incense and peppermints

I stopped at the Psychic Eye on my way home, to pick up an application for a part-time gig and I was out of Nag Champa, which must be corrected immediately.

Of course, then I realized I was out of Turkish Musk as well...this must also be corrected. They were also OUT of Turkish Musk, so I splurged a little and got:
Amber Flame
Rain Goddess (Hawaiian Plumeria)
Purification (Sacred Cedar and Lavender)
Amber Vanilla (see...I like amber, a lot.)
and White Jasmine (which I'm burning right now and it reminds me of New Orleans)

Yes...these are the days of our lives.

Tomorrow I'm going to drop off apps at Borders, Brentano's, and the Psychic Eye. I have to get a second job, even if it does cut my already fairly non-existent social life in two. I hope Staci's having such a good time back home, that she's decided to move back.
:)

Holy eff, I have so much stuff to do. :(

p.s. Why the h is my old site still up? PacBell, you so dumb.
.

PSA

It's "anyway", not "anyways".

And don't forget, you bastards, "a lot".....two effing words.

[/cranky]

:)

(no subject)

YEAH! Really long effing walk for lunch! My thighs are now on fire! I had an ice cream cone for lunch! But that's okay because that's all I've had to eat today!

I have to work at 7am tomorrow! That blows! But I get off work at 3:30pm! That's cool!

p.s. this boy is cuuuuuute. (I think the site is down for now, but if you've ever seen the British teevee series "Coupling", it's Jeff (Richard Coyle).

(no subject)

Yes....this is why she is one of my favorite writers.

1

SUGAR IN MY BOWL

I need a little sugar in my bowl,
I need a little hot-dog between my roll.
--J.C. Johnson

"I am woman in the grip of an obsession. I sit here by the phone (which may in fact be out of order) and wait for his call. I listen for the sound of his motorcycle spraying pebbles on the curving driveway path. I imagine his body, his mocking mouth on mine, his curving cock, and I am a ruin of desire and the fight against desire. I don't know which is worse--the desire or the antidesire. Both undo me; both burn me and reduce me to ash. The Nazis could not have invented a more cunning crematorium. This is my auto-dafé, my obsession, my addiction.

Friends come to me and urge me to give him up, fill me with reasons, all of which I agree with. They do no good. What I feel is something that does not respond to reason. Older than Pan and the dark gods and goddesses lurking in the shadows behind him, this burning I feel is in fact the primordial force of the universe. Who can explain that I have chosen to attach it to a blond boy-man who pours his lies in my ear as he pours his seed in that other place? Who would believe the addiction, the obsession, the degradation, or even the love? Only one who has felt its fire. Only one who has also been burned in that fire and whose skin has crackled like the skin of medieval martyrs.

But most women do not have the luxury to feel that fire. Nor, in fact, do I. In my waking life, I am a successful woman (does it matter for the moment what I do?), known as a tough deal-maker, an eagle-eyed reader of contracts, a good negotiator. All that I know of life from the other sphere does me no good whatsoever here. You might even say that it makes me more vulnerable. For the tougher I am in the lawyer's office, the more I desire to be tender here where the thought of his cock reduces me to ash.

Let me tell you about his cock. It is clawlike and demonic, a true prong. It has a curve where it should be straight, and in repose it lists to one side, the left. His politics, if he had any, would be the opposite. For he is the fascist, the boot in the face, the brute. All men worth having in bed are partly beasts. Every myth we have tells us this: Pan with his animal legs and human mouth; the beast that Beauty left her father for; the devil himself, with the wild witches--the bacchantes of Salem--cavorting about his puckered anus. And kissing it. Part of the lure is the degradation, the fact that we are creatures born between piss and shit, and in our darkest moments we
obsessively recall that dilemma.

If twenty men were lined up before me with full erections and sacks put over their heads and torsos, I could identify my love (may I call him that?) by the curve of his cock. Angry and red in erection, circumcised (not because of his religion but because of the age in which he was born), curving like a boomerang which always returns to its owner, is it beautiful only because it leaves me? Is it just because I can possess it merely for brief interludes that it holds me in such thrall? Would I love it less if it were there all the time?

No danger of that. For I love a runner. No sooner does he call me his witch, his bacchante, his lady, his love, than he has to flee."

--Erica Jong
Any Woman's Blues</a

p.s.

They're re-making Rocky Horror. O_o

I hate Subway commercials with that Jared fuckface.
I hate Carl's Jr. commericals, very much.

LJ spell check told me I should hyphenate "fuck-face", but that's gaytarded.

(no subject)

Loco de Coco, are you off tomorrow?

(no subject)

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!

I found it! The song I heard last night on KCRW (thank jeebus for playlists)
And Loco, didn't you play me some Miss Kittin?

Go download "Rippin Kittin" by Golden Boy feat. Miss Kittin. It's so badass. (try and get the original first, no remixes. It's the best I think.)

Another link I found.

It might be free here, I don't have time to check.

"Mommy, can I go out and kill tonight.
I feel, I feel like taking a life.
Please,
I wanna steal the kitchen knife.
I feel, I feel like taking a life.

Daddy, can I go out and hunt tonight
Like you do
On Sun-day mornings
Honey,
Give me your real gentle knife
To feel,
Feel like taking my life."

(some of those could be a little off, I was trying to transcribe them.)

Now sleep.