Verser

Poetisk.
 
Jag känner mig inte poetisk för tillfället.
Vilket känns lite jobbigt och lite tråkigt.
 
Jag älskar vanligtvis att skriva, att skriva av mig, att skriva för mig, att skriva om dig.
 
Vare sig du tror det eller ej,
jag kan skriva,
och jag kan skriva bra.
 
Alla dessa bloggar gör mig inte rättvisa,
alla dessa offentliga, virituella platser bara suger åt sig ihopstressat material.
Sådan som är bara för att vara.
Sådant som ostrukturerat överförs från virriga tonårstankar till en vit, fyrkantig matematisk värld.
 
Hur kan runda, svarvade, diffusa, mjuka och transparenta ord kunna hanteras där endast filtrerade fotografier av redigerade människor och budskap regerar.
Där ordet är endast är ett simpelt redskap,
en simpel förklaring för dagens handlingar och händelser.
 
Enda gången den platta, men fyrkantiga vännen jag har i mitt knä kan användas för ord
är då, förutom inspirationen flödar,
tiden är oändlig och dokumentet är trygg och rofyllt.
Då det påhittade pappret, det konstruerade, matematiskt framkalibrerade pergamentet,
inte är en tidsinställd bomb för en folklig åtkomst.
 
Poetisk.
Vad fan betyder det ens?
Det går inte att definiera.
Så, betyder det att alla kända cyniska författare har fått sina verk stulna och exploaterade?
Eller är tidens mest lästa språkliga konstnärer bara en annan tids version av dagens massproducerande "musiker"?
 
I slutändan måste jag ju ändå ifrågasätta vad fan jag ens vet om ämnet.
Skulle väl svara något filosofiskt om jag blev ställd frågan i en svarskrävande situation.
Jag "tror" inte på etiketter.
 

Vänd dig om vafaan!

Vänd dig om..
.

Om att ha börjat på reggaeton

Jag är helt jävla uppslukad av denna dans.
Kan inte sluta med dess rullande rörelser.
Jag kan inte sluta lyssna på musiken.
Jag kan inte sluta föreställa mig att få dansa, dansa, dansa mer.
Aah, helt otroligt rolig dans.
Jag vill bara träna, träna, träna - jag vill bli så jävla grym på dansen.

Man får såklart inte glömma burlesquen.
Även den vill jag mer än behärska.

Hoppas jag kan lägga till en till dans i höst.
Vill köra poledancing.

Åh.
Jag vill bara dansa hela dagarna.
Fuck att jobba efter skolan.
Jag vill fylla mitt liv med dans.
Och resor.

Mind-ffFuck

"Yes. its true…

The Rugrats really were a figment of Angelica’s Imagination.

Chucky died a long time ago along with this mother, that’s why Chaz is a nervous wreck all the time.

Tommy was a stillborn, that’s why Stu is constantly in the basement making toys for the son who never had a chance to live.

The DeVilles had an abortion, Angelica couldn’t figure whether it would be a boy or a girl thus creating the twins 
——————————————-
As for “All Grown Up” Angelica was a bipolar schizophrenic who, as a teenager became addicted to various Narcotics, bringing her back to her childhood and thus her creations she obsessed over, because of time lapse between the present and the last time she interacted with her creations, she made them older, Angelica was constantally taking hits of acid, so she would never have to live without her creations who were her only company, in a judgemental world

Angelica’s mom actually died of a heroine overdose, Angelica was schizophrenic/bipolar because she was a crack baby, additionaly Drew in his depression married a gold digging whore, that Angelica idolized because she fooled herself into thinking it was her real mom, but always had a concept of her mom, Cynthia, and took a barbie doll, and made it after her mom’s image, wearing an unwashed oranged dress, and having jacked up hair, which is why she was so attached to it, later in life she followed in her mom footsteps w/ drugs and everything, dieing of overdose at age 13 when All Grown Up! was “canceled” 

The only rugrat not to be fictional however, was unborn Tommy’s brother Dil, however Angelica didnt know the differace between Dil and her creations, Dil didnt follow her commands, after endless crying and a refusal to disapear like the others did when angelica was angry with them, she hit him. And she hit him, screaming a screaching tune, Stu ran in and pulled his neice off of his only child, but it was too late, he had a brain hemerage, which resulted in a deformation, as he grew up his damage only became more evident, by the time he was 9 in All Grown Up! He lived as an outcast, being ridiculed for his weirdness, and retardation, the immense guilt over this is what led to her drug use and is what led Angelica to un-create the rugrats breifly, until her expericance w/ hallucinogenics.

On a trip to Paris to find love, Chaz married a hooker named Kira (He was actually going to marry a differant hooker, but she just wanted him for his money), who had a daughter named Kimi that was torn from her because she was a cocaine addict (Angelica imagined her from Kira’s stories), he lost his mind after the death of his wife and was in denial that she was ever prostitue, upon return to America, Chaz and Kira married and she got her greencard, it was actually a really happy/romantic story, Kira continually stuggled with addiction, but was relatively happy w/ her life, and Chaz

Suzie was actually Angelica’s only friend, who entertained the thought of Angelica’s creations, for her, She later became a phycologist and teamed up w/ Nickelodeon to make the Rugrats! When Angelica died of drug overdose, she helped arrange her funeral, Angelica’s death was sad, because of her addiction, she was expelled from society, which lead to a break with reality, and her eventual death, she spent the last days of her life in the back of the school cafeteria, imagining friends around her, and playing with the lives of her creations.

She died March 5, 1994, tag your friends if you were throughly mindraped, this is the truth behind your childhood."


Retro Blue and Mint Green

That's how I'll remember you.
That's what I'll associate you with.

One Lovely Mint Green applied on Wonderful Rich Chocolate.
- Loyal for 2 years and a half.
Smiling, Smirking.
He never stopped lurking, never stopped improve his talents.
The talents of charming, blending and exploding.
Getting hotter and hotter.

Second, Not Royal, But Retro Blue Innocent Danger on Soft Gold in Brown.
Sturdier facial structure.
Steady tranquility, secure smiling - eyes assuring.
Bestowing fresh situations and moves.
Convincing you how special the both of them are, telling you both how approved it is.
Suggesting this everything contains hope.

Mint Green making you thirst.
Retro Blue turning you so fond.
Mint Green is the first.
Retro Blue the second.
I won't ever forget.
I will always give you that - those colours, those memories, those stories.
I will always hold a special place for you, making you a big part of a shadowed tale.

We will never stop looking towards that building facing the station.
Not ever will we stop looking for you when at gyms.
I know for sure that I can speak for both of us when I tell,
that you will always be two special creatures in the deep caves of our inner.
How could we ever be satisfied in life without knowing anyting about phenomenoms like you?

Fresh Minty Green,
Refreshing Retro Blue,
Better than we thought we would've ever seen,
what are we without you?



Their confidence is so striking.
.

[ hjärta ]

Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up a whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life... You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' or 'how very perceptive' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a body-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. Nothing should be able to do that. Especially not love. I hate love.

- Neil Gaiman

Uppfostranssöndagar

Det känns som att söndagar har blivit den ärade dagen att från grunden igen lära sig att krypa, att gå,
titta, hållning, och hur man sitter samt hur man reser sig upp.
Man får lära om vad en hatt är, hur man sitter på en stol - eller egentligen vad den faktiskt är till för.
Dessutom hur man tar av sig en kjol eller shorts
och hur man tar av sig en tröja.

Mina söndagkvällar är rätt underbara.
En lokal full av speglar.
Fylld till bristningsgränsen med pampig musik och slängande hår och viftande höfter.

hej.

Det finns awesome personer där ute

Men först och främst, förlåt för rörigt blogginlägg från mobilen.
Det om fiender och blablabla.
Aja:


.

Lika förundrad varje gång

I wish I had her talent
Oh, the time I'd be spending in front of the mirror if I could put on make-up like this

 


!!!


Jag hatar dem för att de har kläderna jag har letat efter


Les temps sont durs pour les rêveurs

Jag bryr mig inte om citatet tenderar att vara överanvänt - jag funderar på att ha det i skinnet.
Det sammanfattar nämligen mitt liv.

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