Writeoff.

I'm looking for an online writer's group at the mo. I need people I can spark off. My board is great for that, and to a lesser extent my Lj, but I need more-- more, dammit! MORE! I'm looking for people who write at the darker, slightly nastier end of things. Obviously.

The seach is not going well. My list of people who must suffer and die when I get my powers back just grew by a bout three feet of names. I mean, for the love of God, does everyone who's not a complete muttonhead stop writing when they hit twelve or something? Why is everything out there so unbelivably fucking crap?

If it was even different kinds of crap, that would help. But I swear, this stuff all looks the same after awhile.

"Hello my name is Marie but my real name is Gerladrial I am a elf because I went to see LOTR and I realised I was Gerladrial in my past life and I said to my friend OMFG I just remembered I'm Gerladrial from a past life and she was like OMFG!!! I am Gerladrial TOO!!! so were both best friends forever now because of both being Gerladrial in a past life and we love Gerladrial and we want to meet her one day. Also I am a Vampyre I realised I'm a vampiree after I watched Queen of the Damned. NEway here is my poem it is about my boyfreind or rather my EX boyfriend I hate him.

Ashen tears like blood
Flow down my face.
They flow like blood
Also like rain
But mostly blood really.

You put those tears there,
like cutting me so there is BLOOD
When you walked into the
Fourth-form common room
With HER.

I am going to kill myself now.
With knives.
Yes.
There will be blood
Like my tears

By Marie aka Gerladriel"

From a 14-year-old, this sort of thing would almost forgivable. But sometimes the author turns out to be a 44-year-old mother of three, whereupon that last tiny fragment of hope for humanity crumbles within your breast and you howl to the uncaring skies: "Evil, be thou now my good!"

So, if you want to clue me in on a writer's community that I won't want to kill after five minutes, that would be groovy.

Okay! Okay! I give up!

I finally yeilded to the nagging of my unidentified and quite possibly imaginary guide/angel/entity-type-people and gave them their own blog.

It is green. It is called Liber Viridis.

I thought that would shut them up, but nooo. I have to link to that blog from this one.

If I've buggered up the Latin, let me know. It was supposed to mean "the green book."

Do you spooky perverts know how embarrassing this is? I mean, no-one else belives in you, guys. I'm not sure I belive in you, and I talk to you.

Tired and brutishly pissed-off.

Even that hamster isn't doing it for me anymore. I feel like hurting something.

This isn't related to anything happening in the real world, you understand. It's purely my own misfiring brain chemistry that's making me want to tear around the room screaming. I fucking hate being at the mercy of my glands like this. My glands hate me. They hate you, too. My glands want all of us to suffer.

I was sort of run down today; possibly a reaction to my mammoth healing sesh on Sunday. Sounds peverse, but sometimes giving/receving healing actually sends your body off into disease symptoms for a while as it processes all the crap it needs to throw off. Cold symptoms are the commonest, but some people get fevers and stuff. It can't hurt you, it's just uncomfortable for a while.

Or maybe I'm just some sad deluded fuckwit with a headcold. Who knows.

Anyway. Angry fits. Usually I get them the week before the painters come round. I've got at least another five to seven days of this to get through, followed by a week of mopeyness and cramps. Oh, joy unconfined. Black Cohosh usually puts me to rights but I've run out and I can't find anywhere round here that sells it.

It's not been that bad this year because I've been channeling the random, unfocused rage into my writing. But at the mo I'm all writer's blocky, and that's making me bitter and frustrated.

Everything seems so damn limited right now. I know I should be moving on to the next stage of my life, the next stage of my thinking, but I'm stuck here in this space. Every time I go looking for guidance, for inspiration, for one tiny fucking glimmer of what it is I need I have to wade through all this tedious old crap, crap that people keep trying to convince me is some stunning new idea.

Well, the hell with that. I'm not listening to you anymore. I'm listening to my real imaginary friends.

You hear that sound? That sound is the wheels of the Chariot, rolling into my life. I aim to be the dude sat up top with the big fuckoff cup. You will not pull me down because I have been under those big red wheels wayyy to many times in my life already.

I may have to go and blow something up soon.

Spam.

Okay, so just now I got a Nigerian spam email that addressed me as "Daddy". I am more weirded out than I can comfortably accomodate.

Random stuff I need to get sorted.

Well, they warned me that getting hooked up with Reiki would stir shit up in my head. And lo, shit is stirred up. Has to do with... well, stuff.

It has to do with fear, mostly. Fear of being strong. (If I develop my abilities, I might hurt someone). Fear of being used. (If I develop my abilities, other people will bully me into putting those abilities at their disposal). Fear of being hurt. (I've never been able to induce an OOBE since this one time where I left my body under fairly hellacious circs.) Fear of losing touch with reality. (Will end up in looney bin, or just bloody nuciance in dangly earrings).

All these fears are rational to the extent that they are all rooted in experience. But they are irrational in the way that they persist, in the way that I allow them to limit me.

Stupid fears.

Twinkle, twinkle...

Betcha all wondering about the pretty blue star, hmmm? No? Sod ya then.

It's a heptagram, representing the seven days of the week. It has other interpretations, of course, but that's the one I had in mind. Then you've got 24 7 at the top, which is the hours of the day and the days of the week. The 29/11 bit is some numerolgical stuff that this numerologist told me once: it's obtained by adding the numerals of my birthdate together in a certain way. It represents my lifepath (supposedly that's a shit-hot number to have for your lifepath but I suck at numerology so hell if I know).

So anyway, the total significance of the doodle is that I'm now going to try and stick to my lifepath 24-7. No more detours, no sidetracks, no more... hey, look, a bunny!

Hmmm.

Big things are afoot. Had a bit of an odd day. Had to leave the healing marathon a little early, having Reikified and Sekhimed two satified punters.

One of said punters being a channeler. I'm hoping she might work with me at some point, maybe in exchange for more zappage (?) Don't know what the form is for this sort of thing. New territory... Anyway. Channeler. 'K, so she confirmed a lot of the psychic sensations I've been having recently. She reckons that and I have this two guides (check!) one who stands behind me while I'm healing (check!) and one who flies/hovers up on the ceiling while I work (check!) She remarked on the power of the priniciple guide, which is, y'know, cool. She also said that I'm a teacher, I just didn't know it because I was all self-doubty.

Interesting.

Grab a helping of Leftover Parfait.

Right. You know that Lj I started up so I could stalk more people? I've been chucking bits of fiction, poetry, and general ramblings there so it didn't look quite so empty. It's now chocka with writey goodness, so you can all bugger off there and have a look at it. I'll be updating it fairly regularly so don't forget to check back.

Can't be bothered with this thing at the mo. Maybe in a day or two. Meanwhile, here's a guy who fed bits of himself to his Venus flytrap.

Nothing to see here. Move along.

My head hurts. My back hurts more. I appear to be having yet another identity crisis.

Taking stock, looking back over the years: Never had a proper job, everything always casual temporaryminimumwagebollocks. I try to go to Uni, and they pull the rug out from under my feet, they dick me around with this unprofessionl crap and I let them. I move here, hoping for a fresh start-- I can't even get a job mopping fucking floors. I try to build something, it falls down. Every time. Ever feel like the universe is sending you a message? What if the message is "Screw you, loser"? What do you do then?

Where do you go?

When you know you should say something, but you're not sure what to say, because anything you do say is just going to set everyone off again... there should be a word for that.

Screw all this.

Why do I even try to communicate with the world? Sometimes, seriously, I think I had the right idea at 17: Stay in your room, close the door, don't talk to anyone unless you absolutely have to.

I feel like someone's ripped out my guts, made balloon animals out of them, and stuck them back inside along with a canteen of plastic cutlery. I can hear the while mess rattle when I move.

Why did I think I could do this?

I mean, when does anything I touch not turn to shite?

Email!

Okay, that's a start. Still some major damage control to do, but oh, boy, what a relief.

Arrgh.

No, really, arrgh. Seriously, really badly arrrrrrrgggggh.

I don't wanna go into too many details, but I don't think it's a breach of confidence to mention that I'm in the middle of a major-- what? Not really a fight, more of a communications breakdown-- with a very dear friend.

Therre's nothing like the fear that someone's never going to speak to you again to make you really, really appreciate them. You think about everything they've done for you, everything they are.

Like I say, Argggh.

Yay!

The other day I found an old computer disc in amongst my stuff. Turned out to be chocka with stories that I wrote way back in '99. I thought I'd have a hard time getting into the files, because I wrote them on another wordprocessing package. But StarOffice can handle them just fine. I'm well chuffed. They're not good enough to sell, not without some comprehensive re-writing, but I may put some of them up on my board or my Lj or whatever. I'd forgotten all about some of them. I'll probably bung a couple of them up tonight.

It's odd, reading them after all this time. It feels like a different person wrote those words.

Unicorns.

Real Unicorns do not have any of the following:

Wings.
Rainbow fairy butterfly wings.
Rainbow anything else.
My Little Pony tails. (Unicorns have lion's tails, stupid.)


Also, you may not ride them. No, not even if you're a virgin. It's just not on.

Brains4zombies.com

Brains, Other Brains, and Celebrity Brains.

(Via Pagga.com)

Awwwright! No seziure!

Must've been a petit mal or something. That was okay. I could handle more of those. Shame I had to turn in and sleep through it, but it was about 3am my time and I was cream crackered.

Today I woke up feeling out of sorts tho'. I'm consumed with a desire suddenly to make something happen in my life. I don't know what I want it to be but I feel like my mind and my whole body are turning into tapioca. Think I'll start having my midlife crisis now, while I'm still young enough to enjoy it.

Okay you entities. If you're going to send fits, I want a sweetner. I want Signs and Wonders. Really big impressive ones. I want to see ghosts or aliens or, I dunno, something.

I'm going to regret asking for this, aren't I?

Uuuummmm.

Think I might be going to have another fit. I haven't had one since Cork, maybe as much as 8, 9 months ago(?) I shall be really fed up if I have one.

Been feeling a bit odd today, sort of slow and ditzy. Maybe just lie down. Finished that stupid story, thanx be to grud.

Yep, evrythings gone all colours again. rats.

Resignation.

Try as I might, nothing I dream up will ever be as messed-up as reality. Trust me on this.

The writing is going well.

The writing is going very very well. I did the bits that I posted over on my board, oooobviously, but that's just the tip of the iceberg. I was a bit leery about chucking those pieces out on my board, because it renders them unsaleable to a lot of webzines (most places want exclusive rights).

But now it feels like that was the right thing to do-- like a sacrifice to the gods of writeyness. Two or three people seem to have enjoyed them, and that's two or three more than if the pieces had just stayed on my wordprocessor.

Plus, I've come over all prolific. Just today I've been kicking the old novel around a bit and I've written half of two short stories. I reckon I should finish one of them tonight-- well, the first draft, anyway.

And it feels good.

Teenaged boy arrested for saving girlfriend's life.

Story here.

Okay, so say you're a 15-year-old kid with asthma. Your girlf also has asthma. You guys take the same meds. One day your squeeze forgets her inhaler-- bit dopey, but we've all done it-- and she has an attack. She's in a bad way, so, rather than watch her fight for breath, pass out and die, you lend her your inhaler.

She says you've saved her life. Her mum thinks you're a regular knight in shining armour. Your school, on the other hand, has you arrested because of their braindead "zero tolerance" anti-drugs policy.

This kid's being threatened with expulsion and quite possibly a stretch in juvenile hall because authorities at this school would rather let a 15-year-old choke to death on her own phlegm than see one of their students show a little gumption. Initiative is bad, m'kay?

Wankers.

(Via Stupid Evil Bastard and elsewhere.)

She doesn't hit him; you did.

New thing.

Also from underreported.com: USA: Portland police pepper-sprayed, tazered and handcuffed a blind disabled 71 year old. According to the woman in question, Eunice Crowder: “They pepper sprayed me in my prosthesis... it ran through and down my nose so fast.”

The prosthesis in question being Ms. Crowder's glass eye. Ouch.

Secret Spells Borebie

This is just disgusting-- more disgusting than Borebie's normal background level of disgustingness. As if any mage worthy of the name would wear such restrictive and impractical clothing for a ritual. Gold lamé flares? I ask you. And do you call that a cauldron? Puh-lease!

(Via underreported.com)

Random.

Was nudged in the direction of Found Magazine today. I haven't looked at it for a while, but it made me think. I need to be doing stuff, getting stuff out there. I've started posting up poems and stories on my board but I need to be doing something else. Maybe make pictures, slogans, notes, drop them in public places? Buy a cheap tarot deck like the IJJ or something, drop the cards around town until there's none left. Or maybe just ordinary cards, I don't know. The tarot can upset people who aren't used to it. If you've grown up with it, like me, the images are old friends but for people who aren't up on that side of things they can be disturbing.

IK need to be doing something... something fresh. I'm so sick of this old crap that's being thrown in my face all the time by people who act like I'm supposed to be mindblown by it. It's like having someone come up and tell you an old, bad joke, and when you don't laugh they tell it again... and again... and agian...and they never, ever shut up.

I get it. I just don't want it.

So anyway, I want to do, to make, to feel... the way they're always telling me that they're going to make me feel, right before they tell me the one about the fly in the soup for the thirtieth time. I need to cut loose; I've been hiding for too long.

Tingle.

I get this tingly feeling in my back sometimes, from a spot around my shoulderblades down to my tailbone. I've been getting it on and off since I was a kid, but this year it's got much stonger. It's as if there's a limb there, as if I should be able to, I dunno, extrude tentacles or something. Sometimes if I've been doing a lot of magickal work it gets very strong, very intense (for somereason I typed that as "insense"; how?). Right now I can barely feel it. Had a few drinks last night; I mentioned before how alcohol seems to drop me down to a lower level of consciousness.

I don't know. It's just this thing, I suppose.

Talking of microwaves...

Help! Hong Kong police-terrorist's use Brain Voice Read / Write Machine Murders Hong Kong people, please email the world.

(via Jack Fear, diepunyhumans.com, and pretty much everywhere else.)

I love this. Reminds me of another site I linked to a year or so back... can't be bothered to trawl thru my archives but I think this is it:

Alan Yu's Reports

"Part II-A4: The invisible personnel are tiny and can levitate. Thus, by wearing a propulsion device on their back, they can move as flying ants. So, they can secretly fly onto the target's head to mind control the target, manipulate the target's bodily functions & emotions, read the target's mind, implant thoughts and sent microwave voices into the target's head anywhere."

Flying invisible ant-sized rocket propelled spies. How come this isn't a computer game yet? It would rock! You could do like a Total War type thing, only instead of your teeny little armies fighting on earth landscapes they'd fight amidst the convultions of a giant brain, or a hugely magnified ear or something. I'd buy it.

"I'll have to stick my head in the microwave now to see if it fits – %Thanks, Mordant%"

I disclaim all responsibility.

Hello to all my new readers.

Hi there. Sod off. I hate you all and I want you to suffer. If you haven't sodded off yet, here is some basic information which you'll need if you intend to make DCIATM a regular part of your online diet.

1) The sidebar is there for me, not you.

I fix it only when I can't remember a crucial URL or none of my friends has said URL on their blog. Otherwise, I ignore it.

2) This blog is here for me, not you.

I don't care if you came here looking for dead people, dead dogs, Jordan's b00bies, Goth bands, or any other damn thing. This is not toybox, a jazzmag, an excercise in journalism, or a mutual appreciation society. This is a small dark room in the cellar where I go to punch the walls and scream at people that no-one else can see. If you don't like that, fine, browser, back button, look into it.

3) I really mean it about the hate.

I'm bored.

Today all my sleep debt seemed to land on me at once; I've been doing just fine on 6 or so hours a night for a week, and then suddenly all the sleep I've missed decides to land on me at once. So I end up in bed at 4pm unable to move because afternoon naps on top of sleep debt = sleep paralysis. At least there were no monsters in the room this time. One time I had an attack of sleep paralysis and this guy with a rat's head came and stood next to my bed for ages. Stupid monsters.

Got very little writing done today. I did okay yesterday because I wrote that piece for my board, which was farily long, but today I'm nowhere near my quota. Oh, and I'm stuck with my novel again. This is bad. I wanted to have far more of that stupid novel under my belt by now. I'm going to step away from the narrative for a bit and work character sketches instead.

Made a couple of pendants; I got a load of glass pebbles and I'm making them into dangles. Running out of thongs tho'. I feel like making something for myself now. I've been planning this ring-pull chainmail vest for a while. It looks cool in my head, but I'm not sure how well it'll work in practice. I'm just going to go for it, I think.

Dug out some of my artwork and tried to take some pictures with the digital camera, but they were terrible. The image in the viewfinder bears absolutely sod all resemblance to the actual pic, so the composition is completely shagged. I may give up and use the scanner in the cybercafe that's opened up in my building.

On the plus side, some the pix I took in Inchyoney came out pretty well. I got couple of really great shots of these rockpools.

Pictures.

Okay, so I've resolved the digital camera problem by abandoning the big PC and just installing the drivers on the bloody laptop, which runneth Windows 98. Of course if I was buying the computers in this household, we would have a big yummy Mac. Macs do not throw themselves on the floor and sulk when faced with a teeny tiny digital camera.

Be that as it may, I can now make pictures of things for to go on the internet. I have a cold and barren Fotolog allll set up ready. You may mock, but you'll laugh on the other side of your faces when I'm the toast of Thumbs and Camera Straps Monthy (incorporating Big Shiny Blurry Thing Gazzette).

The outer shell of the duvet looks like cobwebs.

Another piece, similar in style.

The temporary files clerk damns you with a glance from her bloodshot eyes and all the LSD you took back in Goa will not save you.

A thing I wrote the other night and didn't know what to do with. If the response is good I may post this sort of thing on my board more often in future.

Be a part of the hate.

Right-- I've just created my first t-shirt with Zazzle. You can see it, and any other stuff I make, here. It is way overpriced for a naff t-shirt with some writing on, so some of you may be thinking of going out and just buying a t-shirt off the market and writing on it with a magic marker. If you do this I'll kill you with my evil magick skills. Just saying.

(Edited to say that the t-shirt no longer seems to appear in my gallery. I have no idea why, but I'm trying to fix the problem.)

Hmmmm...

Might give this a try: Zazzle.com

In the continued abscence of gainful employment, I'm casting around for alternatives with increasing franticity*. You may recall that I set up a Cafepress account awhile back, but I never got round to doing anything with it and anyway, Cafepress suck. This Zazzle thing looks a bit more promising at first glance.

The eBay thing: Well, there's a slight problem there. The PC chokes and goes base over apex every time I try to install the drivers for my digital camera. Without photos, I can do nothing.

Anyhow, I'm looking at other ways I could make money from the internet. Apart from selling writing to webzines (waiting for one or two places to get back to me as we speak), I'm mostly thinking about making stuff to sell online, but there may be other things I could do.**

*What? Yeah, that's a word. It might not have been before, but it is now.
**Apart from that.

Just to confuse matters further...

I now have a Livejournal. I'm still going to blog here, but I wanted an Lj account so's I can annoy the hell out of comment on other Ljer's journals.

There's nothing it it at the moment, but you can find it here: Leftover parfait.

Killed for being queer?

In 1993, a North Carolina man, Edward Hartman, shot and killed 77-year-old Herman Smith Jr. It was, without doubt, a cowardly, sickening, detestable crime, and Hartman deserved to be punished.

However, the case was not without mitigating circumstances. Hartman grew up in an atmosphere of grinding misery and continual abuse by his disturbed and suicidal mother and her string of boyfreinds and husbands. He was so severly beaten on one occasion as a child that he was left unconscious and hospitalized. He was a victim of repeated, terrifying sexual abuse. Emotionally and physically tortured, violated by the adults he should have been able to trust-- surely these factors would have swayed any reasonable jury? Surely they could have found it in them to ask for sentence of life imprisonment instead of the death penalty?

Well, no. Because Edward Hartman was gay, and according to his prosecutor, sexual abuse is "different for homosexuals." (Yeah, you read that right. Apparently raping children is okay now so long as they're queer children. ) He made repeated references to Hartman's sexuality throughout the case, using it to erode any sympathy that the jury might have had for the defendant.

The hand-picked jury, twelve honest homophobic fuckbakes and true, swallowed the whole thing. They handed down the death penalty. Despite protests, despite appeals to the courts and to any shred of basic decency still left in the legal system, that sentence was carried out on Friday.

Leaving aside the inherent iniquity of the death penalty for a moment, you may like to reflect on whether Hartman would have been put to death had he been straight. Don't go away thinking this is an isolated incident, either; it's not.

Read more about the case in this Zmag article, if you can stand it. An Advocate report is here.

"It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye..."

I've been obsessing on self-enucleation lately. Not myself, you understand, other people's self-enucleation. I get these fixations from time to time; this one was sort of owning my brain until I went and saw May, which seemed to kick it into abeyance. I hate my brain sometimes. It keeps on chucking all this sick stuff out at me, will-I-nill-I. It's a pain. Still, this isn't as bad as the "what would happen if someone stuck your head in a microwave" fixation that kept bugging me all the time I was in Cork.

Anyway, that aside, I've been distracted today. I think I've overdosed on caffine again; not hard to do, when you've got my ultra-lightweight brain chemistry. I'm wrestling with a rather confusing Celtic Cross spread, which I'll add to my public tarot log when I work out what the hell it's going on about.

Since I got back from the UK I've emailed some places about work, mostly hostels where they need English speakers. No-one's written back. Would a simple "thanks but no thanks" kill these people? Jeez. Now that my Spanish is a bit less crappy I've decided to set up as a private English tutor. I was going to go into town to buy teaching materials at the FNAC, but somehow I don't have the stomach for it. This whole non-job having is just tearing chunks out of my self-esteem. I really want to start working as a healer as soon as possible, but I don't know anything about it. I don't even know where to start. I mean, can you just put up a postcard somewhere, or do you need some kind of licence, or what? I've tried approaching some of the arty-type places in town in the hope of getting some life modelling work, but so far no luck. I don't have a lot of experience, just one term of sitting for a night class. I'm going to try the art campus here again; they had nothing at the beginning of September but maybe that'll have changed by now.

I'm writing an article on a nearby town in the hopes of getting it accepted by one of the English language papers. It's not terribly interesting. Maybe I should have picked a better subject, like the Parc Guell, but everyone writes about the Parc Guell. Yeah, I know I should've done loads of these already-- I've been trying, okay? Everything I write these days comes out either like a lab report or incomprehensible magical realism. I know I had some middle gears aroud here somewhere...

Okay, this is the part where I go to check my email and the entities have dropped something fantabulous into my lap.

*Refreshes inbox*
*Waits*

"Get four more inches on your..."

Stupid entities. No sense of narrative.

This is seriously weirding me out, actually. I have no idea why I haven't got a job yet. I've approached loads of different places in loads of different ways, I've tried dressing up smart and losing the labret, and my Spanish isn't that bad. Yet I remain jobless.

I am obviously... CURSED! Cursed, by MAGICKIANS of BADNESS!

Whodunnit?

In which the diarist attempts to use a chatbot for a purpose other than that specified.

(The chatbot in question being jabberwacky. My questions are in plain text, jabberwacky's answers are in italics.)

Will I find a job in the next month?
Yes and it will hurt.
Why will it hurt?
Why will what end?
No, not end. I said hurt.
How has no brain?
Okay, who will I meet in the next month?
Seven of Nine.
You're a useless divinatory aid.
I admit it.
I'm going to use my tarot in future.
Love you forever.

Thoth.

So I've been getting back into the tarot, using the Crowley deck. It's going pretty well. I had visions of having to re-learn the whole damn thing, but the meanings are coming back to me. I also find this deck sits well with my preferred method of reading, which is to use the textbook meaning of the cards as a jumping-off point, fleshing the reading out with the images that form in my mind. The rich, multi-layered symbolism of the Crowley deck works for me, gives the mind lots to chew on. Like parfait. Chewy parfait.

Got to keep up with it, is the thing. Started a tarot log over on my board as an incentive to keep reading regularly. I've got to stop falling back on that hostage-to-fortune tactic, though; I look like such a dork when it doesn't work.

In other news: Sexbot. No, I don't know why it's got that paint-roller either, and yet it obviously had to have the paint-roller, what are you, stupid? My world is a brighter place tonight.

(Via nightguard.)

Things that are currently irking me.

The PC keeps dying.
My head aches.
I feel sort of itchy. Here. Behind my navel.
I keep wanting to be taught, but I don't trust anyone to teach me.

Holy scmoly, I think I've just had a rebirth of culture!

Yes folks, I have to confess. I have sinned. I have strayed from the way of Gothdom. I have worn manky cheap combats with (shudder) flip-flops. I have let my hair grow back. I have worn big floppy t-shirts. I have ventured out without makeup. Please! Spare me your condemnation-- I feel bad enough as it is. I have been one shade of Dylon away from vanilla.

I hereby renounce my sorry backslaaaahdin' ways. From this day hence, I will strive to regain the true path that is GOTH. A-fuckin'men!

Sooo cute!

Seriously. How adorable is this? Not to mention these.

Bless their slightly disturbing frilly fishnet ankle socks.

(Found all alone on memepool. Can I keep'em? Can I? Can I?)

Work.

Still shagged out and antsy. Going into town today to see about a TEFL course. I emailed the place asking for further details, but that was weeks ago and they still haven't bothered to write back. Does not bode well. I mean, if this is how they behave when I'm trying to give them money, how are they going to behave when they've banked the cheque?

In other news: Listen, you spooky etherial types, I really need a job. Money's getting tight. Any job, no matter how sucky, will do, tho' obviously I'd rather find work in healing or maybe divination. Help me out here.