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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.

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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)

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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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THIS IS A FAN ART FOR PYROCYNICAL

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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.

WIDT

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”.

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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.

lh1olvje

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.

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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.

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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.

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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

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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.

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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?

WHO THE HELL WOULD TRUST A CHILD OF THAT AGE WITH 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

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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.

 

NONE OF THIS IS COMPLIMENTARY TO ME. THESE ARE NOT THE KINDS OF WOMEN I WOULD BE FLATTERED BY HAVING BEEN STALKED BY. I AM REALLY, REALLY CREEPED OUT.

MY INTERIORS MAGAZINEANEENENE

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.

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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.

Anyway.

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?

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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.

www.christianlouboutin.com1_

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.

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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.)

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

 

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

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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
cucumber
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.

#feiyuemonks

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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.

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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.

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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

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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.

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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.

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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.


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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 

WE CARNT BE BOVVERED TO EMAIL YOU BACK SO U HAV TO CALL US COS WE LIKE THE ATTENSHUNS etc

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.

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This is my vagina. I once saw a woman on https://ifeelmyself.com, 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.

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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.

 

MAGGOT QUEEN

I learned that the only way to get people to ever read anything I wrote or listen to anything I had to say, there had to be some fantastically sexualised element to it. I don’t know when. Isn’t that weird. We’ve all got weird in us, and it’s great to be honest about it.

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fun fact: i find a bra i like once every few years. my bras are all
years old. most of my things were. a lot of my things were stolen.
i know i'll get them back but the cost of that will be awful, 
finding out who had the audacity to steal from me. particularly
if they were defending a blonde - to be popular. 
who turned out to be very much ALIVE. 
and if it was not for me, you'd never of cared about her life
at all. and if it was not for me, you'd never of known shes alive.

there is no shame bell adequate enough for the result of everything
that has been done to me. 

people deserve to die for what they've done
in an attempt to be popular, thinking no one was watching or 
listening.

It is 00:26 AM on Saturday the twenty-seventh of July. I’ve no idea when I started authoring this post but I need to rest, and return to it tomorrow.

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I need a rest because I’ve been up since about seven in the morning following a very annoying clawed friend around. (I don’t mean it, she is not in the slightest annoying and she brings me so much happiness.)

Killi is actually perfect.

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Because of her I was compelled to tidy my room. You might not think it a big deal. ITS A BIG DEAL.

I had wanted to tidy my room for months since moving in but I didn’t feel to – that is – I had no energy to do so and the period before moving to Brighton I was stressed out and it fucked my body up. Moving around fucks me up. I don’t mean emotionally, because I’ve moved around so many times I’m numb to that. Actually it fucks me up physically. Which is legitimately worse for me. Not for most people but for me, physical pain – carrying around a shit for weeks – is worse than heartbreak. A thing most people do at least one a day, I do about twice to three times a month when I’m having a bad time.

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Being evicted from my family home after an argument (the reality is that my ma got weird when I started cooking) (and after a life of only ever really speaking to my family to have very serious, very heated arguments – which meant that my being evicted made absolutely no sense to me, i mean – i grew up in a warzone in terms of my family only ever communicating to argue. i generally only really got hugged after an argument where i was forced to apologise but not to expect one back. kids that grow up in families that only talk to fight and only hug to resolve a fight have PTSD.)

and my mother realising a few days ago that she was out of her fucking mind to get me evicted – and then my forgiving her without her actually fucking apologising – because I can think of all the excuses for her – also really fucked me up. No one has ever cared about me, and perhaps thats the result of a difficult life for all of us as individuals, but that’s also the truth. I don’t know how a baby could survive without anyone caring for it or loving it and I know that my brother and sister were both damaged creeps that did a lot of weird stuff to me – kids do weird things to their siblings – but I did somehow. 

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It is now 9:05 AM on Saturday the twenty seventh. I’m going to caption the images I’ve added to the post. I haven’t used the internet for a few days, I might’ve previously written (I’ve no memory of the fact) that I wanted to spend some time only really meditating.

If I lost concentration in a meditation I’d just think.

And feel.

I didn’t really watch any cartoons or films, I only listened to music. I don’t talk to any of my old friends and I’ve released them all. Tintin is my very bestfriend, no human could ever compare to him.

A better parent and a better friend than any of the two I’ve ever experienced yet.

If ever there was a time to scientifically prove the benefits of meditation, particularly combined with sound stimuli, it’s now. If you had been living with me for the last month, after an intense meditation with SethSpeaks, you’d of witnessed all sorts of strange miracles and inexplicable genetic evolution that I couldn’t photograph because I don’t have the right lens. More importantly I was able to take thought journeys that helped me to better make sense of the physical body and the Earthly experience.

You do not live with me, so you’ll have to take my word for it that I’m telling the truth. A lot of weird things happened to me throughout my life and when I’d tell people they’d call me a liar. Perhaps that’s why I like to document things. So I’ll accompany everything I write with a truth that you’d think I wouldn’t want to share. I’ll also upload photos that I haven’t photoshopped (apart from a few that I nicked off my instagram, which I used a filter for)

I haven’t “showered” in six months. I wash the places that need to be washed and scrub dead skin off when I need to. Actually I’m Bad Santa level of awful at the moment inside but I try not to go out looking that way so I don’t make Brighton look scummy.

Look at how perfect this baby is. I wish I had taken a video of her having a little bath in my kitchen sink. It was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. (I pee in that sink, but also I dettolled and scrubbed the hell out of it before I put her in. Obviously.)

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The hair I lost having continuous nervous breakdowns in Surrey because I was being bullied and fucked over is growing back without the aid of any vitamins, although I’ve got some that I’d like to start taking. My skin is not a nigh on thirty year old chainsmoker’s and I’ve not had enough injections in awhile, to boast a name drop (If you like my lips, Dr Rita Rakus. No one else. Save up.) for an aesthetician but mine is the best.

Don’t tell anyone, one time she started stabbing at my lips with a syringe and I got really wet. Gross right? That shit hurts. (She gives you a really good numbing cream, and you can leave it on for longer so it hurts less – but it does hurt.)

I realised that the tap water in Brighton is not good for drinking, it forms calcium deposits around my friends nose. (Just WAIT til you see my new friend.)
I think that if this country refuses to endeavour to provide healthy, clean water to their citizens – they should at the very least enforce local councils to honestly inform their residents that the water is not drinkable. I promise that if you live in the United Kingdom and you stop washing your hair (a spritz of dry shampoo, a decent brush – I use a tangle teaser but the design of those was actually copied from one of my favourite old hairbrushes.) and your face in the terrible water, (honestly – Dubai circa 1990’s asbestosy-chlorinated swimming pool water is probably healthier to swallow than the drainage-regurgitated to infinity stuff in our taps) your appearance would benefit tremendously. I advocate plastic surgery, generally ageing is to do with the levels of collagen in your body and I want to believe we can evolve beyond caring about people’s ages and if it’s our appearances stopping us from being with the people that we might like to be with – for whatever reason – then we need to change those appearances.

In the Matrix movies we are taught about residual self image – the person you see when you visualise yourself. I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO BE THAT PERSON. WE NEED YOU TO BE THAT PERSON. SHE IS BETTER THAN THE YOU THAT FEELS WEIRD IF SHE LEAVES THE HOUSE IN ANYTHING OTHER THAN A CAGOULE.

You’ll notice, when you notice your ‘residual self image’ – that it is difficult to just wear the things you see yourself in. My spiritual teachers would’ve entirely opposed the idea of embracing that residual image until meeting their twinflames, because they’d of wanted their twins to see them ‘as they are’, ‘without vanity’, which it is truly a struggle for women to reject because we are mind controlled to be vain, mind controlled to obsess over physical beauty – particularly those of us who live in capitalist countries.

In a meditation my spider friend Sabel told me that he had a twinflame. Female spiders are a lot bigger than the male ones and they usually eat the male ones. I understood that Sabel wanted to co-exist with his twinflame, which is not characteristic for spiders. He learned perhaps from watching my memories of spider documentaries and so did she. He was at the time too small to document although he kept trying to encourage me to – that is – I kept feeling compelled to try to photograph him and I kept not doing it because I don’t have the right lens.

The chances are that if you are a person who already knows who their twin is, you’re probably around about a more mature age. It doesn’t mean you’re ready for them, at all.  The idea of being without vanity and being comfortable as you are, is that the final result is that you can love yourself without vanity. Don’t stagnate on it. It’s an achievement, when you get there you leave that you behind. Past life.

WHY won’t you wear your fancy dresses around the house? Is it because you don’t think it fits the look? That is amongst the many reasons that I’m unhappy in a home until it looks right. My home doesn’t look right yet. But here is how my favourite bit of my flat is starting to look.

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When I lost the egocentricity that enabled me to meditate about myself (as opposed to obsessing about snuggling with boys I fancied, as I did in school) I was catatonically depressed.

We need to find beauty in ourselves and love ourselves before we start pursuing relationships. Which means first we have to KNOW ourselves. Also not looking like Mr Burns when you’re naked is a GOOD THING.

When it comes to me, I think, or fragments of myself: we feel your happiness. If you secretly wish you had an excuse to dress up every day all day, we’re quietly aware of the fact. We like people who are the equivalents of male peacocks. (That is not to say they necessarily like us back, but that is who we gravitate towards.)
We won’t pick the ‘meaner’ one, although sometimes it seems that way – we’ll pick the one that has more presence. We can defend ourselves (unless you have an army of lovers and a queue of inadequates that actually hold it back because even if they have a place in the queue – they’re NOT READY.) and we prefer solitude and we enjoy a person who is a constant source of entertainment. It is probably unhealthy to seek another person out solely to be entertained by them but I know that is consistently something I seem to expect from interaction.

If you’re wondering where this thought journey comes from, it comes from a deeper need to want to understand things as they truly are. Nature is not loving or perfect or kind and does not adhere to the social rules that humans have created. You can tell me it is insanity to think that we can sculpt evolution and that it is self absorption but I have no reason to agree. I’m at a sort of crossroads because I’m trying to decipher the true human mentality when it comes to relationships and where men – and what are men, anyway – have been given control, it has become some secret freudian, heartless, in’humane’ reality that I’ve found myself in at times – but then I also find that while I advocate the liberation of women, their gender rebirth in light of our findings has created monsters too. I could be a monster but I don’t want to but I might need to but I don’t want to.

I’m going to try to discuss a variety of things that have been sitting in my thoughts, thoughts I’ve truly revisited daily for the last two weeks, (the last two to ten years) in this blog and it’s taken at least three days to be able to sort of do that. If you read this journal entry as I write it: there are bits I’ve left incomplete. Every hour or two I return to various points or I add something or I consider omitting something perhaps. For a millisecond.

I spent years of my life looking shit and feeling shit. People forgot the old me and new people came along: safely accustomed to that new-me (even pretending that the old me didn’t exist) and that new-me didn’t really inspire jealousy in them or whatever it was that made people feel threatened and hate me when I was younger. They were still cruel to me, as cruel as anyone had ever been – old me would’ve rolled her eyes because she was that ‘self obsessed’. At University I applied every lesson I’d learned about being a social inept (I didn’t go out looking awful all the time, even if my peers looked awful, I was generous and tried to share a little bit of everything I had at every opportunity – apparently I was pretending to be rich because I wasn’t going around talking about my shit life at home, which if I had of done – I’d of been ‘attention seeking’. Trust me – the story is the same. You’re going to hate me and you’re going to hate anyone I fuss over.)

Do not be taken by the idea that whoever you’re pursuing should ‘see you as you are’, neither I nor they really need to know the “real you” because if you are around me or anyone for long enough: the ‘real you’ will change.
You will be the real-real you around people that make you feel loved, because you will feel unjudged and for the most part that is correct, but if you hurt me by exploring your shadow self, you open up a lot of wounds and then you see the real-real me and she isn’t very nice when she’s angry or upset. I don’t hit first. I am rarely cruel first. It happens if I see someone looking phenomenally terrible perhaps but mostly I don’t do nastiness unless it is called for. I spent my life being the ‘protective best friend’ and finding hot guys and setting them up with my friends. I kept having friendships dissolve because women don’t like me. I am still not over the incident in Hackney, I got kicked out because Bernie thought I wanted to steal men from her. I would never have done any such thing.

Women of generations older than mine are finally feeling enabled to be sluts. You do not have to attach any longer to the one man in your life because it’s a lie.

I don’t want women to be wilting flowers and I don’t want women to be submissive unless they find happiness or personal safety in that, or the performance of that. I don’t want to encourage women to be abusers either. Saying that – where I find that older people are wise, I prefer to have an influence of that nature in my life. I’m not hinting at anything here, value people who are older than you in some way. I seek out the company of older women. A guy called Zach told me that I should look to trees, if I needed the influence of a woman or a rolemodel when I was in my early twenties.

I don’t think he could’ve understood how the World works. I think he was also a thief. No one is perfect but I’m not honestly sure how far that sentiment goes; how much you can fix with a statement like “I am not perfect.

If you want to live a BDSM life here’s what I can tell you:

  1. You need a squishy. A person you can be yourself around without worrying that they are trying to dominate you. Whether you are submissive or dominant, you need a person that loves you before you start exploring a sexually promiscuous lifestyle.
  2. You need a person to run to if you are being abused by people you ‘love unconditionally’ who can call people out when they’re in some weird sexual trance that makes them stupid. It is a thing. Harmless and kindly men become sexual predators in these trances and so do women, actually.
  3. I have no squishies so I am in no way a candidate for a lifestyle of that nature. I would not pursue that lifestyle unless one of my guides told me to. And I don’t know that they would do so unironically. (Let me show you why you are NOT going that way.)
  4. I find personal strength in not needing a squishy, that is my personal life. I am not interested in BDSM either but I have noticed damaged people who are often find their way into my life and I don’t know how to react to the communicative exchanges.
  5. I am a loving person and it is not a performance and it hurts me when people start bullying me.
  6. This song was good for me as a teenager. I like to see unseen things and make beautiful movies in my head. Apparently it isn’t often me doing it either.
  7. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2L1A9taR0UYHowever hard I try to convince myself otherwise, I am competitive. I do not like that side of myself because when I competed as a child, I lost any chance at having friends. Even teachers bullied me if my work was too good in school. I coped with that by not doing anything much. I got confused for lazy and stupid and I enjoyed the humour in that.

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First of all, with regards to my post title: I am the Maggot Queen.

This is why.

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This is a common fly I bred, using meditation. It is infact not at all common, it has lines down the middle of it’s abdomento remind me of one of it’s brothers:

(I named him Magnus)

– I killed a maggot by dissecting it. It was a very uncharacteristic cruelty and it changed me forever – but I did it to feed some spiders that I have an attachment to. I cut some maggots into three, and I tried to feed my spiders. My reasoning being that if I want to have a pet snake, I have to accept I’ll probably need to feed it live feed. I am so sensitive to animals that even live feed, I would consider pets. I did not ever really romanticise the idea of keeping predators that were not dogs or cats until now.

But back to Magnus.

I cut across his belly horizontally. I didn’t cover his eyes. We exchanged eye contact before I killed him. When you meditate enough and when you access enough higher truth you are forever changed – I mean if you are a decent and empathic person (and you should always aspire to be decent, not to perform decency) – you, like me, can probably fall in love with something like a maggot. I mean you can really look at an insect like that, and feel love towards it.

Some people are cruel and it means nothing when they are cruel. Some people are not cruel at all and so when they are, it’s actually probably deeply, deeply disturbing.

Watching Sephiroth kill something innocent probably wouldn’t surprise anyone. I don’t know that many people were all that affected by Aerith’s death. It’s supposedly a huge moment in gaming history but I’ve never personally met a gamer who cared for that scene in any significant way. I was really really affected by Aerith’s death the first time I watched that scene.

Moving on: watching Aerith kill something would be disturbing. It would change how gamers regarded her. If you know anything about her character, or the impact she has on Cloud’s life, it really is the overwhelming kindness that probably kindles some capacity in him to fucking feel at all after whatever he must have experienced at Shinra or with Sephiroth. If Cloud’s memories are false that means he shares memories with Zach, but they might both be sharing Sephiroth’s memories.

Back to Magnus and the other two Magnets I killed – I believe a female and a baby – which I fed to my spiders. (My spiders didn’t enjoy eating those magnets, and they eventually moved so that they wouldn’t catch our flies – although they’ve since overcome the guilt.)

That night, I felt a really particular kind of agony in my stomach – and painkillers did not work for that pain.

I mean my stomach hurt for days and even when I could get comfortable enough in bed to try to masturbate it did nothing for me. I lost the ability to orgasm and it was legitimately frightening. I think that experience was my first time feeling absolutely no love towards anything at all.

I learned the value of a life by ending one – of a really rather harmless and worse, defenseless being. That night, I felt maggots in my body. I mean I felt them moving in my body. It was very real and it was also grotesque, I have a vivid imagination and I had watched them move so intently that the experience isn’t one I think I’ll ever really successfully remove from my memory.

I got the ability to orgasm back when I made peace with the spirit of the maggot. Also I took a massive shit that might’ve been the easiest one I’ve ever taken (I’ve taken, like, at least a few of those tiny shits that white women take in my entire life, so I do know what it feels like to take a tiny shit) although it’s still sitting in my white-woman toilet with embarrassingly small pipes. I know SOMEONE in Brighton is into scat.

But you don’t know what it is that maggots do. Do allow me to educate you. Train you, if you are so duly damaged that you require the use of words like that to concentrate. Someone will have to.

If you want to be a domme – be able to offer good service first.

Service is not sexual. Be able to be kind and do kind things. Have a sense of humour about your appearance, unless you have invested in yourself the chances are you have a few ‘flaws’ you’ve not been able to love in yourself. You can use art of manifestation to get rid of the flaws but the insecurities will probably transfer.

I felt ugly and fat from the age of two, I was an emotionally receptive child and I was raised by a ballerina who felt those things exclusively about herself.

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I am copying Emperor Akhito's wife, I saw her in a fascinator and
for the first time in my life I actually rather liked them.

I've been using red lipstick for everything. Contouring. Lips. 
I do actually intend to invest in red eyeliner. I wanted to get
a red line tattooed to my neck but a gentleman in Brighton
had the motherfucking audacity to tell me he refused. 

He pretended not to know who I am. There is no one that
ascribes to any kind of "alternative" lifestyle that does not
know who the hell I am. 

Do not trust piercers or tattoo artists that lie or engage in
BDSM. 

Years ago I went to a school for people that had been expelled from other schools – I couldn’t cope with the structures of normal schools and this one didn’t expect too much –  and let me wear whatever I wanted.
I had a science teacher who was a marine biologist whose dreams had been stolen from him – that is – he had a choice between the marriage dream and the marine biologist studying marine life dream. He told me that when he decided to study Marine biology, he would work ‘on location’ and that while he had aspirations of working with whales and sharks, he was sent to work with the bottom feeders – the plankton. Nothing ‘big’ in the ocean can survive without plankton, nothing at all would survive without plankton perhaps.

The food chain relies on all beings responsibly trying to incorporate as many food groups into their diet as they possibly can. You do not need to eat too much of everything, but you should at least nibble everything. The food chain hierarchy of sun > plants > insects > birds (this is the most offensively brief hierarchy but it is intended to serve as an example – but particularly for omnivores, our digestive systems rely on insects. Not vegetables. Not McVitties digestives. Insects – at least, definitely maggots. (Magnets.)

It is very unusual to keep maggots but they are great.

They are good for enriching soil, they are good for consuming left over food that you don’t want going to waste and some of them would make great accomplices for mercenaries.

I have docile ones that have never felt fear. This is them.

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[link to the original image upload here]

These ones currently live in ‘Tintin’s soil tin’ which is sort of a cute play on the idea that he could grow up to be a bigtime wall street dealer. (That is a reference to a joke in Final Fantasy VII)

This is Don Corneo’s mansion. It is sort of the Golden Saucer of Maggot farms. I have retired it temporarily and I will be revamping it with an all new landscape.

I was flirting with the idea of an animal familiar or friend that I could host in a home that is as awkward as mine.

I have a very little flat, which is all I need right now. But as a person who spends so much time in isolation, (one of those pesky ptsd sufferers) I was certain that it was time for me to start tidying my flat and seeking out some decent company that could cope with my total incompetence towards the care of other living things and my complete lack of motherly affection or maternal affection. I am actually repulsed by maternal feelings that are performed, the perpetuation of the idea that a mother must be kind and sweet and doting.

Here’s what I WANTED: A low maintenance, low expectations friend that could keep me company while I await a moment in time in which I can have Tintin back in my life all day long.

I wanted a snake. Or a bearded dragon. (I meditated on this before moving in – the snake eats the bearded dragon and grows legs.) (I would never get a bearded dragon and a snake, and put either at risk of that. I’d get upset with the snake and I wouldn’t want it anymore.

Snakes have never experienced jealousy. It’s probably of some evolutionary benefit.

I have always wanted a predator for an animal friend. I had never indulged the idea for long because when you have a carnivorous pet that needs live-feed, you also have more pets. If you have ever had stick insects, the idea of live feed is really messed up. Plastic containers of sometimes amazonian insects (their origins, that is) crawling over one another and poking their legs through the breathing holes as they wait to die.

They know that is what they are doing, by the way. They know they are waiting to die.

Live feed is expensive on petsathome. Well. It is and it isn’t. They changed the prices. I think it is weird to put a price on these lives, now. But I’ll explain why.

Insects aren’t stupid. Start here.

On a meditation journey I was told service or bdsm (another word for ‘survival’). This was a long time ago, ish, with both Gabriel and Lucifer, the Angels. (They look very alike and are very resentful of the fact.)

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Image taken from PetAtHome Friday 26th July 2019

Believe it or not, the prices have changed. I wonder why.


My reality is that this country is pretending that £700 a month is an acceptable amount of money to give an unemployed and sometimes disabled person and I can’t afford to be spending

The spiders relocated but sometimes show me they’re still around.
There’s a huge female one beneath my balcony, she leaves bridges of webs to catch her prey with. She mostly seems to use those webs as pest control. I had prepared a maggot colony in a tin-can, and the tin-can fell onto a pipe, and stayed there. She lives quite close to it – and I know she can wander in if it rains. When it rains I panic and I think about the spiders a lot – but I’ve made lots of places for them to hide when it rains and believe it or not, they do.

The spiders and myself have experimented alot with feelings of loss. The one in the alcove beneath the star on my balcony moved himself – but I won’t forget looking for him in the mornings.

I had thought he was a female, and I think he’d insist he is, but realised the female (that had previously thought-spoken with me in my babyvoice) was the smaller one that haS placed herself above the star on some weird mesh that covers my balcony. She now resides beside a window in our hallway. His name is Sabel – I saw Sabel on an ‘Isabel Marant’ top and read “I sabel” and now I see little ‘S’ things whenever I go to glance onto the balcony. When I can’t find him I think ARE YOU STILL HERE SABEL? and sometimes I look towards just the right spot to see him. One time I looked out onto my balcony and I saw him curled into a ball in a webbed-barrier and

hi ad

I had a feeling there were four spiders although I could only see three. At night the light would coincidentally – for a few days – cast a shadow of a giant spider in my ceiling. When I meditated with it I felt little bites in my skin and understood that was the spider’s way of communicating it was stealing energy. Pain is an energy. Spirits need energy to do their work. Fear is an energy. Sometimes the easiest way to acquire that energy is to evoke a very powerful emotion – some spirits pretend to be dead to evoke emotion just to acquire energy. It is important to be able to feel if you do magic, so you can at least ‘feel’ truth, or ‘feel’ if they are loving. I did feel that these spiders were loving towards me, but I couldn’t know if they felt that love towards anyone else. Animal spirits are difficult for me because I’ve not been doing this for a long time. I know that the animals that gravitate towards me are VERY big on LOYALTY. If I don’t like you, stay away from my animals (Tintin will bite you, even old ‘friends’ that he knew I wasn’t friends with anymore – he snapped at.) and that includes my spirit friends.

Having a few maggot-I-call-them-magnets colonies, I learned that – don’t ask – but only feeding hens ‘feed’ is wrong. For us, more than them. We need the birds that we eat to eat every single kind of food – for our own digestions. Maggots help us use the toilet. Maggots also help us orgasm.

I will tell you a little about the experience of being a maggot – they writhe around in pure physical pleasure.

 

Their every movement is as we ekxperience sexual pleasure. They snuggle. They have orgies (I lifted a piece of meat and saw the most fucked up magnet-orgy ever – they were so embarrassed they actually glanced at me mid-hump in pure shock.). They eat and fuck. That’s what they do. That is all they do. They live hedonistic lives and are naturally inclined to do so. They are beings of pure pleasure.

I googled the lifecycle of maggots – and I believe they must have used me to see themselves remotely. I know that they can choose to remain maggots.

Want to be grossed out? I left some pork steaks that had been sitting in my fridge in a loosely sealed tescos bag and put it outside. In no time at all I realised there was an infestation of maggots.

I was given meat that I am certain had maggots eggs inside.

 

I can leave meat wrapped in a tescos bag – I mean completely sealed by that bag – and left it outside.

They live lives of pure physical pleasure. Everything they do feels really, really good.

They can choose not to ‘evolve’ or otherwise delay the process of becoming a fly.

They are capable of meditation and are responsive to sound stimuli. They really like cyber-gothy electro music.

If a forensic specialist says something like “the maggots had started to eat at her” – and it had taken ‘a week’ to find her body, I’d say “you’re a fucking liar dude”.
They move and eat fast and they are merciless about it.
And they would begin at a wound if that was where their parents had chosen to lay eggs,
but they do not necessarily need to lay eggs in flesh. I’ve been taught that flies lay eggs in rotting flesh. They do.

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When I first visited Brighton I had a chat with a gentleman at a cafe
called 'Opposition'. 

He said that there were no lines in nature. 
My meditation flies would disagree.

They also lay eggs on plastic, and all sorts of different materials if there is both food and water in the vicinity. I am raising a lot of very weird looking insects and doing so requires my landscaping various little containers with the hopes of having the most epic dolls house ever.

They ALSO eat non-rotting flesh and they would go for the eyes. This is significant for me, though, as maggots were always in my mind. I’m not joking. Maggots and leeches have always been in my mind. This episode of Blackadder (these are the only ones I enjoy) is why maggots have always been in my mind.

At the back of my mind I have always thought in terms of survival skills, and have never forgotten seeing that maggots consume rotting flesh on television as a child. I knew that if you had a wound, and you placed a maggot on top, that the maggot would ‘only eat the dead flesh’ and leave the living flesh. That is a lie.

They would sink into the flesh of the thing they were eating and eat the whole thing. British TV is really fucked up and very dishonest.

(If you love something, you call it out for it’s shit. You do not choose to be nice all the time to save it’s feelings – you share a planet with beings that are deserving of much more than feelings of pity)

I’m going to tell you about the Maggot Spirit.

Magnus.

But this is Sesshomaru.

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He is a seagull that visits me occasionally and who I take great enjoyment in leaving out water and food for.

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My friend’s got many, many, many names.
Her nickname is KILLI KILLI.

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This is Killikilli sitting and looking out onto the balcony when Sesshomaru comes to visit.

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Moments after (or before) I took this photograph, Killikilli (that is not her government name) bit my nipple and I thought “if anyone ever tries to convince me that breast feeding isn’t a sexual performance EVER they are full of SHIT”

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She is the most amazing creature ever. So are maggots.

Of course: it is worthy of note that Chihuahuas are magical creatures too, but to me it is important to acknowledge that birds and insects are also equally worthy of their magical note.

In other news – I have been living in Brighton for almost half a year. I started tidying a few days ago (that’s when Killi waltzed into my life, being the least domesticated bird ever.)

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There are more photos.

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<3

Here are some phone photos to tell you all what I’ve been upto. I’m not bothering much with instagram. It isn’t worth it for me.

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.this is hilarious. I refuse to allow this country to compensate me without telling the truth, though. I won’t accept compensation and shut up money from the lottery. By the way WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THE LOTTERY?

The Lottery” is a short story written by Shirley Jackson, first published in the June 26, 1948 issue of The New Yorker.[1] It has been described as “one of the most famous short stories in the history of American literature“.[2]

The story describes a fictional small town in contemporary America which observes an annual rite known as “the lottery”. The purpose of the lottery is to choose a human sacrificial victim to be stoned to death to ensure the community’s continued well being.”

I don’t know much either, but I heard about the story – referenced in an episode of the Simpsons. I don’t want to read the book because I’m lazy but also because I’ve lived enough pain to not want to project my life onto a story like that.

.I found a local abandoned pub, there was a bottle of alcohol on the table and my inner teenager picked it up – it had some alcohol left in it. I drank it and I danced around by myself.

.I found a bag on a table outside the pub and it had all these cute props in. The faux (honestly – not the consistency of blood at all – a cute sugar syrup thing) blood packs were SO MILITARY CHIC. I didn’t take them, although I’d of liked to for a photoshoot I’ve been planning. It’d of been stealing. (I want to make ‘TEMPLAR LOLITAS” a thing)

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I’m into this look. It’s anime. The crotch stuff.

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I paid a woman – who has a shop, where she sells ‘hand made clothes’ – I saw the quality of ‘her work’ – and she really thought it was okay to do this shit to my jacket. Seventy pounds for this shit. It’s surgical stitches for me, from now on, for all of my stuff. Fuck you. I didn’t say how pissed off I was before – I was pissed off. Its inexcusable. I keep being robbed by people in Brighton. Independent shop keepers, bankers. “do you have any idea what I’ve done for this country” I think at the back of my head.

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.you can’t see it here, but I have TREMENDOUSLY hairy legs. I went to the beach and took off my stuff and walked through the sea recently. I’m not one of those tacky hippies that doesn’t shave or remove their body hair, I just have no reason to remove it right now. I’m concerned that if I remove my body hair it will indicate that I’m doing it because I’m attracted to someone and that’s disturbing because when I’m trying to attract someone, sometimes other people think I am trying to get them instead or something (my attractions are specific and personal and if you don’t have the guts to hang out with me – or you dont want to hang out with me cos I have ‘hairy legs’ or I am wearing an outfit you don’t like – remember it for the rest of your life)

.i need waterproof earphones. NEED. and goggles.


I wish I could copy and paste the notes I just made on my phone, but my BT internet is so shitty that my phone can’t connect to it. I have some spiders residing on my balcony that I am VERY attached to. I’ve been meditating with them about becoming huge. (One sec, I uploaded:)

Like:

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I meditated with Jane of Seth Speaks recently – I swear upon my life, my bed was shaking. I was still and my bed was shaking. I asked to learn to levitate. I didn’t levitate. But yeah – my bed was shaking.

It’s been a few days since I last wrote to myself so here I am, self. Writing to you, self. In the meditation I was asked by Jane not to do any art for two weeks – so I’m uploading some art from weeks past that I thought I’d uploaded but apparently hadn’t.

This is a photograph of a shelf sitting on the ledge of my window sill, I’ve put some plants in it.

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Awhile ago I bought some slate coasters from Amazon – like a really long time ago now. I wrapped one of the coasters in a bathroom mat (they have sticky undersides – the good ones) and smashed it with a hammer. Then I started applying the bits like a mosaic to this shelf. I BUILT THIS SHELF! With help. A lot of help. But I built this shelf. (Actually a guy called Adam who helped my mother do her house up let me use some left over wood and let me borrow his screw driver.)

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I am excited about how this might look when it’s finished. Years ago I visited a woman’s house in Paraguay and she had a whole wall made of stones. That’s never left my mind.

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This is a photograph of my little kitchenette. That is the worst hoover anyone has ever used in their life, amongst the top ten worst hoovers. It is a mostly ornamental and decorative hoover, that adds colour to my life.

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This is a tea thingy. You’re meant to put tea in it. I took some mint from one of my tescos plants (THEY ARE TWO POUNDS!!) Oh, no, I just checked. TESCOS SELL MINT PLANTS FOR ONE POUND.

They are definitely indoor plants, these potted mints. I’ve tried keeping them outside and it is too hot for them. That is: I’ve noticed that when I put my plant friends outside, they almost die – even the ones the florists say are “meant to be placed outdoors”. What happens is – they almost die – and then they acclimate.

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So this is a tea strainer with some mint that I handpicked and put in hotwater with honey. No matter how much fun it is to be a person that does that – it’s not my thing. I am a water person. I drink water and elderflower cordial. Sometimes. And hot chocolate. I’m not a tea person, I will never ever be a tea person. I like coffee with two spoonfuls of butter. Try it. (I don’t drink it often, but it actually tastes much better than you’d think.)

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I know they say “don’t mix meats” but if you have a non-salty meat like this prosciutto and a salty chicken, and some potato, and some lemon drenched salad – you’ll be surprised at how much you don’t care about what “they say”.

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The NHS told a relative of mine that a portion is technically this much food. So If you eat a portion of pasta – this is the correct amount. This is what we need to be healthy, this much. If you think I am a person who can live on portions like this you are on crack. But my plate was pretty this day. I’ve not been cooking much, I’m having a lot of sensitivity to the sun here – Brighton is having a fantastic summer – but with a history of migraines and some mild vampirism I can honestly say that both myself and a relative of mine that I “vampired” in a “psychosis” (lets pretend, for the lols, that that is wat that was) can’t do ‘sunlight’. The doctors have told her she has lupus and she will believe anything she’s told by anyone that isn’t me, the only person who has ever told her the truth – in her entire life.

This is my hand. I was concerned (this is something that happens when you are abused by the NHS btw, as I was.) that people would think I had self harmed. I um. I do not self harm at all. And this would be a bitch of a place to self harm.

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If I had the time and date settings on my camera and you saw how fast I healed you’d be as weirded out as I was but I’m so lazy about documenting stuff like that. One day I’ll do it for the theatre and film it. When I’m getting paid for my documentary habits.

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I recently dressed up like this to check if (a very, very, very large sum of) money had been put into my bank account, as compensation from the United Kingdom for their human rights abuses against me. And my family. For three generations. I can’t tell you how many of my family’s friends (not mine, I don’t do friends – my FAMILY’S friends) are waiting for an apology. The money hasn’t been deposited – yet. Weird.

I was so sensitive to the heat from the sun I walked into the supermarket and projectile vomited on the day I made this video.

I also went to a poorly and disrespectfully kept World War Two Monument. An obnoxious woman convincing herself of being a patriot shouted “THATS A WAR MEMORIAL”. The water was so filthy – I shit you not – that my toenail went green, and started coming off – I had to rip it off.

We have birds that swim in that water. They’re british, if that makes a difference to yobs like that woman – ruining what is technically a really important moment for anyone that knows anything about this country’s military history. (I know more about this country’s military history than most British people – to the point that I remain until this day affected by a single stanza that I heard when I visited Berlin on a school trip.)

BLIND MEN, LOOK UP.

 

It was filthy. I waded around in it trying to be a sexy pin up for one of our boyz. It was a really proud moment. I’ll explain: A gentleman was, I think, wearing something to indicate he had fought in that war – he was sitting in a wheelchair by that memorial.

I asked if he’d film me in the water and he stood up off that wheelchair and filmed me.  He might’ve been an actor – people do orchestrate strange things like that – but I hope with all of my heart that he wasn’t.

War pinups – I promise – are my thing. I keep trying to upload the video but it’s a struggle to do so. Weird.

It’s actually a deeply important video but maybe I’ll save the footage for something special. Right now – Brighton – your war memorial is fucking gross.

.I had a poppy flower. If you knew about the Second World War, you’d know that poppies littered the graves of British, Polish and German men alike. Some of our boyz were buried over there. I remember because we went around looking for the graves of our teachers relatives. We found some.

 

Some of the soldiers that fought in WW2 died what would’ve been referred to as ‘dishonourable deaths’ – as in they either ran off to be called “deserters”, killed themselves, or hurt themselves so much that they couldn’t fight anymore. They were considered cowards. The human mind is very easily traumatised and a lot of those boys were aged around sixteen to eighteen. There were boys who lied about their ages so that they could go to war – often compelled by the idea of winning the affections of a woman.

This film came out back when I was doing the nude girl internet thing (I’ll bring it back, read below) and it is one of my favourite films. I encourage you to watch.

.If you have ever had PTSD – you’d know that you-don’t-know-you-have-it until you DON’T have it anymore. Like some people might’ve reacted to that trauma with ‘shellshock’, and run screaming onto battle fields – but there’d of been some people who went completely numb and blank and their responses to anything – absolutely fucking destroyed. They become like zombies.

“You” do not know how to treat PTSD unless you have HAD PTSD. You can’t live with people who have PTSD. They’re monsters. I’d know.

Anyone that tries to tell you that they can ‘help’ ‘treat’ your PTSD without having had it is full of shit.
That means you cannot – CANNOT – just diagnose someone with PTSD. You don’t know if a person has PTSD or not until they do not have it anymore. Thats it.

This is so poorly authored, an almost offensive attempt at explaining PTSD – that it’s perhaps offensive to include it in a post that offers any mention of WW2 and the people who were robbed of validation that their service and selflessness to what they believed was a good cause to humanity. (I struggle to believe the British cared about the holocaust. I don’t really know why they bothered getting involved, but they did. I think actually that any remaining service men must be pretty fucking furious, actually.)

There were also many horse memorials ❤ you don’t often consider how many animals have died in service.

I have investigated enough: Hitler is my comrade, and an innocent – whose motivation was to defend his country against the terrifying reparations we expected them to pay, that left them poor and defenceless. Mein Kampf was edited by his brothers.

I am perhaps the only person, in history, who has been lied about more than he.

The World watched the holocaust and the Jews paid to have their home back. If you challenge this judgement you will embarrass yourself doing so. I paid for what I learned to find the truth.

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T IS FOR TEMPLAR

they worship women

and the ownership of a vagina, does not a woman make


 

If you enjoy a nude of me, if you enjoy a thing I’ve written – that is really nice.

It’s still not “for you”

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I’m not ‘secretly’ into you – if I am into you – I promise you – I’ll let you know. (And the second I do so, millions of people will suddenly confess interest in you – and you will prefer them to me. I’m not your type.)

I don’t care how much you think you look like Alfie Deyes/Ash Stymest/Davey Havok or this guy – YOU ARE NOT THEM

(ALL OF WHICH ARE AMERICAN DREAMS. #CELEBCRUSHES. THINGS TO FANCY TO PASS THE TIME.)

I’m into PERSONALITIES. This is a portrait of a monk who was burned alive.

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If I consider myself a babysitter of yours, or ever have – I probably don’t – but if I ever have – please don’t think I’m sexually interested in you. I’m not. But when you grow up I will set you up with unimaginably hot babes. Babes that are much hotter than me, that you can get revenge on me with. For example: as a teenager I watched “the pursuit of happyness” with an ex boyfriend who is – definitely – a sociopath when he’s in a bad mood. If Jaden Smith EVER expressed any kind of interest in me, I’d die in a not-nice way. I’d be destroyed by that. If I could choose a girlfriend for him it’d be Frances Bean. Thats it.

If you think I should be into you – don’t stalk me, write to me. I am SO easy to get in touch with. If you are unable to get in touch, uh, I have an instagram. Leave a comment or something. Leave a billion. Thats what I’d do if I wanted to make sure someone knew I wanted their attention.

Unless you know I’m not interested. Do not make me create a list of men I wouldn’t accept money to date/hang out with. Please.


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I live in agony of every imaginable kind. You’re welcome.

If I had written this as a letter to myself I’d put ‘p.t.o’ (pronounced puh-toe)

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.I fucking laughed
stop forcing women into sexual slavery, domestic slavery etc – if a woman kills her kids they’re either not hers or she’s being mind controlled. Or it’s fake news. I don’t care. If I had kids I’d find the cutest, most kawaii magnet and attach this to my fridge and call my kids in and ask them to read it and say “YOU HAVE BEEN DULY WARNED.”

and if they were really my kids they’d get to the bit of “got in the way of her life, which included offering to sell sex” and they’d be like THATS EXACTLY HOW WE FEEL ABOUT YOU KARINA. THATS EXACTLY HOW WE FEEL ABOUT YOU. (I’d be like “do what you want, but when you see a kid walking into Perfect Fried Chicken, that looks exactly like you, wearing shoes like this – UNIRONICALLY –

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YOU’LL LEARN THAT YOU CARRY UNTOLD CAPACITIES FOR PAIN. Which would’ve been what I was protecting YOU from. (you could’ve paid a bit more actually)

(I have been taking adult man’s sized shits since I was at least two.) (my family are so clevers that they didn’t think I might have a VERY SERIOUS disability – well I spoke to a pharmacist who very kindly said that shitting once every two to three weeks is ABNORMAL.) (Fortunately that disability means I can do a lot of awesome stuff and if I like you, you can do it when we hang out.)

.IF I HAVE EVER BEEN IN A RELATIONSHIP WITH YOU – IF I HAVE EVER HAD PHYSICAL SEX WITH YOU – I’M NOT INTERESTED. NOT EVEN FOR MONEY. UNLESS ITS MONEY YOU ALREADY OWE ME. GET IN TOUCH AND ILL SEND MY BANK DETAILS.

.for example: luke’s dad stole a lighter from me – it was worth about five grand. he told me it was “fake”. (He got my original one valued and returned a fake.) fuck kent

.There was this moment in my flat, in a University town – where I’d found some strange enlightenment – and also learned I was technically royalty to Israel. Luke walked in and was like “what are you doing?” – I was painting the history of the world on some ikea thingy. I said “I’m ROYALTY LUKE” – you’d of had a “breakdown” of sorts upon that realisation at the same time as having recently had a terrifying miscarriage. He was like “so?”

YOU DON’T KNOW ME AT ALL LUKE DO YOU. Also I’m into bald guys but I’m not into you. I’d rather fuck a guy that wears shoes like this

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photo credit: Eyal (do you really want credit for this one?)

not really though, ew – you’re both ew

this is a good example of what my shadow self is like. thats why i am “single” unless the Angel Lucifer, HH or Zamasu decide to show up

OR trunx, or Levi

I was always this way which is probably why no one bothered telling me