bare bear

Herr Bear
Can hardly bear
Being without Hair

Picture & Poem by Matt Staggs

Synchronicity or people looking at the same plug and thinking "Sir Tessa needs skeletons in her inbox" saw Andrew sending me a deer. Moar beautiful skeletons here.

what in my mouth?

Today, I did not go to the zoo. I did not walk around the botanical gardens. I did not tag my archives. Actually, today was largely a string of failures to achieve, but nevertheless, was not wasted.

I had a food adventure, I had dragon fruit.



I've been eyeballing these at the supermarket for years. How could something that looked as freaky as that not be the best fruit devised by nature? Put off trying one for years because, well, just look at the damn thing. It IS freaky. Cthulhu's gonads, dragon fruit, ugly ball of scaly pink leather. How do you get into something like that? I know you could just cut it in half, but that doesn't seem...proper.

Thankful, the art of getting into a dragon fruit was revealed to me while watching game shows in Japan. Two men with a little cart and toy pony were walking in opposite directions around an island. Their goal appeared to be to gather food to feed themselves. They went to sugar mills, peanut farms, and spent many hours in the ocean with professional fishermen looking for shellfish and lobsters. One of them came across a man with an orchird full of all sorts of fruit, dragon fruit among them. From this, I learned that you peel the scales back, like a many-flippered banana.

Okay. GAME ON.

I should mention I have no idea how to tell if a dragon fruit is ripe. I just, you know, dove in. The skin is pretty thick and tough, and I had to use my fingernails to start the process. Just beneath the outer layer the skin is a violent shocking pink, and within it is...this....thing.



Which...is that a dragon EGG? Is that Cthulhu's actual TESTICLE? I don't know, but it weirded me out more than the skin did. It was full of little black seeds, like kiwi fruit, and they were looking at me, I swear. I was sitting there, looking at this testicleeggfruit that I was supposedly going to put in my mouth, and thinking of the egg sacks spiders make.

I put it in my mouth anyway.

And....

....

...drumroll...

...it tastes like nothing. It isn't sweet, sour, bitter, it isn't anything. It takes like a giant mouthful of wet, slick, BLAND.

???

Come on. Does nature know nothing about the power of packaging? What's the point of making a bright pink obnoxious flipper ball if it isn't going to taste like a cocktail party? Colour me disappointed. Cthulhu, your gonads are lame.

Red Star & Ponderin' Pimpin'

One of the perils of blogging about ‘stuff wot I like’ is that, occasionally, the person who made the ‘stuff wot I like’ sees said blog and responds to it. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, but it is a mildly unsettling thing. There’s a mental block involved; I, consumer, over here. Them, creator, way way way over there. And very rarely shall they meet. Except the intrawebz makes that distance non-existent, and google is the Great Eye That Sees All.

In this instance, someone over at Archangel Studios happened across this post, which resulted in Christian Gossett saying thanks, sending me a bunch of pages from the upcoming #3 of Sword of Lies (insert OMGWAAAH!!!!!! here), and giving me permission to post them here, should I wish to.

I ummed and aahed over this. I’m not a PR machine, and this isn’t a PR blog. I don’t generally like to buy into hype, I prefer to go hyper after I’ve devoured a product and have decided that it is indeed worth going hyper about. That lack of distance between consumer and creator, and the way in which intrawebz makes tapping a stranger on the shoulder an easy and effortless thing, I’m not sure these are comfortable things. For better or worse, I put the creators of ‘stuff wot I like’ on pedestals. Being tapped on the shoulder out of the blue by one is not so different from Cthulhu tapping me on the shoulder.

Except I’m less likely to go all breathless fangirl and more likely to run screaming from Cthulhu.

Not that I’m comparing any of you fine creator types with giant angry butt-ugly walking squids.

Not that I’m dissing Cthulhu either, you know, never a finer giant angry butt-ugly walking squid.

That said, this is a blog of ‘stuff wot I like’, and hot damn, these pictures are mighty fine.





Is that not just totally hot fucking sex right there? I’m guessing that last one is a flashback, which hopefully means more of Imbohl’s story unfolding. Fingers crossed this issue has something less than a one year waiting period, ‘cause my impatience level just went through the roof. Augh. I had plans for tonight, you know, I was going to put my insomnia to good use. Yet, premonition has struck me! I see the future! Tonight will be spent reading all my Red Star books! Shitfuck. OH WHAT A TORTUROUS ARDUOUS LIFE.

By the way

I <3 my camera.



Yeah, I read the manual, no, I haven't tamed the aperture setting. It isn't me. I just point it at things, and it does all the work.

(taken at the melbourne zoo, rockin' out on my fuji finepix s9500)

waiting waiting waiting

I had a couple of drinks last night, because I'd crossed the line between tired-but-fully-functional and just plain fucked up. Alcohol and sleeping pills are the same evil to me. I don't want to lean on either of them, ever. Because they work, they're more than tempting. All the cold air falls out of the fridge while I stand there looking at a bottle of pills and a bottle of swill, knowing that either might give me a good night's sleep, knowing that neither will actually give me anything more than one single good night's sleep. I'd rather be exhausted and fucked up than lean on them.

But, every now and then.

It was a nice sleep. A relaxed sleep. I dreamed of hotels and lions. I was confused about who I was when I woke up, because my jaw didn't ache. I was so comfortable, so relaxed, until I remembered how to be me. Clenched jaw, frown, balled fists, tight muscles; a system of tension that seems to provide all the cues I'll ever need to know who I am when I wake. I'm one walking clench. A walking, talking, breathing, sullen clench of locomotive meat, braced against the impact of morning, afternoon, evening, night.

I'm going to get the picnic blanket out off the cupboard, and lie on my back in the backyard, with the trees, and the dogs, and the grass, and the wind. My feet are cold. That's okay.

#($*&@(@^#%

In 13 minutes, I get to go home. This is a good thing, as I didn't want to leave home this morning anyway. All I want to do is go to bed.

Where, I know, I will completely fail to sleep.

Again.

My god, I hate being awake.

I just want you to know that I didn't get to sleep till after 6 o'fucking-clock this morning, and the world does not amuse me.

Everyone's a Critic

(the union lane street art project has been proudly sponsored by the city of melbourne)

(FYI; Union Lane runs between Little Collins Street and Bourke Street. It's covered in paint from end to end, including a giant rooster.)


(not 'fine' enough for 'art' not illegal enough 4 graffitti)

(Tangent: that tag beneath the scorn, 'toy', is everywhere. All over the city, and right up the length of the Hurstbridge line. Wouldn't be surprised if other train lines have been similarly pissed on. Toy does not do art. Toy merely tags, and tags over the top of every piece of actual street art they can find. Toy has pissed off many street artists, and it isn't uncommon to see retaliatory tags and remarks, threatening this character and expressing their animosity, usually in much better handwriting. I can't say I side with Toy. They've pissed on some brilliant art. But that, I suppose, is the nature of graffitti. Easy come, easy go.)

white noise

When the city is abandoned, the view from my windows won’t change. The walls will still be streaked with pigeon shit and empty of decoration. The lack of sound won’t be apparent, because I can’t hear the city anyway. There will be no movement in that view, because there never is. I won’t be able to tell there’s no one left in Melbourne. When I’m in my apartment, I’m the only person in the world.

So, my advice to anyone about to start living on their own is this: have a TV, have an internet connection.

In the dark hours, they’re the only way to prove that the rest of the world really is out there.

AHHH. DE GOGGLES DO NASINK.

There's a full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door. The first thing I see when I get up in the morning is me. All of me. Ugly as all fuck.

There's a dresser mirror in my old bedroom, but the dresser itself was so piled with books and comics and sundry that it seeing my reflection in it wasn't an issue.

Maybe it's just me, but I really can't deal with that first thing in the morning. Methinks it's contributing to this growing urge to smash my face in broken glass.

I can't even cover it. It's just glass stuck to the door. Nothing to hook anything over. I suppose I could toilet paper it. Or, something- post-it notes. Yes. One of those giant multicoloured pads should do it. I can wake up to a rainbow of obnoxious smiley faces every single fucking day!

...

Maybe I should just stick to the ugly.

DROP THE BOMB THE BOMB THE BOMB OH YOU DA BOMB I DA BOMB WE DA BOMB DA BOMB DA BOMB SOMEONE PUT A MUSICBOMB IN MY LETTERBOX YO OH YEAH THE BOMB THE BOMB THE BOMB and now that I have your attention-

Dear Mystery CIA Worker,

I could wax lyrical on the many heartbreaks your continued silence has inflicted upon me, but I believe in conservation of words. A picture being 1000 words, here is 1000 words of



sopping wet hairy bear ass.

No Love,
Sir Tessa

Having given up on mystery CIA worker, my attention has turned to…

…the guy with the office across the alley from my kitchen window.

Look, I have no idea what his job is. All he ever does is sit at his desk. I can see his screen, and the majority of his time appears to be spent checking his email and surfing the net. He doesn’t have many visitors. The shelves and walls of the office are bare. There doesn’t appear to be much in the way of documents on his desk. He’s there at 8 in the morning, and usually there till just before 8 at night.

His back is to me, and I’m not sure he’s noticed my existence yet. I watch him because he’s the only other thing out my window apart from the pigeons, and I’m one of those people who just gravitates towards windows. I wait for him to do something different, like answer the phone, or get a cup of coffee- hey. I’ve never seen him with a mug, now that I think of it.

Yesterday, he was putting together slides in PowerPoint. Oh yeah, exciting day! Flipping through print outs and taking notes. I could only making out clipart of Australia in amid the dot points. He even went as far as to put on a headset and record himself making his presentation, so he could play it back and listen to it. This is the most action I’ve ever seen in that office.

He left at twenty to eight.

I took a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom, and tore up four lengths of three squares each, and with my big black texta, wrote.



I stuck these pieces of toilet paper to my window, and dropped the blind.

I don’t know why I do these things. They’re creepy and stalkery and can be easily taken as invasive (not that I can help what the view from my kitchen is). Maybe I like surprising people. I’m probably just projecting my own loneliness on the world around me, and am acting on the assumption that other people need their existence acknowledged too. He’ll probably be weirded out, and put the blinds down permanently, leaving me with just the pigeons.

I’m hoping he’ll take it in, to quote Rudd, “the spirit it is intended”, and just laugh.

This Is The Tale Of Harry Houdini, Who Died And Came Back As A River Fish In Malaysia

Some time in early November last year, when I spent a brief week on the other side of the Equator, my father called me out into the paved laundry area of the house. There was a large polystyrene tube on the ground, with my uncle standing proudly over it.

Look at this, he said.

The fish was huge. Freaking huge. As long as my arm, and thicker too. Time and the river had coloured it a drab invisible brown. It barely fit in the tub, and sat idle on the bottom, clearly not much impressed with the situation.



Caught it in the river, my uncle said.

We used to catch these when we were kids, Dad said, they had teeth like this- and he imitated Tim the Sorcerer of Monty Python notoriety. I crouched down, but couldn’t see any sign of these giant fangs.

The fish spasmed once, thumping the tub. How did you get it home?

In the boot.

My uncle drives a BMW. With leather upholstery and all the trimmings. I didn’t say anything.

Going to eat it?

Dad pulled a face. He wasn’t keen on eating what was pulled from the river.

Again the fish rocked the tub. They put a folded deck chair over it, to keep it from jumping out. I peered at it through the cracks, and it ignored me.

The next morning I wandered out to have another gander. The tub was as we’d left it, with the deck chair as a lid. I leaned down for a peek, and couldn’t make the fish out. Odd. On lifting the chair, I discovered that this was because there was no fish.

Dad, where’s the fish?

There, he gestured at the tub.

No, it isn’t.

It is.

No, really, Dad, it isn’t.

He came over and inspected the tub for himself. Significant lack of fish. He must have given it away, he said with disgust, to one of his mates. Yeah, he must have. Dad walked off shaking his head, muttering. Why? I don’t know, it wasn’t as though he wanted to eat the fish anyway. I went back inside, disappointed.

Dad, being Dad, didn’t let it go. As more and more relatives spontaneously arrived for dinner, I heard him asking if my uncle had given them the fish. He asked my cousins and his other siblings, until at last my uncle came home.

Did you give the fish away? Dad asked, almost before he was out of the car.

No.

I could practically hear the questions marks forming in their minds. Where, then, was the giant fucking fish? The deckchair didn’t have any gaps in it large enough for even the most acrobatic of goldfish to leap through, and it hadn’t been moved. It was sitting flush on the tub when I discovered the disappearance in the morning. Suddenly, everyone was involved. Looking in buckets and checking in random pots, as if the fish was hiding in the kitchen, in the tool box, in the pantry. Where was the fish?

Then a cry; my aunt had found it. Out the front. In the drain.

Eww.

The tiled floor of the laundry slopes down into a gutter that runs out of the house into the drain, and presumably that is the path the fish took.

Eww.

I mean, ewwwwww. It’s the sort of drain that is deep and soupy. Opaque. Busy.

They scooped it up in a bucket, flopped it on the tiled floor, and pointed a hose at it. It’s possible I was imagining it, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a fish so relieved to be out of water. The grit and muck and filth ran off it and across the floor in thick streams. The fish just lay there. It didn’t flail and gulp at the air. It let my uncle wash it till it was visibly clean, and went back in the tub without complaint. It didn’t glare so much this time. I think it was pretty traumatised.

There, my uncle dried his hands. Fine. We’ll just change the water every day, clean it out. Good eating.

You know, Dad said, our shit goes in that drain.

A couple of weeks later, back on my side of the Equator, I asked Dad what the fate of the fish was. My uncle had changed the water as he’d said, but no one was game to eat a fish that had been in the drain, and eventually, they gave it back to the river.

So, I ask you, how did the fish get out?

---

My memory was prompted by this contest (tell a story, potentially win many stories). I’d been meaning to post this for a while, but it was overlooked in the whirlwind of moving house, Christmas, and all that jazz. I feel you should know I come from a family of (among other things) fish wrestlers. Yeah, they rock like that.

Just between you, me, and the rest of the internet, this film



is good.

No, it has no impressive visuals, it doesn't do much new, and it won't change your world. Yes, it is a good solid piece of writing, fantastically drawn characters, perfect pacing, balance, each beat fell just where it was needed.

It's good.

Sorry

In 1997 when the report releasing the findings regarding the stolen generations of aboriginal Australia, Bringing Them Home, was released, I got it out of the library. I don't remember why. Possibly for a school project.

I couldn't read it. I tried, but each time I'd only get through a couple of pages before I was too upset to continue. I remember wandering up to mum in tears more than once. One thing that stayed with me was the children who were fed straw. Straw was good enough for horses, it was good enough for them.

"Sorry" has been a long time in coming.

taken outside melbourne central railway station

i found five fossils in your fingernails

I did actually make a resolution this year. Yeah, a proper one, not that cop-out "sit up straight" resolution I've used every year for the past however many years (which is forever ongoing and never gets any easier).

I resolved to have more live music in my life.

Is this not a good thing? It is. It really is.

I took care of January with Jose Gonzalez, who quite shocked me. I'd assumed his studio albums were multiple tracks of guitar layering, but no! Every single track is just him, doing amazingly graceful and complicated things on his guitar. It was amazing, and I have to say his cover of Massive Attack's Teardrop just. goes. off.

Supporting him was Emily Barker, who I'd never heard of and pretty much fell head over heels for. Her songs contain both England and Australia, and I can hear that in her music. Bought the album right there and then. Unfortunately, the best song, Orlando isn't up on that myspace page, which doesn't excuse you from having a listen.

The following night The Go! Team played at the Hi-Fi Bar, which is sort of fucking great, as it is quite literally a minute from my front door. They were a totally different thing all together, and I had a brilliant time dancing about like an idiot. Those guys go off, fucking OFF.

In February, I was introduced to TinPan Orange, a local jazz-but-darting-through-other-styles group, and because I'm an absolute hussy when it comes to good music, I bought both their albums. Gorgeous, gorgeous stuff. You like your low-key mellow slowly uncurling music, you like your stamping your feet swinging your hips music, you like your sullen sultry sexy music = you like this band. And her voice, oh my! Seeing them again in March.

And of course there was Rufus Wainwright, who is brilliant and varied and complex and intelligent and surprisingly hilarious. We're ever so pleased we saw him, oh yes. Saw his belly button even.

For the rest of February, the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra is giving four free concerts at the music bowl, at least one of which I'll be hitting up, with my old beach towel and a sandwich.

At this point, March will be fixed up with Iron & Wine and another session of TinPan Orange, and in April Porcupine Tree are touring, as well as the DJ Shadow & Cut Chemist gig - are the tickets for that even on sale yet? I saw posters going up today, but the internet is failing me right now.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is point out any touring bands you think I might like/should be aware of/are just so unbelievably awesome on stage that it doesn't matter if they're not to my immediate taste I'll have a good time anyway. Discovering new genius fantastic wonder music is just as good as seeing my favourites play right in front of me.

(Price is a factor.)

(I'm probably not going to attend any thrash metal gigs.)

(And I'm not going to see Celine Dion.)

Frozen Grand Central

On a cold Saturday in New York City, the world’s largest train station came to a sudden halt. Over 200 Improv Everywhere Agents froze in place at the exact same second for five minutes in the Main Concourse of Grand Central Station. Over 500,000 people rush through Grand Central every day, but today, things slowed down just a bit as commuters and tourists alike stopped to notice what was happening around them. Enjoy the video first and then go behind the scenes with our mission report and photos.

(from haha.nu)

"Lions, and tigers dragons, and bears lettuce, oh my!"

When hunting for lions, there is absolutely no point in locating one, and attempting to get closer, as that is the same tactic being used by the hundred or so people around you. Instead, it is advisable for the hunter to find a restaurant that still has a string of fire crackers and lettuce on offer, find a comfy wall to lean on, and wait for the lion to come to you.



Some call this lazy, I call this efficient convervation of energy. Also, it works. Not to mention you get a prime viewing position, which is important when your short and the world is full of tall people.

Lions are quite hard to photograph, what with all the leaping about, yet ever so pretty.





YES. THAT IS NEO IN THE LION'S MOUTH. THE ONE ISN'T SO TOUGH AGAINST DANCING LIONS. BOOYAH.



Lions are messy eaters. For srs. Take note, other hunters, that if you're going to stand right by the firecrackers when they go off, bring ear plugs.

Lettuce and oranges are standard fare when it comes to feeding lions. Beer cans, though? They're new to me. It wasn't an isolated event either, I saw multiple lions going through various cans of beer. They went through the same motions of eating; tossing the item in the air, making a great show of devouring it, and then hurling it out over the crowd.

When a little girl on her dad's shoulders nearly caught a can in the face, I kinda cackled a bit.

I was blocked by lions when Dai Loong finally came out, magnificent beast that he is. It took a minute or so for the length of his body to emerge from the alley, and he turned up Little Bourke Street and onto Exhibition, and disappeared. I figured hunting dragons isn't all that different to hunting lions, and parked myself at said alley (at the end of which is the Chinese Australian Museum, Dai Loong's home), to await his return.

Damn, I'm a good hunter.

They had to reverse park him back into the museum. Yes. The dragon did a three point turn.



I had a great view. This guy is so big, his body is made of, I don't know...train cabooses.

They parked him briefly, to give the handlers a rest and give the crowd a photo opportunity. Lions appeared all over the place, and made a great show of standing tall. Seeing the actual dancers close up revealed how utterly wrecked they were, from all the leaping, cavorting, and lifting people up to stand on their shoulders. Couldn't move for bright colours.



DAI LOONG'S HEAD



IS ENORMOUS.



It took about twelve big burly men to get it off the ground. He slunk back into his museum home, and I, having had a successful day's hunting, retired. Attempted to retire. Crowds, man, they kinda get in the way. The whole city smelt of greasy chinese dumplings, incense and firecrackers. I crave yum cha like you wouldn't believe.

It's round this time of year I wish I was either 100% chinese or 100% not chinese. Never can figure out where I fit in all this.

I actually have tomorrow off (it's my parole day), and for the first time in, I don't know, years and years and years, I'm going to see the lion dances and Dai Loong, the Southern Hemisphere's biggest dragon (imaginatively named 'big dragon').

Strictly speaking, I shouldn't be celebrating Chinese New Year, what with observing 100 days of mourning for Ayeh. Not that wandering around with a camera really counts as celebrating. But, our relationship was always one of opposition, so I think it's in keeping with that. In his honour though, and because he always disapproved of how not girly I was, I shall do so in a dress. Weather permitting.

Weather not permitting, I'll just have to deal with the fact that I'm a bad granddaughter.

Family, eh? Whose bright idea was that?

Further On The Subject Of Sleep

Occasionally, I wake up, and the act of doing so really surprises me.

It's almost as though I didn't realise I was asleep, but not quite. It doesn't stem from not realising I've fallen asleep, because honestly, who's aware of that? You don't know you're asleep because you're asleep. When dreaming, I'm well aware I'm asleep, so waking up is generally a good way to get out of whatever ridiculous dream I'm in. When not dreaming, there is some part of me that is still active and aware I'm asleep, and so waking up is not a surprise.

It's almost, almost as though I'd forgotten to be me.

Does this make sense? Probably not. I try explaining this to people, and I'm either a very bad explainer, or no one else experiences this phenomenon.

There is some part of you that is always actively you, yes? Say, if you're nodding off on the couch, and you know you shouldn't indulge in an afternoon nap but you're going to anyway. While in that nap, some part of you is feeling guilty. Well, this is true for me, certainly. I'm just that good I can feel bad in my sleep. There is a part of you that is still mulling over the day's events, chewing over what every problems you're attempting to overcome, worrying away at little setbacks, and generally processing your life. That goes on, while in sleep. That's you.

That goes away. Sometimes, when I sleep, I'm not there. I don't exist. Waking to discover that actually, I'm me, is quite a shock.

Does anyone else in the world have this happen?

Where did I go?

Why on earth did I come back?

This feeling of sleepiness is the most delicious feeling in the world. It's so rare that, the few times it curls around me, I give in right there and then and go to bed to take advantage of it. Like right now.

Goodnight, sleep better.

Filched from Deb, who also made a lovely collage which samples a selection of the butts we encountered at the zoo. You must understand that the photo of the meerkat is not blurry. Those are in fact tears in your eyes, brought out by the meerkat's heartbreak.

From Deep Sea News: The world's rubbish dump: a garbage tip that stretches from Hawaii to Japan

A "plastic soup" of waste floating in the Pacific Ocean is growing at an alarming rate and now covers an area twice the size of the continental United States, scientists have said.

The vast expanse of debris – in effect the world's largest rubbish dump – is held in place by swirling underwater currents. This drifting "soup" stretches from about 500 nautical miles off the Californian coast, across the northern Pacific, past Hawaii and almost as far as Japan

...that's fucking disgusting.
And my city apartment block doesn't do recycling.

Kung Hei Fat Choi!

'tis Chinese New Year, and this year is the Year of the Rat, which marks the beginning of a new cycle. I'm at work, so I can't find awesome rat pictures or anything like that. You'll just have to content yourself with reading about how the rat came first.

I think I have to have ice cream for dinner.
It's been one of those days.

ASK AND YE SHALL RECEIVE!

The Might Magnificent Marvellous and Magnanimous Matthew GAVE ME A PONY.



AUGH. IT IS AN UNDEAD NAPPY-WEARING CYBORG-HEAD MY LITTLE PONY. IS IT NOT BEAUTIFUL.

YES.

YES IT IS BEAUTIFUL.

For this we give thanks, and must find something undead and fabulous to inflict on his inbox. I'm thinking something with lace. Yah huh.

In other news; a migraine is attempting to make my left frontal lobe explode. Wanna watch?

WOT I DID ON MY WEEKEND, by Sir Tessa (age 26)

First, there was the hussying up, 'cause when going to a Rufus Wainwright concert, it is necessary to look hot. Deb actually looks hot all the time, so this wasn't an issue for her. I, on the other hand, had to sacrifice three fluffy white rabbits to the Gods of Hott Smex before I got my groove on. This did not impress Deb, as she had to clean up sacrificed rabbits. Clearly I could not, that would ruin the whole hottness I'd just acquired. Rabbit blood just doesn't go with my mojo.

Second, there was a whole lot of fabulous music, sparkly things, somersaults, and cross dressing.

Third, despite hotness, Rufus did not love us.

Fourth, we have discovered my other special mutant power - the ability to make any animal turn its back as soon as I am in the area. I shit you not. I just had to touch my camera to make even the damn pigeons turn and present butt. The tree kangaroo presented butt. The bear presented butt. The elephant presented butt. Even the snakes presented butt and they don't have butt. The gorilla presented incredible butt. I am a class five mutant. They will not let me join the X-men. Fuckers.

Fifth, the appearance of one Andy (who is tall, (wears) dark (clothes), and handsome), some cute Lolita girl who should have been in Tokyo, and a whole lot of sunburn.

Sixth, some rather intimidating pimpage which broke my site stats, and is lies and slander. I am not surprising. I say the same things over and over, such as "I can't sleep," and "oh I hate myself what a world what a world," and "I can't sleep," and "dude seriously dude wtf" and that oldie but goldie, "I can't sleep," followed shortly by, "I can't sleep." I also frequently ask for a pony. The internet has not provided me with a pony. It's possible I have used my one "ask and ye shall receive!" card on an angry penguin army. Regardless, I find being watched by so many people at quite alarming, so behold! I am crafty and cunning, and shall distract you with an ADORABLE



MEERKAT ORGY. COMPLETE WITH ADORABLE LITTLE MEERKAT TESTICLES AND ADORABLE LITTLE MEERKAT MUFF.