Disgusting midsummer jankiness. Don't know if that happens in the northern hemisphere, but down here summer drags on so fucking long that the midpoint is like the central pole in a stinky tent full of stale beer smells and dull light and dead grass and melting road tar and, inevitably, unsightly sunburnt people squeezed into the sort of short shorts and sleeveless tops they have no earthly fucking business with. It really doesn't have to be this way. Due to a moderate bingo-flap situation I never, in a rare concession to public decency, under any circumstances leave the house without adequate sleevage so the acres of underarm fat currently bulging and girning at one are especially egregious as I gently sweat into my bra and search for something else to visually alight upon. Cue some pants-dodger with neglected and/or prolapsed varicose veins.
Also: can skinny picayune* hipsters please attend a few leg days before you roll that shit up, and calm the fuck down with the obsessively over-curated tattoo sleeves? A thousand Tumblr-cribbing hours won't improve your chances of looking like someone carelessly arrayed in the charmingly artisanal mementos of their chaotic personal creativity. At all. I see you, bitch. (* I learned this word a month ago and am honoured to début it in this context.)
| It's not that I hate hipsters per se. A really top-shelf OG autochthon hipster in full kit is a comprehensively beautiful thing, anyone trying to confute that is just declaring their jelly and that's utterly devoid of sarcasm on my part. Successful (note important caveat) hipsters aesthetically trounce the dowdy civilians who revile them on those very grounds. Acceptance is the noblest course of action. The only real thing I dislike about them are their haughty sui generis affectations. Denying you're part of a subculture from inside the roiling bowels of that particular subculture is just silly. |  |
 | Which is probably easy for me to say. I'm retired from being thrown out of bars for getting into fights with mooby school-leavers with undershot jaws who've called me a goth to impress the people they've been sent to buy beer for. Yummy mummy cunts can visibly revile my impact on little Chester and Penelope's unformed sensibilities from behind their lattés and I probably won't flip their table and put them in a headlock. Personal growth has delivered me from petty reactivity and one day junior aspirants will come to understand that being called a ---- is just the sound that homely sausage makes when it's cased in polyester. |
| Okay, so there is a fair level of foundational bad character in play here but boredom is largely to blame and heat always makes me unpleasant. We've had a week of warm, sloppy drizzle with the prospect of it dragging on til Friday. The lilies are rotting on their stems. Souvenir de la Malmaison looks like someone glued globs of used toilet paper to a fucking rose bush and the idea of being trapped inside with nothing else to do really shits all over writing for pleasure, which should always have an edge of the illicit to it, i.e. I really should be chopping firewood / reciprocating orally / showering right now. * * * Jacqueline. Think this is my preferred FF song (after Michael) and not just because that's why we only work when we need the money is biographical. |  |
Naming songs after people is one of my favourite things ever and if I ever do an album, every track will get a random anthropomorphic title regardless of content.
Chester won't even be about people with weak moustaches, nascent porn addictions and IBS.
Chester won't even be about people with weak moustaches, nascent porn addictions and IBS.
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