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Marie Antoinette is said to have fed the monster beneath her bed rose petals soaked in wine, served in a golden dish.

I’ve wondered about all those Monsters Beneath the Bed out there, and our relationship with them, which resulted in the following brochure (read: time-waster):


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Whistler: Your Highness, you are also like a stream of bat's piss.

(silence)

Whistler: It was one of Wilde's! One of Wilde's!

Oscar: It sodding was not! It was Shaw!

Shaw: I ... I merely meant, Your Majesty, that you shine out like a shaft of gold when all around is dark.
I am not so good with the insults. Angry I can manage; insults not ( Read more... )

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In the fall, while goofing off at work, I discovered the “brochure” template in Microsoft Word. You fill in the text, send it to a printer, and you get a simple tri-fold brochure that looks just like the sort that gets handed out on street corners each day ( Read more... )

Dear forlorn online journal ( Read more... )

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Not having updated this thing in a while, it takes a bit of thought to decide where to begin ( Read more... )

On the subject of age and length of hair, which I saw on the wonderful artist sariane's journal, wherein the way that people encourage women older than a certain age to do away with their long hair was discussed, as if long gray hair on a woman was somehow terribly wicked or at least tasteless, and seeing as I'm a fan either of long hair, or very, very ( Read more... )

Spindizzy self, spun out of control, her separate selves scattered like lost polaroids, panic girls, smile for the camera girls, happy storm sadnesses, eyeshadowed dreams wrapped ‘round her waking thoughts, knotted, a silken scarf comfort kept close, cooling her burnt finger-tips.