toxic

[Meanwhile, somewhere in the far-end corner of her sophisticatedly complicate caboose…]

Like, Oh-MyGAWD, I am, like, so IN LOVE with this site! (Which I’ve found via an equally lovesome blog whose fabulous author I’ve shot-gunned into becoming made my new virtual friend! *giggles in teeny stalker fashion*.) There are so many morbidly yummy pictures, sexy gore & glossy queasiness there – it’s eye kink heaven, I tells ya (Who Killed Bambi*, that is, not the Blog You Will Go See (whose kinkiness, for the record, I know nothing about))! From high-fashion shots to cut-up dolls, twisting through truly dark photography, I was overwhelmed with both awkward awesomeness and inspired excitement while scrolling through its pages. Amidst everything going around lately, I have forgotten how good it feels to create and/or being submerged by purdhy things!

Which is why I got myself these:

My baby.
(Don't mind my garden hat. ...What?)

I finally understand those city slickers who walk around with shades all day even when the sun is nowhere in their Can’t-Be-Bothered-To-Look-Upon-Anything-Less-Beautiful-Than-Their-Poncefirous-Selves sight. It is not bc they are snooty little wankers - no! They're just simply Vain Whores In Love With Inanimate Objects! And I’ve never felt so welcomed! Oh, I want to sleep with them! (The sunglasses, not my fellow VWILWIO. Tch.) *sighs longingly*

In other related luscious consumerist news, Fantasia is coming to town! *kung-fu high-kicks* And this year, my dearly beloveds, I is ready! No more of that waiting until the last possible minute to get tickets and thus having to queue in a line that goes around the block fifteen times, and definitely not counting on someone else (who may or may not be My Big Cuz) to buy tickets only to be ditched for the promise of noodles and losing our betrothed seats. No sir-ree Bob! This year, we’re dorking it up in a big monstrous [1954, of course!] Godzilla way and getting them early online to then go hours ahead before the screened events for good seats. Hopefully, the Geek Gods shall deem us worthy and allow some gory good times to be had. Yeah!

Hm...

As this feels more and more like a commercialised capitalist confession, I might as well admit to my new shameful pleasure: Age of Love - *shudders & gags* - NBC’s new realitv summer hit that asks the very original question ‘Does age matter?’ by throwing the I-Forgot-How-Deliciously-Looking-After-All-These-Years-Absconded tennis player Mark Philippoussis in a ‘social experiment’ where he hopes to find true love (Ahahahahaha...) with women in their 40s (respectfully named the 'cougars', FYI) who, unknowingly at first, are 'competing' with girls in their 20s (or aka the 'kittens'!). *shudders & gags some more* Oh! But it’s sooo bad it’s good! It’s even badder as you watch it, man! The bachelor is depicted as this sweetly redeemed playah (by which is proven when he bought a puppy to be with on Valentine's Day (...aaahahahahahahahahaha!!)) and a hot sport star (in the 'inexistent-in-all-big-tournament-scene-for-the-past-few-years' sense), while the twennies are stereotypically crazy insecure catty skanks (represent, sistahs!). As for the 'cougars', I hear you anticipatively ask?... Rockin' babes who are successful and - *gasps* - fun! And – canyoubelieveit?! – SEXY!

Seriously, they are incredibly hawt (even though some may seem to have been familiar with Monsieur Bistouri a few times over). My absolute favorite so far (bc, of course, one can only thoroughly enjoy this kind of divine shite when there is a favorite to root for) is a 42-year-old photographer with a no-bullshit attitude, who, incidentally, begs me to ask her simultaneously as I’m bitching at her 20-year-old 'competition', "Why, dear god, WHY must you go on a television show like this looking for 'love'? Seriously?! SHOULD YOU NOT KNOW BETTER?!!"

It’s slowly sucking all the hope I had of growing older & wiser**. Not to mention my self-esteem. Yet... I can’t. Turn. AWAY. Damn you, Television Lords, damn you!

I need to take a shower now.




* This title particularly strikes a cord with my childhood sensibilities as I remember being completely devastated when I watched Bambi’s mother being killed. Years later [i.e. last year], foolishly thinking I was now older & harder to view it again, I suddenly burst out crying as the poor deer hopped around the silent snow crying out "Mama, we made it, mama! We made it!... Mama?" *tries to hold back tears* My 3-year-old cousins were most certainly not impressed.

**That song lies, I tell you, it lies!