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.

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S O F T

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I used the BBC recipe for the >> yorkshire pudding mix. <<

I added my own ingredients also, to make it sweet. 

I used tescos >> cooking chocolate << that I chopped up and a 
tescos >> tinned mixed berries. <<

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Efficiency Tips: If you properly line the tray (I use a silicone one, because I don’t like the loud noises I associate with the metal ones) with an oil of your choice (My favourite cooking oils are almond oil and Israeli argan oil) your puddings won’t stick to it and if you don’t make a (wasteful) mess pouring the mixture into the moulds, the clean up will be fast.

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This is how they turned out after 30-40 minutes in the oven.

I added a small amount of mixture to the mould (I had some left over which I used for ham and cheese yorkshire pudding bars – see the end of this post!) and then let it cook for about ten minutes. The mixture goes solid fast – at this point I added the berries and chopped chocolate, and more mixture on top.

I didn’t want the puddings to overflow, the way yorkshire puddings normally do – so I once I added the second layer of mixture (it’s not sticky, so the layers might not stick to one another, so take care to add syrup too) I lowered the temperature of the oven and allowed them to heat more gradually.

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This is a sauce I made, using double cream, Chinese cooking rice wine (the alcohol evaporates, so if you don’t like alcohol, please don’t be concerned that it’ll get you drunk), Persian mango powder, cinnamon, caster sugar and I suspended a sieve above the pan which contained banana, lemon (with the peel), orange (which had been removed from the peel and the actual segment skin, containing the flesh). The taste has a hint of mulled wine but I think that is actually the mango powder, which I’ve never used to cook before and which I strongly recommend. I purchased it in a corner shop.

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For the Black Aphrodite cake, I used the left over chocolate to create a sculpted effect, with a standard dining knife. I then used a very small paintbrush and some edible gold paint to line the wave like bits. I used some edible gold foil to create the flame effect, atop a strawberry that I had cut the top and bottom off. Sadly you can’t see it.

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Above is my ham and cheese yorkshire pudding bar. I used edam and british pork, both from Tescos. It definitely required a little bit of salt but I enjoyed it anyway.

P.T.D.P

Painting the Daisies Purple

When I moved from Dubai to London, I had brought no belongings with me and I had said no goodbyes.

I stayed at a friend of my mother’s, a council flat in Acton. I must have been aged about six years old, perhaps five. I spent days playing with the little ceramic mice in her home or watching television – Friends videos and early morning cartoons were the only media that could hold my attention. I imagine that, and my brother, was what kept me laughing through terrible times. Kept me performing that life was okay.

One time I was playing with these mice while Lady Diana’s faux funeral (trust me) aired on television. The night before I’d had a painful episode trying to use the loo, and I’d heard my mother speaking to her friend about it in Spanish; thinking I couldn’t understand to some extent the jist of what she was saying. She joked that the admittedly huge shit I’d taken was elephant-y in size. She undermined perhaps for the sake of social sensibility that everytime I took a shit, it wasn’t just taking a shit – it was a source of fear, it was humiliating, I was overwhelmed with my own fear of humiliation and unimaginable physical pain also. On the plus side, I’m a grown up it’s sure as hell difficult to humiliate and it’s a sort of autoattack I inflict on others effortlessly. Sometimes without meaning to.

I didn’t want to watch the funeral. I was in pain. And I certainly hadn’t been taught that there were products that could alleviate the pain, nor had I learned to communicate that being in pain wasn’t a form of weakness. I’d always been laughed at for talking about using the loo, siblings aged +7 years older than you and “parents” who’re stuck in the worst phases of their childhoods are pure hell for toddlers because they expect the toddler to skip the familial getting-to-know-you phases that they went through with one another and that means that even if the toddler is the baby of the family and believed to be the favourite, LIFE AS THE YOUNGEST IS RARELY GENTLE.

So amongst my intentions with Miss Kittie – is that I’d like to make something that kids suffering with similar life problems might be able to enjoy. Something for my own child-self. My child self felt empty (figuratively), alone and probably had pretty serious depression. But she enjoyed laughing and she lived for cartoons. And later – games she could play with any success.

Amongst the cartoons I’d watched, was one starring dogs. I saw a sexy bee lady – in two different shows. One of which I can’t remember, one was a very dominatrix-y Queen Bee.
She was a character featured in the show Earth Worm Jim.

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Above, Princess Whats Her Name glares at her co-stars because she's 
trying to tell them about her life and Earth Worm Jim is only 
interested in a relationship and the other one is only thinking about
Lunch.

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I took these stills from >> a video kindly uploaded << 
By @Richard Wagner of Episode XII, from the first series

You might think it controversial for cartoon characters to be ‘sexy’ or ‘sexualised’, I do not. I think if you do think that, that may either be because you are in a phase of personal growth that undermines your own childhood sexuality or because you have never forced yourself to acknowledge your own. That is not to say that I think children should engage in sexual activity – and believe me they do – they really do – I certainly did, and most people I’ve met have managed to somehow allude to there having been experimental moments or curiosities between them and their siblings or childhood friends. Marilyn Manson writes in his book about moments with friends of the same sex (gender) in which: if an adult had described them as an activity amongst consenting adults, would’ve been considered sordid and depraved by even the most sexually liberated. (Whatever the fucking hell that really means.)

I actually think that children would choose not to if they could comfortably dialogue

you

I think that as an artist, and a feminist one at that, it is fundamentally important to offer both a personal motivation and an academic perspective of every decision made in film making.

So this aunt’s flat – in Acton – I was able to appreciate the memories of her home and I relive the nicer ones regularly. And she had two books amongst her possessions that really stayed with me. One was a children’s activity book, and I had none of the items a person would’ve needed to do any of the activities. The other was the book Heidi. A battered purple copy with a fabric cover – the story of which is one of my favourites that has ever been written. Through that book I learned not to hate men. I ought to have learned to despise women but that would’ve probably halted my desire to become a feminist and also a templar and also the kind of person that finds the female body divine – the female personality… rarely so.

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Miss Kittie’s introducing two entirely new characters to her cast: Monsieur Hugh le Poodle – he is inspired by one of the admissions staff (he would be so00o0o0o offended being described as that but it is revenge – he’s actually the person that decides whether students get in or not) of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts. So – the best performing Arts School in the World. I MEAN A LOT OF PEOPLE MIGHT BE OFFENDED (I’ve a picture in my mind of a bearded American gentleman that interviews thespians being rather infuriated at such an underserving statement -)

RIGHT ILL EXPLAIN

My favourite thespians and comediennes are alumni of both RADA and of Cambridge University. My favourite films, my favourite animations – my favourite Shakespeare – was performed by an all American cast and non of whom studied at RADA, except for Ed Norton. So maybe that’s a little short-winded an analysis.

My favourite non-animated comediennes are the entire cast of Black Adder, the entire cast of Frasier,  the cast of Friends (though in real life we’d probably all dislike one another – except I think Chandler and Phoebe and I would probably really connect and Ross and I would have arguments about paleontology – one of my first dreams was of being chased down a cobbled street by a tyrannosaurus rex. I’m adamant I’ll raise one one day and it’ll be chasing me down the street trying to snuggle me. Did you read about my thought journey with Komodo Dragons? I still haven’t learned how to teach animals that licking is not the most successful means of conveying love.)

I do not think about the actors as personalities of their own, I think of the characters they’re playing. I don’t care about their personal lives, and to do so would be stalkerish. Ralph and Joseph Fiennes are two of my favourite actors of all time. Would I want to hang out at their houses and watch the news with them? Hell the fucking no. I enjoy that they are artists at a distance and I think that their being exclusive and mysterious and also not tacky celebrities (I have no issue with tacky celebrities, I’d happily have been one of those when I was younger – for example I ENJOY the Kardashian family. I think that tacky celebrity has it’s uses. Would I have cast Kim Kardashian in Shakespeare in Love? Hell the fuck no. Would I have cast her as one of Elizabeth’s ladies in waiting? Hell the fuck no. But she’s Hollywood royalty all on her own.)

What I mean is tacky celebrity is not a life style that sits with the kind of people that study at RADA. If I wanted to act, I’d want to be in tacky super hero movies that were really well shot. I’d want all the electric-fans pointed at me as I stood above an actual mountain in one of those fitted thigh high slit gowns and making my hair billow majestically in the wind and the light to be low lit and for there to be blood stains on my face. Do you get my inner acting vibe?

I couldn’t do The Importance of being Earnest. (I totally could, but I wouldn’t.)

Unless they are actively performance artists or reality TV stars – when I think of british actors I do not think of actors, I think of thespians.

Actors are people that would want to be in Hello Magazine.

Thespians are the kinds of people who would spend about ten years psychoanalysing a role (even a “background character”) that they’d dreamt of playing when they were three years old and then maybe refuse the part, even if it meant losing money they NEEDED – because they really felt they weren’t ready for the role – because it meant that much to them to do the role justice.

There is NOTHING wrong with being either of those people, it’s just how you market yourself. I’m tacky. I like being tacky. I can do not-tacky but that apparently makes people want to murder me. Not kidding.

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My intended audience is 1-3 year olds, but I’d like to think I can appeal to any audience. Most women think it’s normal to breast feed children between those ages, I personally disagree – but it is at your liberty to raise your children the way you’ve been taught to. I do not think you should be using breast feeding to ‘bond’ with your children either, especially if you use it as a moment to day dream or your partner uses it as a chance to sexualise you and sexual energy in turn flows between you and they and also your child.

I personally believe that that is why children create such a fuss when they have to stop breast feeding, because they’ve become addicted to that sexual energy. I used to hump stuff and weirdly enough I recall as a child hearing “they don’t know you’re doing it.” Not as a ‘voice’, but as I hear any of my own thoughts.  I learned later that it is possible it wasn’t always my own thoughts I was hearing, at all.

That is why I think it is so important to develop neural pathways that are unique to you, unique to personal interests you have developed yourself.

But the crux of my point is – your child should not be sexualising mammary glands. Certainly not at that age. Your child should be comfortable with nudity, nudity should not be associated with intimacy or even sex. Your child should be comfortable in the body they were given, should be comfortable with other people’s right to a body. It is idealistic, as most men and some women I’ve met are perverts – I do not judge perverts, it isn’t the worst flaw – as long as you aren’t spending all day thinking about sex in between four second intervals etc. I don’t think people who obsess about sex are ready to be parents. It is an unkind thing to say, but I believe that obsessing about sex is a form of slavery. I think that if you obsess about sex, you will raise children that obsess about sex.

There is nothing wrong with having sex, there is nothing wrong with sex work, there is nothing inherently wrong with the fact that we as beings have the capacity to be sexual and that some people’s identities have been built from our sexual inclinations. It’s not wrong, but it is sad – to me, that for example this photograph or the one above could be considered a sexual invitation. And there was a time when it would have been – about the 1930s.

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Some men respond very well to degradation and humiliation, sexually – some men hire women to mistreat and abuse them because it takes that much of an extremity for them to achieve any kind of sexual arousal.
Again – not judging – but that is often as a result of serious childhood abuse.

I’m sure if I didn’t have an unhealthy guilt function and a capacity for empathy that surpasses most people’s comprehension – to a level of sorts that I truly resent, maybe I’d have been a dominatrix. It is a kind of healing work, and I think sex work is important for keeping men from acts of rape. Really simplified in a way no psychiatrist could get away with some men enjoy the prospect of: hit me the way mummy/daddy used to. Sometimes it is kids/men who got away with doing heinous things and who needed a guilt trip in order to heal.

It’s kind of loosely discussed as a topic in this film – read the book (it’s a small book) BEFORE you watch the film. MAYBE TWICE OR THRICE.

Brian Warner – the performance artist responsible for the iconic persona of “Marilyn Manson” acted in this film, and later found out that it was a work of fiction. He confronted JT Leroy and said “how could you make this up?”

My mother was taught to sexualise a male figure that punished people for doing naughty things. She in turn emasculated my “father” because he could never be that to her face. So he did a lot of weird shit behind her back, behind all of our backs – and came running back to her home when that didn’t work anymore and we all stopped being affected.

He gave more to my sister than he ever gave to me – EVER – and knew that in doing so he’d create a hella weird and damaging dynamic. She, like him, is very devious and quiet when she feels envy and likes to ‘get revenge’ behind a person’s back, promising to keep secrets and then later sharing them for the wrong reasons, calling up a doctor to tell lies (and sounding quite insane, upon reflection – I assure you), flirting with my doctors etc – and I CANNOT blame her for doing it. She is STUPID. The only man she’s ever idolised had to be my equally STUPID father and the two of them LOVE to have a little flirt.

I want Miss Kittie to teach children how to enjoy being alone, some children truly need it and I’ve never seen it done properly.

P I N K

In, I think, about forty minutes I will fall asleep. My sleeping pattern is so so so kdljfsdfkgjsdfg. It’s fine – by the end of this weekend a load of things I’ve commissioned will become available to me. So exciting. To me. So… I live a lot in Dream Land (asleep or awake) … I’ve kind of walked around taking snaps of stuff. I really like documenting transitional phases, is fun

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I have almond oil in my hair. I put it on my legs too because my skin gets dry – it takes awhile to work but it does work and it’s inexpensive. I love a good “beauty” hack. If you want flowey locks you should invest in some kind of natural oil. When I was living with Lisa she told me that I should buy toiletries – creams etc – from shops run by black people (she is black, she can call black people black) and I actually bought this oil from a shop run by a brown person. (Using colour to collectively describe a culture is probably beneath 2018-internet, but I watched a Wendy Williams video where she described “white” people as “pink” and I wasn’t offended. Also I only look “white” / “pink”.) Shut up – this is boring dialogue – this rant is so I-need-to-sleep-I’m-typing-for-the-sake-of-typing-when-I-wake-up-I-will-cringe-wince.

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I got a cute duvet cover & pillow case. I’m waiting for a new sheet… This one has residue from some spray-painting stuff I’ve been doing. I don’t really have the best/safest work practices and I wiped a lot of pink spray paint out of my nose. But actually it’s kind of made me think that there should be super-light-tie-dye-ombre-faded-washes of bed clothing. V cinematic. To me.

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My room divider is nice. Everyone should have a room divider.
blog9stuff.pngI got a wig of a haircut I had a long time ago. Ugh it reminds me of this girl I was at uni with who literally only ever looked good when she and I were friends. I told her I saw a girl in topshop with short hair and a cute messy-grungey fringe and a top knot bun. She got a bob and I called it “the edwardian monk bob” on twitter when we weren’t talking. She was gossiping about me with people I wouldn’t of given the time of day, one time legit ran crying to our pervert landlord next-door-neighbour about mess our other housemates had left, particularly in the kitchen (around this time I actually wasn’t really eating very much – because I was catatonic because I couldn’t trust anyone – people thought I was paranoid because I was smoking weed – first of all, weed acts as a magnifying glass that enhances your intuition) and second of all – if you grow up around people you can’t trust, you attract people into your life that you also cant trust. It’s a cyclical behaviour and a truth of “human” behaviour that any counsellor will confirm with you. One day I’ll be awarded a complimentary PhD for my services to both psychology & psychiatry. Really.)

When I was super ill – and by ill, I mean freaking out about stuff like my boyfriend cheating on me with most (if not all?) of my friends, being robbed of stuff (five grands worth of Saffron. Pity the guy who created that karma..), being discussed by people – confronting the people who discussed me and being called names, severe anorexia, being so broke that I had no heating, being ditched by everyone that I actually really cared about… Reliving unfortunate childhood memories I had tried to forget over and over. Casually ignoring I’d had about three miscarriages (one time, a hobbit girl stood in the doorway of my kitchen talking with great passion about her super-ultra-deep feelings for about five hundred different guys, while I quietly started heating up/shaking and out of nowhere just started bleeding onto that Ikea Ofelia blanket I had on our red “sofa” and said quietly “oh I’ve just had a miscarriage” – to which she responded “oh” and then continued talking about these boys, while I ran to my room and put a pad on – and then dabbed at the blood with the kitchen sponge . She didn’t ask if I was okay or anything because obviously this chat was incredibly important. Anyway – people call me self absorbed and I thank every fucking star on the Planet (I’m leaving ‘Planet’ there because I typed that automatically, but the intended words were ‘in’ and ‘the Universe‘) that I am because if I wasn’t, I would not have survived. Anyway all of this happened, then later I realised I’m a medium – I channeled Jung and Freud at the same time. Ha.

Not insane or even actually mentally ill – just absorbent of other people’s emotions about both themselves and me, absorbent of their insanity (of which insecurity..) and mental illnesses, like depression. A weird sponge.

That girl also had a lot of things to say about my depression, that is a discussion for a more honest time. I give it about eight months. Actually she’s in my graphic novel. I did a lovely little drawing of her. She may well be the only person I’ve illustrated myself and the likeness is uncanny.

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If you look through the divider this is what you see. Fascinating right?

I bought this from Etude. Is nice. Everyone should have one.

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The upstairs hallway is being done up. I probably said before.

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These doors were installed years ago by one of my dads Arab friends? Contacts? Someone my dad knew. This door. When it comes to interiors my mother is .. uh. She pretends that she had nothing to do with this mess – it’s really, really funny.

A friend of my mother’s called Jessica, who we knew in Dubai (She used to escort distraught foreign women who had come over to the U.A.E to marry ((often abusive, actually)) Arab men – through airports – leaving behind their children.) used to joke that my family were the Simpsons.

I guess it’s true

I digress for a funfact – did you know that the internet started using ‘warm’ colours because of Godsgirls.com? A photographer called Matthew Cooke brought that in. The influence of Aesthetics is so so subtle. He, Lithium Picnic, Kelly Lind and Cherry from SuicideGirls were my favourite photographers – aside from Araki, Arnulf Rainer and also that David Lynch shoe-fetish collection of Louboutins. Y’know Instagram filters? They happened because of people like Lara Jade and even Felice Fawn (Who at 14 had a – dressed – self portrait stolen and used for a pornography. If I were her I’d have loved it)

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I get the concept of a “self hating” Jew. If anyone ever wonders – I don’t hate that I’m Arabic. If I did – I assure you I could offer you a huge list of reasons as to why it would be justified – but I actually quite like it. Apart from the like, body hair and stuff. Ive been conditioned to hate that. Like you’ve been conditioned to neg me for it.

Some Persian guy once pointed out something pretty cool about body hair – when someone is around you, the hair on your arms responds to it. He was a piece of shit though. But so was pretty much every guy I hung out with at University, even the white ones with the fanciest british accents. But y’know, men from every culture find some way of abusing women. Perhaps one day some brave woman will write a book about the abuses indigenous to various cultures. I heard Somalians are quite into female genital mutilation and beating women. British boys are into date-rape drugs and also beating women. Vikings are also into date-rape drugs. Indian guys like to harass women from cultures outside of their own, because within their own culture theres always some auntie that knows their mum. I’m more of an other-hating Jew really, I hate everyone

I’d probably really fit in in Israel actually

So uh, amongst the many thoughts/dreams/premonitions/etc that go through my skull when I’m staring – this is how I experience the entrance to my mother’s bathroom. My dad paid someone to do that. My mother let someone leave her house in that state. (The incompletely-painted floor happened years ago – when my mother started painting it… and then her leg snapped in two the day I had a pretty serious surgery.)

M A R I E A N T O I N E T T E P A S T E L S

For the last two days I’ve been …kind of really exploring the character of Hannibal Lecter & also – only a very brief moment ago – when I was composing this entry – I guess the phrase “appreciating the senses” popped into my head.

I studied film, and my mother came from a performing arts background. She was a ballerina. My sister also came from a performing arts background. And I spent a few reluctant years of my life doing all that stuff too. So it’s really a part of me to get lost in the details of any kind of composition, even the process an actor goes through to “build” a character.

I initially wrote of myself: ‘as a visual aesthete’, and then I thought ‘as an aesthete’ and then I went back to ‘as a visual aesthete’ – I’m the kind of person who will focus on details such as texture, light and colour (they affect my mood – yours too: I’m sure; but as I’m so connected to my feelings – my sense of sight is kind of an overwhelming experience for me. It’s not just about my feelings – it’s a language. A constant language.)

Today I’m grateful for the ability to see. I do struggle – I need to wear glasses. I’ve been toying with the idea of wearing contact lenses, but I’m quite acclimated to not-being-able-to-see-very-far & it means I can really enjoy details. It also means I don’t have to make eye contact with everyone I come across when I go out.
I think when you make the most of your senses, they do develop.

Here’s a video I made yesterday. I can’t quite draw like Hannibal Lecter but life without ambition would be a little boring, wouldn’t it

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BOOM FOR REAL. As I posted this on Instagram, there was an eruption of fireworks and a car alarm went off.

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All hail the scribble God who inspired Scribble Scribble Zine.

Click Here for Event Info

If you’re local to London between now and 28th of Jan, go. Then go again.
If you’re not local to London hop on a boat and float over, or something.


Edited on 10th December to add:

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If Basquiat had a twitter I would say in response – the facts might exist without you but you give them life.

M A U V E

When I went to Fashion School, I learned that fashion is transient – where style endures. So in a sense; I prefer not to be fashionable at all. Perhaps thats why I dropped out.

That said, I have to confess: I’ve finally fallen victim to the Slider trend.
I’d like to introduce you to my very first pair. EVER.

I find them both subtle and garish, obnoxious yet understated. SO ME. I love them!

My intention was to exclusively wear them at home but I fell for them so, that they’ve had a few adventures about London with me this week. Most notably I swapped them for a pair of six inch heels at Swan Lake, when, during an interval I had a cigarette break that lasted a little-too-long and I had to rush back to my seat. Imagine me running through the lavish hallways of the Royal Opera House donning these silly things. A steward sweetly told me he had a pair of his own at home, in black of course. We both laughed. After the ballet, I reluctantly changed back into my heels for dinner.

While I’ve always been a slipper person, (I spent the first six months of Film school – which I did not drop out of – almost exclusively wearing a suuuuuper cheap pair of black sheepskin slip-ons everywhere throughout my campus) (I’m sure if I were to expend some effort I could recall various moments-of-significance in my life by mentally drawing up a slipper-timeline of sorts, and perhaps, I will do that some time) I have to admit that I’m a slider-convert. I don’t say this lightly: I’ve spent my life abhorring and resenting these shoes vehemently.

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Now I’ve decided I’d like to start collecting them.

SHOP THE LOOK | DENIM X PAIGE | FRILLY SOCKS X TOPSHOP | VELVET KNOT SLIDERS X TOPSHOP