that wouldn’t really change what they’ve been getting up to my entire life.

And the NHS defended them. And believed they would do so without witnesses observing because you really do think you’re the only one, don’t you.

This country knows that I was dragged down a hallway and raped and that I was assigned to pervert doctors that knew I hadn’t been ‘cutting’ myself  – a doctor said “we got a report that you’ve been cutting your genitals” and I said “no I haven’t.” and he wanted to see. I looked after myself in that psychiatric ward which meant no one was looking after me – which meant I could’ve been living alone safely as opposed to being given sedatives they knew I didn’t need (I mean anyone in London can tell you I can fall asleep on a train like it’s nothing) – (I can literally decide to go to sleep.)

If someone told me “your mother/sister/father sold you to the NHS” – I’d believe it. My sister – that I met very few times in my life was asked to offer a statement about me to this psychiatrist. I told that psychiatrist that she was an abuser and was asked to leave the room. I could see through the glass panel door that they were flirting with one another, in front of my ‘parents’. A father that didn’t contribute towards raising me and had never really had conversations with me that weren’t about business-ideas (he once told me that the backstreet boys had broken up. I dont think we really tried to speak many times afterwards.) had apparently had some strange comments to contribute too. These people don’t know me. If you asked them to talk about me, they wouldn’t be able to.

and then accepting later in life, she knew that. She’s an abuser. Every woman in your family abused you in some way and got addicted to you and is deeply fucking envious of you when there is NOTHING to envy about me or my life


saffron powder (I dont know for sure if that's a real thing but it was a gift from Syria, 
which could be either a good thing or a bad thing iunno) + 
organic chilli from the local hippie-food place 
(I almost started crying happy-tears when I heard a mum and her 
daughter talk to the shopkeeper about living in a caravan because 
I DREAMT of that kind of life - now I want a real squatters-castle 
because I had friends go on my dream caravan holiday with a dwarf 
that insisted on pretending to be me - as girls do) 
+ yummy KOKA noodles 
+ a spring onion cooked in kettle water
raw mushroom and ham in soy sauce - it tastes better than you think

and food loses a lot of it's nutrients when you cook it. Duh.

So. Here’s a thing about me – I like to give everything I own some kind of narrative. I like being able to look at anything, anywhere, and give it a story. I like to be able to say “I own this because XYZ”, “I like this because of XYZ”.

I’m buying one of these ridiculous squidgy things. It is very expensive for me right now but I won’t turn this down.

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because of this:

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I spent weeks not using the internet, not watching anything – just listening to music and meditating and watering my plants. Please do read the posts below if you haven’t already.

The result of that meditation with Jane of Seth Speaks (and I was sharing energy with many people, and I await their moment to tell their truths of their contribution towards that – this is not something I achieved alone and I know that.) (But I made it happen)

was the above, and many fly specimens besides that make no sense. I feel like if I had Japanese parents somewhere they would’ve done this as a ‘well done for using meditation to affect evolution”.

I could not cope with Japanese parents because I would be an embarrassment. I know that and I’m sure every Japanese person would agree. I don’t even recycle properly or wear my slippers and that is considered quite disrespectful to Japanese homes. As in, I know they would be much too polite to say “you are disrespecting my furniture and my items by walking around with dirty feet.” and I’d live in guilt over it because I KNOW OKAY. I KNOW. And you don’t speak to Japanese people like that. Ever. I don’t have the manners I’d be expected to have in Japan. (So I don’t know how all of my youtube stalkers managed to sum up the audacity to visit – because your manners are far worse.)

It’s important for me to verbalise this, sort of, cos’ I sent photographs to my ‘mother’ and she didn’t manage to reply to the emails. I also once sent her a video of me doing a vertical split and she didn’t reply to that either. I’m really hurt that my mother didn’t even say “you did that with meditation?”. Until now, I don’t know what I can possibly fucking say to her to inspire some kind of conversation that doesn’t make me walk away absolutely fucking despising of her.

Defend a person like that from ME? and you’ll probably end up learning how she made me feel. Probably end up learning what she really did to me. Probably walk away from that feeling, for years: fucking stupid.

I bought the sexiest trainers ever. I saw a youtube video featuring some martial artists wearing these. They are bouncy and comfortable. I have size sevens because it means I can wear them with chunky socks. Which is important.

They were actually Tibetan Monks and I bought these because of them specifically. They were doing things with their bodies that don’t make any kind of physics-sense and they wore these shoes to do them.

I imagine that some of them must have some secret money stowed away and that they invested in these shoes and that they were inspired by the above meme.

The above might not be true, but I am attempting here, to teach you how to converse about your surroundings without being a weirdo.



People who need to use their feet in “sports” need to be flexible and need shoes that are flexible. Or no shoes. I am not going to ever be a person that doesn’t wear shoes because I have a balance-related condition that means my feet went weird. It’s not genetic, it’s because I probably shared a body with a lot of dwarves and dancers. Martial arts are not sports because generally if you are competing with someone it is because they are an equal and there is an honourable exchange. It is a whole cultural thing that azns have, honour, de disiprin (translated from Japanese that is ‘discipline’) and self control.


I was affected by watching a video of a martial arts student beating up his elderly teacher – like really beating the shit out of him. I don’t think that would’ve happened if we didn’t have athletes that encouraged that kind of disgusting behaviour. Footballers amongst them. No honour. Honour is a virtue that shapes your life. You can experience any and many losses in your life but if you pick a few virtues, you might come out with some kind of dignity about the whole thing.


Good manners are a virtue – so, generosity for example is a virtue. I love to buy people gifts. It makes me happy to see something that I love that I know someone else might love. I know that some people associate that with “if I give you this – you owe me this” and I actually never treated my generosity with any kind of expectation for something in return, other than that I might’ve liked being bought something back.

Not indebting someone when you have absolutely no idea of what you owe them. I find a lot of joy in sharing things with people, if I have money to go out for a meal I like to share and pay for other people to have meals too. I sometimes feel like a boy and I like to be able to pay for the other person because I believe thats what boys ought to do if they take people out. It’s what my culture taught me. It’s what my ‘family’ taught me. It is my understanding of hospitality, have something to offer to guests (if I don’t offer you something, I am being passive aggressive or I am destitute.)

Some Portuguese people I was stupid enough to allow into my home and share my food with decided it was a ‘slavery’ game. Actually my relatives – diplomats, remember – would’ve simply said “they are not known for being very intelligent, the Portuguese.”. They were wealthy kids that stole expensive items from me and ate my food when they could afford their own. They put me in difficult situations on purpose because they thought that they were doing a humanitarian thing or otherwise competing over something they were not raised to be involved in at all. They were the kind of people that shouted the word ‘nigger’ to one another, and I didn’t like it – because they meant it for a start. They were abusing me to time travel. If you’d kindly stop pretending not to know that, I’d appreciate it. You doing that changes the future but it doesn’t change my path. You can’t stop me from doing what I’m supposed to do – you can prolong it, you can run, you can do all sorts of things but the karma is worse for you.

If you know someone is going to be spending a holiday period alone it is kind to invite them over even if you don’t really want to and to share your food with them. You can get away with absolutely HATING someone if you are polite to them. Not fake – polite. You can be genuine, rude and polite at the same time. It’s just a matter of personal honour.

For example, if Bruce Lee in his element was pit against Jackie Chan in his element I imagine that Jackie Chan would’ve absolutely rejected the idea of fighting Bruce Lee because in every pursuit of life there are some people that paved the way for you, to do something. A veteran if you will. Jackie Chan, I am certain, would have won. If they had fought one another – Jackie Chan would have won. The idea of beating my heroes, whether they are on ‘my side’ or not – is revolting.

If I don’t like you – I’m not wrong to dislike you. But if I dislike you, you can endear yourself to me with as little as an interesting opinion. Thats probably not a good thing but that’s my nature.

You might struggle to see where I’m going with this post but it has a direction. I might spend a few days editing it so bear with me.

Jackie Chan would not be a household celebrity name if Bruce Lee had not gone through the racist rigmarole first, the token asian guy doing martial arts type casting, the abuse I’m sure he’d of been given by American directors – on top of the abuse he got for probably fetishising Japan when he isn’t Japanese.

My “mother” once told me that my grandfather once said to her “you do not compete with the Japanese”. For whatever reason – there are some people you should not compete with. When you encounter these situations, it is appropriate to emulate them and not to be caught bitching about them or outright copying them so that you can STEAL what they have worked towards. Do not steal people’s dreams, be inspired by the fact that they have worked for a dream and find beauty in the idea that you’ll soon find your own dreams if you keep your intentions pure and you enrich your life by enjoying – NOT COPYING – other people’s work.

As in: there are aspirations that I had, that I can go far back into my memories having had, that I worked towards – and that were stolen from me by people who had money, enough money to stop me from achieving what I wanted and to cover up doing so. Trust me, whether I have money or not I am social classes far above most people you see attending horse races on television. I am also the kind of person who has always been quite grossed out by that kind of pompousness and it is only now that I’m compelled to state the facts as they are.

Shoes, though


This is a shoe for athletes. I am not an athlete but if I wanted to be an athlete, I could’ve been an athlete. I could’ve been a dancer. I wasn’t because I was not good enough, not dedicated enough – and I had a disability that I avoided thinking about. A disability that comes with a heavy stomach (I can shit and lose a stone.), back ache and serious fatigue.

I could do ballet in these shoes because they let me point my feet and jump around. If I ever go to a party where I am encouraged to dance because there is good music I will be wearing these. If you are a guy that likes to do fancy footwork dancies I encourage you to invest in these shoes because you can move around in them. It doesn’t matter who made them, or who designed them, they are decent shoes and they are flexible and they are pretty – to me – as a person who very rarely likes trainers. Did you design them? If you designed them you are a talented shoe designer. Good for you.

Moving on. Sort of but not really – changing subject.

none of this stuff was 'expensive' or was otherwise a gift from one of the weirdos that owe me a lot of money. i am not pretending to be rich, please do not look at this stuff and think that it is indicative of wealth. I personally feel wealthy to have such good taste in stuff but I am not wealthy, I am not performing wealth. I spend all of my time at home and you'll find people with my disability generally do.

Today I made to order a mockup of an interiors magazine. It was unsuccessful. It is weird to me that a photo-book printing company (most people really aren’t printing books with text in them.) would struggle with high resolution images and I think that someone is investing in making my life a bit more difficult.


Everything is relative – you do this to me and worse will be done to you. I know it is law and I know you will hide the suffering you’re putting yourself through because you’ll see it as ‘me winning’ and that perhaps you will take out your issues on me. You probably aren’t significant enough to me for me to really want to get revenge, but this is annoying. It’s weird and annoying.

In any case I’ve found a few beautiful independent shops from book shops to hardware retailers to specialist interiors around Brighton that sell items that I’d be very honoured to have a couple of copies of my magazine sitting beside; and I am excited about it for whenever it materialises. It is ultimately a long term project, especially if someone has stalked me/hacked me and invested in the company/software specifically to make things difficult for me. 

I promise you I have much, much meaner stalkers than you who I enjoy in a way I will never enjoy you or your company because you’ve fucked up that much.

My magazine has reached a hundred plus pages of photographs documenting the years of bedrooms I’ve had, trying to work out where I might find a place to call home.
It offers some homage to the details of home keeping that I picked up from the Paraguayan women I met growing up, many of whom either went to finishing school or failing that: their mothers most certainly did.

Women in Paraguay – not the Guarani Indians, (the indigenous people, that is) but the Europeans that would’ve emigrated over the last a hundred years. Paraguay is a multicultural country that, like the United Kingdom, boasts offering a place for people from Europe to Japan to reside in. 

The economy allows women not to work and many of them don’t particularly want to, which means a lot of those women become artists, musicians and hobbyists who live very comfortably on little money and socialise – having tea parties every night and going swimming at country clubs during the day because it is a hot country and if you don’t swim what are you doing there. Granma had a humble house with a pool and a select circle of friends that she had carefully picked.

When I lived in Dubai, I would watch our housekeeper – a Sri Lankan woman named Mala – make my ‘parent’s’ bed some mornings on the weekends. I recall on one of those occasions I thought she must have studied a photograph to be able to arrange the decorative cushions so perfectly. I asked her who had taught her how to make beds and I think she said that my mother had, which means granma taught her how to make a bed.

I learned how to fold clothes from a woman called Sylvia, my “mother’s” best friend.
Her father was the president of that country before her family were reviled and mistreated and that was, I think, how she was introduced to my mother. My mother’s other best friend is a latina woman called Cecilia who spent her childhood as a slave. She works for an elderly aristocrat as a housekeeper and lives comfortably in a beautiful flat in Acton – that I stayed in when we ran from the secret police in Dubai. I still remember playing with little ceramic mice when Lady Diana’s death was announced on TV – I ignored the TV because the night before I’d taken a huge shit (I was about five) and my mother had made fun of me in Spanish, and when I confronted her she lied. Spanish was my first language but I forgot it mostly, and learned English instead. My sister and my mother would speak about me in Spanish while I was growing up – and I knew they were doing it. They’d lie.

They thought I was mute because I didn’t speak much – people who don’t speak much are very good listeners and observers. You don’t often value people who can listen and observe keenly until you need a friend who can take a good photograph of you or who can listen to you when you’re hurting. I was playing with the little mice but I was listening to that televised funeral at the same time as obsessing over how to get the hell away from my sister and my mother.

I believe that night I screamed at her “I am going to make your life HELL”. That is not a very characteristic thing for a five year old to say so I must’ve been absolutely distraught.

Being lied to triggers me. It triggers a life of being lied to by abusive women and men and every friend I ever had. Harmless lies are not harmless to me, the chances of you needing to lie to me are minimal. There is very little that I won’t be understanding about.

It doesn’t matter even slightly what you lie about. Even if it is a cute lie. You trigger serious PTSD in me when you lie to me.

Here are acceptable reasons for lying:

Life or Death situations, but you better not lie about your intentions. If you don’t really care about a person’s life or death please don’t pretend to. I’ll know.

Where the lives of truly vulnerable people are concerned – for example: children, the disabled or incapacitated, the elderly.

And you better tell me the truth after the lie is no longer necessary.


This is a flattering photograph of myself in a mirror that fortunately hides (or it does at this size and screen light/colour calibration. If you are using a screen that detects the leg hair – good – it’s important that you accept that women have leg hair.) that I have hairy legs and that I felt like playing dress up with these terribly made shoes. They are slingback courts that you can’t see well, but I got some metal-based gold ink and made some imprints on top. I’m going to customise them with some ribbon, to hide the imperfections, because they are not well made. One of the Coppolas inspired me with the details and embellishments in Marie Antoinette.

But to the people that sold these awful shoes to me: have some fucking pride in yourself.

When I worked at Slug and Lettuce, I couldn’t even cope with placing a poorly presented plate in front of a customer. Even if I disliked the customer, even if the customer had been rude to me – I would feel awful if I had given them a plate of food that had no effort put into it. I actually really liked the look of the food there, but I was disappointed to know that their chefs had mostly been reduced to preparing microwaved and oven-cooked foods.

There were some pastries on a tray in a local shoppe and they were on display for anyone to serve themselves. It’s a home-made vibe the shoppe employs and it’s really quite nice that the shoppe keeper said “you can pick them up with your fingers!” (I might donate some tongs so I don’t feel bad again) and I got a loose hair on a pastry I couldn’t technically afford. I know the shoppe keeper would have pretended not to know that it happened and perhaps he’d of thrown it away but I felt terrible the second it happened and I purchased the pastry because I couldn’t cope with costing someone that much money. I don’t think this gentleman’s shoppe relies entirely on the sale of one of these pastries but it’s really the idea of choosing not to be a shit person. Not to affect the credibility of a company you’re working for. Not to be shit when you’re earning money doing a job.

If you run a company like ASOS and you comfortably send out faulty items, you shouldn’t have a job. Actually the fact that you think you’re getting away with stalking and bullying me is ludicrous – the fact that you think you’re not being observed by people who WANT to be friends with me (CEOs ETC.) so that when I have the money I’m owed (neither you nor I can comprehend the digits and figures right now) I return favours.

Do you know that post WW1, pre-holocaust, the Jews had a hard time shopping because they were mistreated by German shopkeepers.  The Germans were racist against the Jews. My Tescos pork steaks had maggot eggs in them. My shoes were poorly made and I know because I bought TWO pairs – one in a teacher’s size (she’s become the headmistress of a school) (she’s a size 5) and one in mine. The finish on the shoes they sent in my size is disgraceful and hers were perfect.

What might seem harmless and easily solved problems aren’t at all. O WE WUD GIV U A REFUND IF U ROTE 2 US OR VISIITTED THE POWST OFFISS 


I appreciate that someone will rush to take offence to the above – I love cockney accents – its a classic accent that people spend years at RADA trying to master. But some women’s voices cut straight through me because they have nothing interesting to say. Those are the kinds of women I’d think should be working for the warehouses of sites like Asos. It’s a stupid woman job – put it in packaging, put a stamp on it. If I was doing it there would be an uproar because I’d be OCD about the packaging, about the placement of the stamp, about the graphic design of the sticker used for the address, about every detail that would go into making sure that someone received a package.

I go for days without talking to people and most people would go insane, but I did it my entire life. I had post men when I first moved in that would try to get attention from me and abuse me verbally or get me to do weird things outside of my front door. I had a just-eat delivery guy steal food from me because I wouldn’t respond to his request for my ‘full name’ when he knew I live at this address, and he knew that I was the only person living here. If a child had answered the door for the meal I ordered would he want their name so desperately too? Iunno. Not many people could emotionally cope with what feels like ‘harmless’ abuse that I experience on a day to day basis from people who want attention or who want to annoy me. I don’t think they really understand what I am going through all day long or they wouldn’t be so fucking stupid.

It unnerves me how many stalkers have access to my address – but not really. My teachers taught me afew things : treat all children as if they were your own (I’m not mature enough to do this – I make no pretence of it – there are reasons I don’t have children that aren’t fucked up) and be prepared to be of service. If I let them abuse me I can put it right and make sure they don’t make the same mistake again if I defend myself. I don’t presently have the financial capacity to exact the kind of revenge those people deserve for the inconvenience they actually caused me.

If people don’t learn respect in childhood, they won’t learn it in adulthood unless someone sacrifices their sense of self to say “you’re hurting me”. That is the hardest thing for me to fucking say and the idea that it gives men some kind of ego-boost is fucking terrible.

I have a disability – I hate that word but until I am certain I’ve healed myself from it, to call it anything else would be dishonest and worse – continuing to live in some kind of denial that I lived in my whole life. I know that the people working for companies like ASOS and Zara (not the CEOS, not the managers) that arrange this shit are fully aware I don’t have the energies to get a refund. I won’t push for it. I’m not lazy, I am living constantly in some kind of physical pain and physical exhaustion.

On the plus side, if I walk in heels for 20 minutes a day or so for a week – I can spend hours walking around in heels all day.


This is my vagina. I once saw a woman on, years ago, and she had unkempt pubic hair all over. She had hair around her asshole – which she was happy to show on camera. This actually affected my life – this woman who comfortably showed off her 80s bush. It took a long time, a lot of insecurity about growing stubble literally hours after shaving. I am Arabic and I have a body that has lots of hair on it. If you did not know I was Arabic it wouldn’t be as weird but the reality is that people associate my genes with their preconceived notions about my culture.

I ignore it because I don’t care. I grew up with a mother who resented that I am Arabic and who encouraged me to lie about it. I had friends that told me not to tell people where I’m from. I joked about marrying a friend of mine and he enjoyed the joke, and said “yes but you’d have to not-tell my family that you’re Arabic” and he also picked blondes over me. Many. I didn’t resent that he was attracted to blondes, because I defend your right to have a TYPE.


One time I posted a nude – something I’ve been doing for ten years (with a year or two gap in between when I was at University and I didn’t want my colleagues seeing me naked because they didn’t have the maturity to accept that I’m a talented photographer – and that if you’ve ever heard anyone who works in that industry – you’ll know that no one wants to see models looking the way they do in ‘real life’.

I had a friend who is a photographer, who posted photographs of me with my tits flopping on either side of my torso. She posted series of really unflattering photographs of someone who was already insecure and who wanted to appear erotica, but they were beautiful photographs and she is a talented photographer. She could not have coped with me doing that to her – is the truth, but I coped with her doing it to me. In fact once a hijabi I studied at college with kindly and honestly told me that she’d seen the photographs and that it had made her feel confident about her body (she is very skinny, and very pretty and ridiculously academically talented) and I was flattered by the idea of having that affect on somebody. I don’t know if she was being sweet or not, but it was a sweet thing for me to hear – because it was reading girls blogs and observing women’s art that helped me cope with the functions of my stupid fucking body.

The idea of people selling themselves for their personalities came from the adult industry, women blogging their lives. ‘Vlogging’ was a result of sites like SuicideGirls and youtubers pretend otherwise when they insult women who had the guts to get naked on the internet but it’s a fucking slap in the face to the women that shared their lives with audiences beyond their imagining and they didn’t get paid for views. I shared the most terrible moments of my life in blogs that people were reading that I eventually deleted entirely and I didn’t get any compensation because no one really considered that as a possibility. I still do it but now people don’t really have the ability to read things and if they do, they’re continuing what they’ve always done. Anonymity as an audience. It’s fine, I don’t do things for an applause. I don’t like the sounds of people clapping for me, I don’t like the idea of people adoring me. I like the idea of being a normal person that can engage with society and maintain the potential in any stranger having the potential to be a genuine fucking friend. I will never not be that way inclined. I will never not expect people to grow the fuck up. I will never accept that I’m the one that’s naive – when you perpetuate those awkward, performed social acts, when you choose to be disingenuous – you will eventually learn that the truth always comes out. Especially the truth of people’s natures. Do I expect you to be perfect? Hell the fuck no. I expect you to not be a fucking liar – because you don’t want people to lie to you.

It was deeply important to me, to be able to see ‘girls next door’ naked because they often hadn’t had the surgeries that ‘mainstream’ pornstars had. They had real bodies with flaws and imperfections and what was important to me was that they were still beautiful to me. They were still objectively beautiful to me with their flaws.

My favourite model ever has a deviated septum and a bump in her nose. She is still the most beautiful woman I might ever have seen. I wouldn’t hang out with her because she makes no attempt at pretending to be a kind person and I value her real personality more than the idea of a friendship based on a performance. I don’t think she’d ever want to be friends with me: but were she to offer I’d know better than to take her up on the offer. She’s a bitch, but that was something that came out in photographs of her and that is the kind of thing that photographers and wannabe directors enjoy in performers.

I’m speaking conceptually. Trying to encourage you to take little thought journeys that force you to consider a perspective outside of your own.

A girl that I thought of as a friend – that I had always known was a bitch – had been stalking me: used my posting a nude photograph after years of not photographing myself very much at all (certainly not expending any effort to do so) as an opportunity to insult me, after years of my making her feel secure about herself. She had lied to me compulsively throughout our friendship and people defended her, when we were no longer friends. Because she’s blonde. Because they thought they’d be popular.

Psychics pit us against each other and I’m glad they did what they did: to get her out of my life. She was bitching about me to my friends because she had nothing else to talk about except for me, it was the same when we were friends and I’m sure it was the same when we were no longer friends. She was fucking my boyfriend – that is: he’d sneak out of my bed (I was paying for him to eat, paying for him to live, buying him things – not your ‘problem’, but know the facts) and sneak into hers, she was living rent-free in a room upstairs in a house that I’d arranged and paid for six months in advance (which means I was paying more than anyone else) because she had ruined any chances of making friends with the people she’d been moved in with at the University she applied to and attended specifically because she rang me up one time, crying, and said “I HAVE NO LIFE AND NO FRIENDS HERE”. I said “you can come here, you can have my friends and you’ll have a nice place to live”. She took my ‘friends’, for sure. Thanks. She used my laptop and accessed personal accounts and one time I opened my laptop to see her tumblr logged in, and that she had been bitching about me with complete strangers on the internet. I decorated her rent-free bedroom with objects I removed from my own bedroom.

If you are in my thoughts or my life, I can guarantee the following:

  • You will become more physically attractive because my negs are legit
  • You will attract lots of men and women
  • You will feel beautiful leaving the house in pyjamas and dresses (If you are enslaved by some insecurity that has you
  •  You will dress better than you’ve ever dressed in your life if you choose to

in an area a guy might’ve touched


When I first got discharge, I thought there was something wrong with me.

When I had my first period I thought there was something wrong with me.

I’d learned about both in school but when you first start getting the body changes you associate with puberty it is very easy to think there is something wrong with you.

I do not like pornography or erotica because it arouses me. The issue is that it really fucking doesn’t and that is not because I don’t find the human body or sex fun, it’s because it’s tacky. The lighting is bad. The story lines are bad. It’s a performance – and not one that required months of method acting and character analysis before hand.

Men think I’m bad in bed when they struggle to make missionary position fun. Men who had never before me made a woman orgasm told me I was vanilla. Girls who had been having sex for perhaps about two years of their lives tried telling me what to do in bed “oh when I’m doing ‘doggy’ i push back” (thats how I know you’ve never orgasmed, theres no way you’d bother if you had) and I realised it was because they could occupy me. Its painful that I was surrounded by liars that used me for sex my entire life and if you learn about ‘the game’ you’ll know that the chances of me meeting someone that won’t use me for sex (for whatever reasons they can imagine) are uh. not-not minimal.

I went to University to study how to make films and before that I studied fashion at the best fashion school in the World (McQueen would’ve chosen London College of Fashion but he DIDNT because he didnt think he was good enough. That is why he went to CSM, and don’t ever let anyone make you think otherwise.) because I hated the clothes I could afford and I hated the clothes that were being handed over to me. I was always insulted by fashion that was not designed by artists who were artists before they were fashion designers.



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“got rid of the pitts and put rotts by the door”

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I really want to buy this Karl-come-out-of-hiding-everyone-knows-you’re-a-vampire flirty shade of black.


Look at this Jester Kuromi luggage omgo nfgkjsdfgkjsdfg on Sanrio

If you kill a vampire then you and they are transported to a dimension where they appear at their last safe memory. I say ‘dimension’ but we don’t have the ability to really percieve dimension yet. There are one dimensional people figuratively “they only think of one thing” and it should make sense that it could be literal too. Even if we can’t formulate the notion at this point in time, it’s true in most sciences and arts and those pursuits are the greatest route towards trying to understand the truth/illumination/enlightenment.

It’s a by invitation only ‘party’ because most people aren’t trustworthy enough and most of their intentions really don’t align with mine or mine or mine or mine or mine (I have many intentions at once and all of them are as good as I can be, which is gooder than thou probably. Which is why I can write this, and you can’t.) and I can’t be responsible for that mess. If you steal my privacy or my time, you really can’t afford to repay me. It’s probably your collective faults that your currency has become not-enough to me, don’t forget it, I promise you I won’t.

Keep to my blog. My blog is the experience I am prepared to offer you free of charge. Reading my blog is not stealing.

A vampire’s death might even have been witnessed but it doesn’t mean much. I vampired my bird and on one occasion she leapt off my balcony and I’m sure I watched her die from the sofa. The second time she disappeared and I accepted her loss, she appeared on the hidden side of the sofa and I KNOW she wasn’t there.

I don’t know the details but if you have questions, there’s an answer. If I told you how I know you’d be unprepared to believe me. It really isn’t like the films. You deserve to know that for a time when you’re prepared to believe it. I believe the idea of vampiring people ought to – if removed from attachments that made NO sense – reflect the fact that they are people that are so wonderful and significant that it would be wrong to ever let them die. Those kinds of people generally aren’t assholes, aren’t users, aren’t people who justify doing things they shouldn’t do, aren’t people who break important rules, aren’t people prepared to influence children to break important rules.

I will not turn you into a vampire, don’t manipulate me into it. I vampired a few of my intelligent, responsive, communicative spider friends and I did so knowing that they will only continue to grow in sunlight. Believe me or assume I’m playing a sexual roleplay game. You are not invited to either of those realities and the only person you could possibly have to blame is yourself.