(The original book cover can be found here, this is the cover I have and I like it.)

Edited to add later: You can tell this book was written by a person that really considers the construction of sentences – almost every page has a beautifully written sentence that you could remove from it’s context and put in one of those foil LIVE LAUGH LOVE prints. I’ve just highlighted some favourites:

“The Green crevasse of Devil’s Duke was a favourite place for picnics and could be easily reached by train; bandstands belted out favourite melodies in the sunshine by the beach and there were large numbers of public houses, pimps, pickpockets and prostitutes of both sexes.”
p.5 #architecture #alliteration-that-doesn’t-piss-me-off

“the married woman did not exist as an individual”
p.16 #legalhistoryofbritain #subtlerage #butnottoomuch

“the distant feminine ferment”
p.18 #again,alliteration #condensedwomanistrage #sentences-condensed-specifically-to-avoid-masked-male-ADHD-or-nagging-or-male-confusion

 I mean. They’re just arty sentences aren’t they, worthy of highlighting. Brown takes heavy subject matter and articulates it in a way that is not imposing (there is a lot of subtle anger towards the patriarchy but she glosses over it so men can read it without hating themselves too much) 

and actually enjoys literature as an art form. It is a really entertaining read for anyone who is interested in British history (so far, a lot about the Victorians), British architecture and also who needs help writing a decent feminist essay because the sentences are that fucking perfect

When I first arrived to Brighton I was appalled at the rudeness of the locals who would say things like “the hospitals da’an the road”, as if to say “I know what happened to you and I’m so misinformed I think I have the right to say things like that” (a silent “thanks for toilet training me, I’m already taking you for granted.” entirely avoided because that rudeness inspired insult and shock, it was intended to and it did.)

I’m reading a book about Women’s Hospitals in Brighton and Hove, by resident Val Brown (I’d imagine that to write such a controversial book you’d assume/adopt a moniker, and that there would have been great lengths taken to prevent it’s publication) and it’s written so far – at six pages and an appendix in, like a beautiful novel. I have never enjoyed someone describing architecture like this, nor has a writer ever written the nature of a town that actually compelled me to google map the address.

I can tell that the author is a humble person, and that she sees potential in the architecture of her town that honours it’s original designers. You’d perhaps be inclined to think that she does the architecture of her town a lot of poetic justice but it is so wonderful to consider a person who has a town that she can call home and regard it with so much love. A likeable person did not author this book, I can tell that much in the few pages that I have read. (But she’s probably a white, British person for a few generations so my most determined of anonymous stalkers can give her a chance too, maybe they will learn something.)

I’ve learned a word I will now employ the use of if I get into a mood


to describe a block of flats. It is also a fancy word. I mean it works both ways. I can use it angrily or I can use it non-angrily and it remains effortlessly elegant, like the author’s writing style.

Apparently though: Brighton was a liberal town, with numerous red light districts that spanned across the wealthier and poorer districts therewith and it was proudly liberal until the latter end of the 1800s when conservatives (both male parties and female, I would never have thought so) were invited to positions of local council.

You’d think conservatives would hate me but actually my family did a lot for your country’s faux royal family and a lot of them, conservative. I’m not. My politics are pretty liberal (because I believe that cannabis should be legalised, if only because most people that smoke cannabis are in very serious pain of some kind – and sometimes you realise you are in physical pain by first acknowledging that you are in psychic or emotional pain. Cannabis is a ritualistic drug that probably could also work wonders for counsellors and psychiatrists who will have to evolve the nature of their profession to an EXCHANGE of trust and information rather than monologues that can endanger their patients, and note taking that can be influenced by feelings of envy and jealousy unacknowledged by the doctors and nurses making them.) but my personality is conservative and so any attempt at being a balanced person really does not make me ‘centered’ either.

Apparently a lot of the hospitals in this town were founded by women, who banded together so that there could be affordable dispensaries that offered locals affordable healthcare. One of those buildings is apparently owned by a solicitor’s now. But Brown’s description of the building was what compelled me to look, actually. She sees the magic in Brighton that I’ve sort of stopped seeing, because the locals are rude. (I lose track of which blonde someone might be defending but it is always, always poorly motivated and always insultingly stupid. And often the people who ‘defend’ the blonde, end up making her situation much worse because if I don’t like someone – it is never without a very good reason. And rarely without my having tried to like them first.)

There’s this bit at the back of the book “the struggle for women to forge a place in public life” and that, is actually what compelled me to buy the book. The concluding sentence. Being ganged up on, from country to country to four street town to town – by people who wanted to be popular – to the point that they could perpetuate some pretence that they did not know I was being raped in that hospital, that I was being given drugs that I should never have been given, tells me that society is not yet responsible enough to remove individuals from their own autonomy.

My spiritual teacher Lisa once told me “if you kill yourself, your next life will be three times worse”, and that was the only thing that saved me from moments of suicidal rage. I know that anyone who has ever accessed that memory will share the belief: that there was no lie in her saying so, and the acceptance thereafter that the idea my life could’ve been relived – and – fuck, three times worse? I spent time with PTSD, I’ve even been told I had ‘psychosis’ (I didn’t, I should’ve been left to the care of a spiritual teacher – and I wasn’t. And I think it was on purpose.) – and the reality of that truth with the sincerity on her face when she said so was more sobering than any ‘reality check’ soliloquy of my entire life. If someone has seen that memory, if they then kill themselves – they were mind controlled to do so.

Hosting briefly, that baby bird, that was determined to throw herself into my window just to attempt to jump off my balcony and learn to fucking-fly-already (she’s a brilliant flier and she does pass by my balcony at perfectly timed intervals – she’s alive and well) but I spoke with my angels, and they insisted that if my concern was that she wanted to kill herself, I ought to let her do so.

What really compelled you to get this book? I was being a dick. Because where I have proven I was only telling the truth, where I have proven that every blonde your British/Danish/EVEN ARABS DID IT society has foolishly defended (as if a single one of you, could do a better job defending that blonde than I could have) that was later found to be outrightly abusing me without fear of consequence, I know that it is not me that should be wasting tax payers monies in those hospitals.

And the findings of what goes on in those hospitals when the doctors and nurses convince themselves ‘you’re the only one that knows what you’re doing’, will affect the lives of thousands of people. How many other women, like me, are in those hospitals because their female ‘friends’ and ‘relatives’ were jealous and the men that they were manipulating used their male-insecurities to support the decision were defending a blonde – to be …popular…?

It is a good book though and it is not boring. I’m a good book judge.

Also I learned to consider that people might be jealous or envious through watching British period movies. My favourite novels have always been British period novels. Ironic, no? Theres this scene where Joseph Fiennes as Lord Robert says to Elizabeth that the women and men that surrounded her were ‘jealous and envious’ and that film was directed by an Indian guy and I really don’t blame my bird-friend for deciding that her first human form will probably be Indian.



actually this is how i flirt



(don’t take it personally)


1 dont flatter yourself
2 unless you go full-cloud i am the hotter one


I will think of this picture when I am talking to you if you don’t

also i prefer me to tifa


[all images were courtesy of google and the cloud strudel ones ref]

  1. flirting with weebs
  2. flirting with weebs that can assess personality files using very little dialogue
  3. inviting 2D Spirits to Visit to Sci-fi priestess medium clairvoyant sorts that are more taken by the idea of being both sexes which is what angels do/are
  4. chatting with the 2D spirits through the clairvoyant for anime ideas and then sending them right back because we are not ready for you here and if you’re stolen by someone that wears jeans you’ll meet me eventually and probably want to take it out on meexpanding-brain

“this is your type isnt it”

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“both, yes”

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“well no one that sexy could happen unless you had them and you’d be the only person they could get on with.”

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“I know

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“this is what would happen if someone stole you and tried to recreate you without your rich life experiences and everything that made you who you are”

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“I can do that look, put me in there”

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i am, alone, a multifaceted being
your personalities are wasted on you
freedom of choice is wasted on you
is every single thing that comes out of your mouth not a waste of dialogue

you can put any spirit in me but my personality will overpower them

strength is an illusion in physical realms


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

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


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


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


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


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




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

a tweet worthy of note

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more often than not its your abusers that tell you youre attention seeking

sometimes its really gifted empaths and psychics that have to prove themselves because theyre being abused by that many people


For the second time within some months I am listening to this interview with Professor Germaine Greer. Whoever the hell you are when you cry into your pillow at night needs to listen to this.

The details I am forced to have to piece together, that I was filtered through a psychiatric ward – a research University no less – that were reluctant to give me the address of the location that I was at unless I was receiving post – that I was put into a ‘half way house’ because my abusive mother insisted ‘she couldn’t look after me anymore’ (she had not looked after me – at all, throughout my life. She had not had conversations with me throughout my life that were not either theological debates, abusive and explosive inane arguments or her asking my friends weird questions about their lives that she never bothered asking me. Probably didn’t NEED to ask.

Our relationship was documented by both private and NHS counsellors. And I was very protective of her in those sessions, even if she had been emotionally and verbally abusive days before an appointment.) (I have uploaded little pictures of old diaries and I think it’s quite clear I was far more prepared to insult myself than I was to insult ANYONE else.)

Wait lemme get some (I’m sorry it isn’t annotated with calligraphy, you have a choice between writing carefully and writing fast) (I know that harry is desperate to pretend his girlfriend is a talented calligrapher but if she really was, she wouldn’t of NEEDED to act.)

Prince??? Harry (I promise you that when she comes back she will be disowning him and proving that he was a product of a rape.)

knew that I was doing calligraphy at the psychiatric ward, I decided to teach myself how to use my left hand. Thats when he started dating a ‘calligrapher’. (He is into young kids.)

53893308_815549292156026_6683233815705419776_nshe wasn’t wrong, of course


the lols


❤ M A M A ❤



I was then put in a relationship with a gentleman through Tinder that himself was a student psychiatric nurse. There is no way he would have been on my tinder ‘catchment area’, based on where he travelled daily and where he lived with his family. There is no way either of us could pretend there was any coincidence surrounding any of that.

He was selected for a relationship with me.

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The first time we were going to have sex, we discussed it. Before we had sex we visited a clinic, I agreed to be checked, blood tested, swabbed because I am allergic to latex and I don’t have sexual intercourse without condoms. I was also administered birth control, upon entry in that ward with people who viewed my memories and pretended otherwise.

If you pretend otherwise you might be allowed to believe you get away with the choice, but you are then being filtered into a game of your own in lying when you are under the oath that medical professionals are expected to take prior to dealing with any kind of patient.

This guy verbalised that he knew that women ‘claimed’ that they had been raped in relationships: where the rapist involved was set up by the rape victim. He consistently expressed sentiments that were terrifying, he was quite proudly a sexist (I think he was following a very strange script for sexists and that he thought himself a sexual fantasy but I also think he really meant a lot of the strange things that came out of his psychotic mouth.)

He was quite concerned that I might in turn call him a rapist where he had not been, if I had some psychosis or something. I empathised with the idea that a person could be ACCUSED of something that they hadn’t done and I did not want anyone that I perceived as being so benevolent having any kind of fear in my company. I did not want him to feel unsafe and I respected his personal liberties.

So I wrote in my phone, using the notes, a contract of sorts simply stating that sex between he and myself was consensual. I took a picture of that and sent it to him. I did not feel the need clarify in this contract that sex in my sleep was not consensual because I don’t know why anyone would want to have sex with a person that was asleep.

I was put in a very frightening halfway house with very strange women running it. I knew that the other residents were able to watch me showering because they could repeat verbally my use of toiletries. It was frightening, frankly. In the first room I had been given I could hear what sounded like recording software and whether it was or it wasn’t, it wasn’t something I felt safe to verbalise because I knew I’d of sounded ‘crazy’. I kept my mouth shut as I went from frightening experience to frightening experience and eventually I performed not feeling genuine fear so well that my family agreed to help me financially to move out. My mother recently said something like “you kept telling me how much you love me and want to be with me and fix our relationship” – I was running for my life, people who are running for their lives often have to pick the least terrible abuser. I knew something was going on that did not make sense.

In that halfway house I would wake up afraid for my life. I had akithisia at this point – which meant that I was shaking uncontrollably and that I was experiencing physiological side effects that I later realised that doctors were PRETENDING they didn’t know I was experiencing. I believe that my psychiatrist attempted to create false trust between he and myself by making me believe that he was listening to me when I complained about what I was experiencing but now I think he was quite happy for me to experience what a psychiatrist later described in a medical journal, according to google so who knows – as synonymous with serious torture.

Moving out, meant that my benefits were cut. I reported that changes to my financial and residential situation to the appropriate entities and I lost the benefits that I really needed.

So I was being financially controlled once again; by my abusive relatives.

I had a six month relationship with that guy that met the period of our tenancy and we both knew it was out of convenience – his University was local to the property, my “mother’s” home was local to the property that we moved to and that seemed to make that collective of abusers feel very safe.

When I first moved in, I woke up one morning quite certain that I had been raped the night before. I think I was given water that night by the guy I was in a relationship with, my memory will be difficult to recall properly for all sorts of reasons and thats why I feel to keep details to a minimum. I made posts on a 4chan forum that I was afraid that I was being raped and the users in that forum defended my abuser by saying that ‘sleep-sex’ is ‘normal’.

I’ll be crude, but if you get an erection – return to reading this at a later date because the male sexuality involves a thinking-off switch that makes you all quite stupid.
I don’t have any issue with half-conscious/drugged/drunken sex. If I am in a relationship with a person, I am very prepared to have all sorts of sexual experiences, in states of semi-half-consciousness. I am happy to be woken up from sleep or a nap with sex if I don’t have an appointment the following day. If you feel confident enough to ask, I am not going to say no. It might be hilarious or awkward but there’s little that a person can ask of me that I won’t consent to if there is assurance of safety and trust. The idea of my agreeing to annotate that ‘contract of consent’ between he and I was so that he would feel safe in the event that – and at the time I preferred the idea of it – that I could’ve been mentally unfit to consent to sex, at least I knew his bases were covered if I ‘lost my mind’ again. I had done no such thing at any point, apart from when I realised that my family were technically royalty. And wouldn’t you have if you had lived my shitty fucking life.

That assurance of ‘safety’ that I afforded him is not and was not what I experienced in this relationship nor from having the decency to exchange permissions in that way.

I woke up often feeling that ‘something’ had happened to me in my sleep, and I felt tremendous fear about it. And I did not feel safe to verbalise it to the guy I was seeing because I foolishly believed I could catch him doing it. I woke up with a dilated sometimes sore vagina and throat that indicated to me that there had been some kind of penetration. I know that I’ve had masturbatory sessions and experiences where my vagina had dilated without being penetrated – I know it is possible – but I don’t believe thats what happened on these occasions.

I now know that he could HEAR ME thinking that he had done this stuff and that he IGNORED IT and CONTINUED TO DO IT ANYWAY. EVERYONE CAN HEAR ME, RETARD. EVERYONE.

I do not want a person I’ve been with to penetrate me in my sleep – unless they’re trying to wake me up. And it’s clearly a relationship in which there are honest, sober discussions about our sexuality and our bodies. There are people I’d have consented to having sleep-sex with and if I have I don’t take back the consent, even if there was psychological damage that accompanied some kind of decision to agree to sleep-sex I wouldn’t pretend I hadn’t offered consent first. I have no cause nor reason to lie, I am quite prepared to be specific. I find that the conversation or attempt at a report would be more embarrassing and uncomfortable for the police than it would be for me.

The police know that I am reluctant to communicate with them because they were responsible for sexual harassment that they would not get away with if they had inflicted it upon a female colleague. Because I am above walking into their police station, knowing that it is a performance, that they do not STALK ME and that they have not hacked my computer. That they are not entirely aware of what I do every minute of every day. That is illegal by the way and you will be caught for doing it. And like you – I promise – you won’t know whats happening to you nor who you are putting in jeopardy until it is too late to back out from your mistakes and your dishonesty and the level of deception you were prepared to engage in thinking that you would not be caught. Of course you have been caught but you are all so entranced by the experience that I am that you don’t really realise how stupid you are and continue to be.

There are worse things than rape and worse things than prison – psychiatric wards are worse than both. Promise.

No one has ever spoken to me about their extreme sexual fantasies, I think I had a few really scary/weird/ultimately apparently harmless visions in my minds eye (with my eyes very much closed, as they are when I have sex ;)) after a very, very heavy vomiting session at a terrible party I wanted to escape from onto a bed (I do this at every party – I will always end up lying on or sitting on a bed or I will leave) but in reality my sexuality is the enjoyment of half consciousness with a person I trust and feel safe around because I experience orgasms. Lets take it further – I was not cuddled much nor touched by ANY of my family. I was hugged after arguments where I had apologised often without having any kind of reason to apologise. I am so physically sensitive to touch when I am awake/half awake that it is A LOT OF FUN for me to not do anything.

My idea of a good time is having my hair played with for hours and having my forearms stroked. That is not vanilla, although I love the idea of that being my niche (it really isn’t.) that is because I avoid physical ‘skin to skin’ contact with people, mostly.

People who experience orgasms don’t do ‘very much’ in bed because WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU. I am really, really sensitive to being touched. I am so sensitive that sometimes – not always – I can feel the little hairs on my fingers and my hands rise when I sense that I’m in company or when I’m physically close to a person. It runs in the family I imagine.

To the best of what my memory can afford – I think “can i have sex with you while you’re fully asleep?” is at best a deeply embarrassing conversation to have with someone that doesn’t say no to most sexual suggestions from people they are sexually attracted to.

Why the hell would I want you or anyone to have sexual intercourse with me, though, that I didn’t benefit from? I am REALLY selfish in bed but I’m also the kind of person who would say “if I orgasm before you and I get sore, can you wait a bit” or “you can ejaculate into my mouth/onto my chest and I’ll ENJOY WATCHING because I LIKE HANDS.”

There is no acceptable excuse for what he was up to, nor what was really going on.

I am an educated person although nowhere near adequately so. It is not faux humility: if I was happy with the extent of what I currently know I’d resent myself.

The only reason I personally benefitted from any kind of education was just so that when people tried to talk to me, I’d have something to say back. At least an intelligent question or a mere attempt at one if it threatens you to believe that I might be intelligent at all.


It frightens me that there are women who don’t actually appreciate that the fact that we don’t have to measure our personal worth through our cooking (mine is better.) or how clean and tidy we are. Do you know that women DIED so you could be free?

Tituba explaining freedom

Ironically, when I worked for footballers wives
they paid me in 'pretty dresses' 

(my response was not reflective
of my gratitude because i was taught to be grateful for everything
but the dresses were so pretty i gave a lot of them to
charity mostly)

and a taxi ride home
and i accepted that because i pitied their poor taste that much

These desserts I made looked good, but they didn’t taste as good as they looked. I’d have to make a million more before they started to taste good. But they look good and that’s important because it means I can focus on what really matters, which is the taste. Whenever I next feel like baking – and hopefully that won’t be any time soon.


I’m going to liken myself to these desserts. A work in progress. Do you have any idea how many dreams I had, and didn’t have the chance to live?

I really like how I look, for the first time in my entire life. But it doesn’t really mean anything because beauty is transient. That means it is not forever. Unless I choose to continue to evolve, continue to pursue some shallow ideal for what beauty should and could and will be – I’ll be boring again soon enough and then I’ll adapt and ideally I’ll be beautiful again for a little while.

I’ve felt hideous and I’ve felt flawless and I’ve been aware that neither were really true because beauty is a spectrum and it is ever-changing as are all our perceptions.

But before I ever really tried to be beautiful I tried to be a unique and vibrant person that had developed a kind of intelligence that was entirely my own and that’s sort of how I regard my real personality. You can copy what you understand of my personality and your understanding will create of me a vision that is entirely your own and if you knew the real me, you’d probably love me as much as I love myself.

If I did not love myself, the abuse that I was put through by people I tried and tried and tried to love unconditionally, forgive with laughter and every imaginable coping mechanism aside of intravenous drugs (which I personally, until now, would not do) would have killed me.

There is no greater happiness nor capacity for love than that which I have found within myself and that is why I can be treated as I was and as I am (you think abuse stops when you leave home? Don’t be ridiculous.) and still laugh, still smile very genuinely, still occasionally greet shop keepers with a “hello” and a “thankyou, good bye” upon my exit (always with sincerity, even my rage at rudeness from misinformation is sincere.)

Stop avoiding the fact that you are addicts, stop avoiding the fact that your attachment to me and your attachment to the notion of addiction is anything other than your collective crippling loneliness, your guilt, your collective inability to remove yourself from cycles that had nothing to do with me but that I must have made you aware of.

I blame your parents for what has become of each of you.

When I see women that I think would have made better parents than the parents that raised all of the people that consciously chose to abuse me and then age to realise that they were kept without children because your parents stole you – and you have never confronted them to say so – then you are a lost cause and if I CONSENTED to giving you children I could not look your children in the eye later when I was the face of Sanrio

I know your kids wish I was their parent and I know if you don’t have kids they’ll wish I was and that makes me feel guilty and that’s just some new form of self abuse. I don’t owe you anything except for the truth because I was indoctrinated by a woman who had the good fortune to CHOOSE to be indoctrinated and I had no such choice.

Lucifer, my angel, appears atleast once every few pages in my mother’s bible and in any copy of any bible you see anywhere and don’t you ever allow yourselves to be removed from the fact that Lucifer was God’s favourite angel. You should know that, especially if you are British.

I’ve had people I thought of as friends and FAMILY use my own eyes to observe my genitals and touch my genitals and use my genitals and then tell me crudely about what gender they had decided to assign to me. I’ve had people who had the audacity to question what I could want for a child that looks EXACTLY FUCKING LIKE ME AND CLEARLY CAME FROM MY FUCKING BODY. I’ve been called a paki, a paki boy, a robot, a dog, a prostitute, a slave, a paki robot dog prositute, hairy and soooo many things besides. By people that I fed and later learned I had shared every boyfriend I’d ever had with them too.

You don’t know what an achievement it is for me, to love myself do you. (No.)
I’m sorry if my self importance and arrogance has any affect on you other than to encourage you to enjoy that you have a body right now.

Well that sucks for you cos’ thats the kind of intelligence you need if you want to be an actor.