screw.bolt.rail.curtain.

Just to make this clear; it was not my fault. I was simply trying to be a responsible, young lady and go to bed at a reasonable hour, and was SIMPLY trying to pull the blinds shut. It started with a screw falling onto my head and quickly, very quickly, followed by an oversized mocca coloured curtain and railing, falling into my unsuspecting, out-streched arms...I'll admit, I've never been quite so stunned. I stood there for a good 3 minutes, trying to understand what had just happened. This is now what Lou's beautiful spare bedroom looks like...Wow I'm a shitty guest :S

Naked Lady

Music for the soul.

This song has always given me shivers

Telephone me.

TELEPHONEME | MK12 from MK12 on Vimeo.

This is another one of my unappreciated videos from facebook... This one isn't so much a short film, it's more of a graphic, arty-farty, cooool film.

Your lucky day

Your Lucky Day from Dan on Vimeo.

I found this video ages ago and posted it on facebook... However, I get the feeling that it wasn't really appreciated... and/or watched at all.. It goes for 15 minutes, but just have a watch, it's really... odd? It's really interesting.

Cyc...as in list

As tomorrow is 'Around The Bay in A Day', I thought it appropriate to dedicate a post to bikes.

This is a Ghost bike; my sister's bike.

My dream bike.

Bikes on a wall...Does life want to get any better? No, I don't think its possible....

Write A Bike. These bikes are awesome. They're still in the planning stage, and have yet to be produced, but can you imagine how cool that could be? Awkward if someone stole your bike...because you would know hahaha Go to http://www.typographyserved.com/gallery/Write-a-Bike/716663 to have another look.

Where yo friends at?

hahahahahaha I love this book.

Vectoriseee

I have a new found obbsession. VECTORGRAPHICS. So. Adictive, it's a jookee. This is a vector of Phillip Lim's Resort collection for 2010, the original picture of this gorgeous dress is down the bottom of this page. Watch out, I am about to vectorise. EVERYTHING.

Err-pezz

Kate: Hey guys..I know this is strange, but If you prenounce something with a different accent, it changes the world entirely...

class: *confused

Kate: For example.. Herpes

class: *continued confusion

Kate: you know like how you prenounce Hermes.... but (in french accent), 'Eerrrr-pezzz'

class: *er-pezzz, errrr-pezz, er-pezzz, hahahahaha, you're right!

Kate: *oHh yess, I jist caught a cazual case of errr-pezz on the weekend...

class: HAHAHAHHAHA..oh my.

This is what minimal sleep does to your brain...

Tainted, Fake, Florescent...Tahiti on Church By Zoe Blow...

What you are about to read is a true story. Real experiences. An Autobiographical passage. Things that happened to us. All true. Bring the PASSSAGE.

‘Just take as much as you want off darl,’ she said, pointing her chipped acrylic nails towards my clothing, ‘and I’ll be back in a sec, ‘right hun? Oh, and Welcome to Tahiti...’

My holidays did not take me to the white tropical beaches of Fiji, or to the banks of a distant land, rich with culture or history. No, my holidays took me nowhere of the sort. Instead I found myself standing half naked in a tanning salon in North Brighton on a Friday afternoon. I imagined what my fellow classmates could be up to and then thought about how my own holidays had turned out...’Lift your arm up sweetie, and hold ya breath.’ As if it wasn’t degrading enough, the woman plugged in a hair dryer and began to dry me. I caught a glimpse in the mirror and saw the strangest thing. An off-coloured, middle aged woman with peroxide hair, squatting on the ground in a small make-shift booth, blow-drying the ankles of what appeared to be a rather stunned looking naked African child wearing a shower cap. Yes. This was perhaps the low point of my holidays. To make matters worse, Georgia’s mother informed us, perhaps a little too eagerly, that there was no time to drop us off at home and would, unfortunately, have to stay in the car while picking up Georgia’s younger brother and friend from school. Bra-less and looking as if we had spent the past 3 weeks in living inside a dust storm, we arrived outside of Brighton Grammar. The boys squeezed themselves, along with their bags and sporting equipment into the backseat. The pungent smell of ‘summer’ was so thick in the confined space; even more unbearably noticeable due to the extra bodies crammed in, that you could almost taste the chemicals on your tongue.

Glad that my red face would not be recognisable behind my newly bronzed skin, we endured 4 and half minutes of cruel, emotional and even physiologically damaging ridicule from not only Georgia’s brother and his friend, but from Lou aswell. For the first time in my life, I truly felt little. It was as if someone had died, and I was experiencing the five signs of grief. Stage one, Denial. Defined as ‘No crying. Not accepting or even acknowledging the loss/situation’. ‘Pppft! I look fine! I’, actually not that, dark...’ However every time I caught my reflection in a mirror, I received a shock to see this dirty-looking midget, wearing what appeared to be my clothing. Stage two, Anger. Defined as ‘feelings of wanting to fight back and or blame another as responsible.’ ‘WHY DID YOU ENCOURAGE ME INTO THINKING THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA, I WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO LEAVE THE HOUSE AGAIN!’ Stage three, Bargaining. Defined as ‘Attempting to make deals with spouse/self, or attempting to make deals with God to stop or change the loss. Begging, wishing, praying.’ ‘Everything is going to be fine. I’ll just exfoliate this forty dollars worth of orange-life-ruining-satin-spray off...and, and, have showers on the hour. Problem solved!’ Stage four, Depression. Defined as ‘overwhelming feelings of hopelessness, frustration, bitterness, self pity, mourning loss of person as well as the hopes, dreams and plans for the future. Feeling lack of control, feeling numb. Perhaps feeling suicidal.’ (Heard behind a muffled wail) ‘MY LIFE IS OVER. WHAT’S THE POINT OF EVEN GOING ON? TO FOREVER TRUDGE THE FACE OF THIS EARTH, OUTCASTED AND REJECTED BY SOCIETY, NEVER TO BE, OR FEEL LOVED...?’ Stage five, Acceptance. Defined as ‘Finding the good that can come out of the pain of loss, finding comfort and healing. Our goals turn toward personal growth.’ ‘You know what? I don’t care. Nope. You know what? I look fine, GREAT EVEN!’

Yes. I had finally come to the final stage of grief. Acceptance and with it, an overwhelming sense of newly found confidence and gusto. I felt like shouting out to my judgmental peers, ‘THATS RIGHT, IM ORANGE, WHAT OF IT?’ My tainted complexion had given me a new life, a new attitude and I. Was. Loving. It. Unfortunately, my recently discovered cocky-alter ego was shortly lived. I dolefully watched the orange water trickle down my leg, and gurgle mockingly down the shower drain at me, leaving a pale, dejected, little girl behind. Yes. My holidays were not as luxurious as most, but I discovered something important...Money can certainly, buy you happiness, exactly nine and half day of pure, utter, bronzed-bliss.

I am yet to watch you Virgin Suicides...Blame Turkey, it kept Kate and I from you.

McBride Charles Ryan

Letterbox house=LIFE

Just because suits are niceee

Fuck yeah

Tinnie-tin-tin

These are a few of my tins...I know, I know, I go on an awful lot about my rusty tins...I can't help it alright. Bitch please.

I know how you feel...

Oh Hai!

This evening while walking home, I heard 3 men on the other side of the road. They were all roughly of the same height, with very dark brown hair. One of them had curly hair, one was wearing a fitted waist coat and all of their jeans were rather on the tight side... As I looked over again I momentarily thought, 'Hey! The Jonas Brothers!? Aren't they supposed to be in LA...?' I abruptly stopped this thought in its tracks, realising how mind-bogglingly stupid... it did in fact sound... I continued walking, and as they turned around to cross the road, I caught a glimpse of their faces. To my dismay, it was not the Jonas Brothers (what a shame...hahahah), but three middle aged men, clearly suffering from mid-life crisis’, as they were decked out in what appeared to be the stolen contents of a 19 year old boys wardrobe... Why let the truth ruin a good story? Saw the Jonas Brothers today, it was HECTIC AS.

This is a serious matter.

This is why you're fat...

This is a vanilla milkshake with a large slice of chocolate cake (frosting included) blended into it....

A Clockwork Orange

The day before the party!

Today I went to the supermarket. I became the weak, foolish consumer that advertising companies pray on. Yes, I momentarily believed that if I bought Garnier's clean, sensitive anti tightness cleansing milk, that it would magically wipe away my blemishes with 'no need to rub!', while mysteriously erasing lines and those dammn crows feet those harsh years have left....maybe not... I tricked myself into thinking I needed to smell like coconut, on the basis of 'smelling like summer!'.... stupid consumer. I also felt the need to buy 'specifically formulated underarm care' simply because I liked the look of the 'fresh white ginger nectarines' that were being invigoratingly tossed across the bottle... yes, I am exactly who they pitch those awful ads to where they splash water onto their already pristine faces, only to reveal, an oh wait...yes thats right, a pristine face... Darnn! A pimple! The day before the party!

You've got the magic

'It was wilting out on Lexington Avenue, and espically so since they'd just left an air-conditioned theater; with every step heat's stale breath yawned in their faces...' Truman Capote

I am Guilty

This is my rough-copy creative writing piece on guilt;

I am guilty. I have violated even my own moral standards, to a point in where I no longer recognise myself or the decisions I have made. My eyes are fixed upon the floor, but they do not see the boards. My sight is turned inward, looking deep into my heart. I am not in the present, but instead, I am curved inwards, gazing upon my own thoughts inside my head, sorting through the ever-shifting ‘kaleidoscope on imagination’. If only I could fix things. My cheeks burn crimson red at the memory of what I have done, threatening to give away my guilty conscience and revealing what I fear most ; that the truth will be discovered. ‘The greatest friend of truth is time, her greatest enemy is prejudice, and her constant companion, humility.’ It becomes harder and harder to distinguish fact from fiction, while I move further and further from the truth with every lie. My insides are in knots, twisting and squirming. Every glance, every word and every sudden movement jolts me into the present. Do they know? Can they know? No, impossible. But, what if? Maybe they’re testing me, waiting for me to come forward, and shout, ‘It was me!’ However, if they do not know, what am I to do? Do I step forward, risk everything, and place myself, unprotected and naked against their judgement, and face what I have served out myself, come back double fold? Or do I leave the situation to unfold itself? Perhaps this dark truth will never emerge, never to harm anyone ever again and be forgotten with moments passed. Maybe I will be forgiven, maybe they will understand why, and how I had to do it. I cannot live a lie. Truth sits upon the lips of dying men... if anything should happen, I cannot go to the grave knowing what I know. The truth will prevail either way.