# God is orgasmic.
Description :
_Maude, zoologiste à ses heures perdues, élève des singes turbulents et des ours imaginatifs aimant la mer.
Son profil
pachuca-sunrise19 ans
Withington
Royaume-Uni
Withington
Royaume-Uni
Royaume-Uni
France
Japon
Belgique
Design by pachuca-sunrise
One of those fucking awful black days when nothing is pleasing and everything that happens is an excuse for anger. An outlet for emotions stockpiled, an arsenal, an armour. These are the days when I hate the world, hate the rich, hate the happy, hate the complacent, the TV watchers, beer drinkers, the satisfied ones. Because I know I can be all of those little hateful things and then I hate myself for realising that. There's no preventative, directive or safe approach for living. We each know our own fate. We know from our youth how to be treated, how we'll be received, how we shall end. These things don't change. You can change your clothes, change your hairstyle, your friends, cities, continents but sooner or later your own self will always catch up. Always it waits in the wings. Ideas swirl but don't stick. They appear but then run off like rain on the windshield. One of those rainy day car rides my head implodes, the atmosphere in this car a mirror of my skull. Wet, damp, windows dripping and misted with cold. Walls of grey. Nothing good on the radio. Not a thought in my head.
Be safe. I know a place we can go where you'll fall in love so hard that you'll wish you were dead.
Lets take life and slow it down incredibly slow, frame by frame with two minutes that take ten years to live out. Yeah, lets do that.
Telephone poles like praying mantras against the sky, metal arms outstretched. So much land travelled so little sense made of it. It doesn't mean a thing all this land laid out behind us. I'd like to take off into these woods and get good and lost for a while. I'm disgusted with petty concerns; parking tickets, breakfast specials. Does someone just have to carry this weight? Abstract typography, methane inconvenience, linear gospel, Nashville sales lady, and torturous lice, mad Elizabeth. Chemotherapy bullshit.
The light within you shines like a diamond mine, like an unarmed walrus, like a dead man face down on the highway. Like a snake eating its own tail, steam turbine, frog farm, two full closets burst open in disarray, soap bubbles in the sun, hospital death bed, red convertible, shopping list, blowjob, deaths head, devils dancing, bleached white buildings, memories, movements, the movie unfeeling, unreeling, about to begin.
I've seen your hallway, you're a darn call away, I've hear your stairs creak. I can fix my mind on your yes, and on your no. I'll film you face today in the sparkling canals, all red, yellow, blue, green brilliance and silver Dutch reflection. Racing thoughts, racing thoughts. All too real, you're moving so fast now I cant hold your image. This image I have of your face by the window, me standing beside you arm on your shoulder. A catalogue of images, flashing glimpses then gone again.
Every clear afternoon now I'll picture you up in the air twisting your heel, your knees up around me, my face in your hair. You scream so well, your smile so loud it still rings in my ears.
Imitation. Distant, tired of longing. Clean white teeth. Stay the course. Hold the wheel. Steer on to freedom. Open all the boxes.
Open all the boxes.
Open all the boxes.
Open all the boxes.
Times Square midday: newspaper buildings, news headlines going around, you watch as they go, and hope that some good comes. Those tree shadows in the park they're all whistling chasing leaves. Around six pm, shadows across cobblestones, girl in front of a bathroom mirror she slowly and carefully and paints her face green and mask like. A portrait. A green stripe. Long shot through apartment window, a monologue on top but no girl in shot. The light within you shines like a diamond mine, like an unarmed walrus, like a dead man face down on the highway. Like a snake eating its own tail steam turbine, frog farm, two full closets burst open in disarray, soap bubbles in the sun, hospital death bed, red convertible, shopping list, blowjob, deaths head, devils dancing, bleached white buildings, memories, movements. The movie unreeling, about to begin.
Be safe. I know a place we can go where you'll fall in love so hard that you'll wish you were dead.
Lets take life and slow it down incredibly slow, frame by frame with two minutes that take ten years to live out. Yeah, lets do that.
Telephone poles like praying mantras against the sky, metal arms outstretched. So much land travelled so little sense made of it. It doesn't mean a thing all this land laid out behind us. I'd like to take off into these woods and get good and lost for a while. I'm disgusted with petty concerns; parking tickets, breakfast specials. Does someone just have to carry this weight? Abstract typography, methane inconvenience, linear gospel, Nashville sales lady, and torturous lice, mad Elizabeth. Chemotherapy bullshit.
The light within you shines like a diamond mine, like an unarmed walrus, like a dead man face down on the highway. Like a snake eating its own tail, steam turbine, frog farm, two full closets burst open in disarray, soap bubbles in the sun, hospital death bed, red convertible, shopping list, blowjob, deaths head, devils dancing, bleached white buildings, memories, movements, the movie unfeeling, unreeling, about to begin.
I've seen your hallway, you're a darn call away, I've hear your stairs creak. I can fix my mind on your yes, and on your no. I'll film you face today in the sparkling canals, all red, yellow, blue, green brilliance and silver Dutch reflection. Racing thoughts, racing thoughts. All too real, you're moving so fast now I cant hold your image. This image I have of your face by the window, me standing beside you arm on your shoulder. A catalogue of images, flashing glimpses then gone again.
Every clear afternoon now I'll picture you up in the air twisting your heel, your knees up around me, my face in your hair. You scream so well, your smile so loud it still rings in my ears.
Imitation. Distant, tired of longing. Clean white teeth. Stay the course. Hold the wheel. Steer on to freedom. Open all the boxes.
Open all the boxes.
Open all the boxes.
Open all the boxes.
Times Square midday: newspaper buildings, news headlines going around, you watch as they go, and hope that some good comes. Those tree shadows in the park they're all whistling chasing leaves. Around six pm, shadows across cobblestones, girl in front of a bathroom mirror she slowly and carefully and paints her face green and mask like. A portrait. A green stripe. Long shot through apartment window, a monologue on top but no girl in shot. The light within you shines like a diamond mine, like an unarmed walrus, like a dead man face down on the highway. Like a snake eating its own tail steam turbine, frog farm, two full closets burst open in disarray, soap bubbles in the sun, hospital death bed, red convertible, shopping list, blowjob, deaths head, devils dancing, bleached white buildings, memories, movements. The movie unreeling, about to begin.
"I was really annoyed by bands coming on and saying 'We've got CDs at the back for sale - three pounds each'... you'd think 'Fuck off, who do you think you are?' "
T'es moche
Connard, enfoiré de merde, espèce d'abruti. Pauvre idiot. Je te HAIS !
Connard, enfoiré de merde, espèce d'abruti. Pauvre idiot. Je te HAIS !
Can't go home right now, and that's the truth
Julie Burchill's drinking free champagne on my roof
The front door's off limits, at least to the likes of me
See right here, right here, this is my story
Slept in a stranger's flat in all my clothes
In the morning I took a bus across the city to feel safe and closer to home
Passed a sign on the door, and a couple more
Saying welcome to hard times, welcome to hard times
I thought of a friend whose window looks out onto nothing but fields
While outside mine
The book shop was closing down
It's closed now
And it starts to look unlikely
As people leave around me
Helen King wrote a letter to me
Sent May 19th, the day of my birthday
From a desk in a library in some far off country
I'm a roving artist now. It's alright, it's okay
It said there's no magic left in crystal balls
I'm not sure there ever was at all
But listen, what will happen, the fatal question
Is best left for the last line of the poem
And it starts to look unlikely
As people leave around me
Fashionistas, we don't need you
Fashionistas, we don't need you
Fashionistas, we don't need you
Fashionistas, we don't need you
Fashionistas, we don't need you
Fashionistas, we don't need you
Fashionistas, we don't need you
Fashionistas, we don't need you
Julie Burchill's drinking free champagne on my roof
The front door's off limits, at least to the likes of me
See right here, right here, this is my story
Slept in a stranger's flat in all my clothes
In the morning I took a bus across the city to feel safe and closer to home
Passed a sign on the door, and a couple more
Saying welcome to hard times, welcome to hard times
I thought of a friend whose window looks out onto nothing but fields
While outside mine
The book shop was closing down
It's closed now
And it starts to look unlikely
As people leave around me
Helen King wrote a letter to me
Sent May 19th, the day of my birthday
From a desk in a library in some far off country
I'm a roving artist now. It's alright, it's okay
It said there's no magic left in crystal balls
I'm not sure there ever was at all
But listen, what will happen, the fatal question
Is best left for the last line of the poem
And it starts to look unlikely
As people leave around me
Fashionistas, we don't need you
Fashionistas, we don't need you
Fashionistas, we don't need you
Fashionistas, we don't need you
Fashionistas, we don't need you
Fashionistas, we don't need you
Fashionistas, we don't need you
Fashionistas, we don't need you
C'est plus facile de haïr, surtout quand vous êtes devant quelqu'un qui vous fait du mal.
So I sit in some trendy bar with a girl who I met through my mate Char-lott. She's a bit of a sort, everything was cool until we talked. Now she didn't offend me, but her chat was proper empty, I realised the girl I'm scoring is fit but fucking boring ! And I'm nearly snoring cos she goes on and on bout her awesome family and the village she is from; and she's studying maths, her favourite colour is black. And she's a terrible cook - and I can't help from staring at her rack !
Cos I'm listening, yeah I'm tuning in ! Cos what you say is really interesting (yeah !) Cos I'm tuning in, yeah I'm zooming in ! Cos when you talk I really do listen. (honest !)
So we get onto this conversation it was oh so fun. And when she finished I downed another drink of coke and rum, I got a toilet break and had a cheeky fag; she went when I came back I had to guard her bag.
"If you come home with me, I work all you need cos I've got a nice place and I don't mind we can walk at your pace, if you wanna stay the night then it really is alright cos there's enough space and I really think that you'd like my place !"
*Snoring*
So I asked her what music she liked:
"A bit of everything really !"
I asked her "Be more specific", but she can't answer my query. Ok, that's enough, I've heard enough mindless chat ! I need to curb on the bullshit and get her back to my flat.
"Girl I've heard enough, you talk about such wanton stuff ! Cos I've got a nice place and I don't mind we can walk at your pace. I've sat right here polite, let's go back now I'm borderline. Cos there's enough space and I really think that you'd like my place."
Bla-blah blah blah, blah-blah, blah blah blah-blah, blah blah
"Come on ! Go on... You know you wanna ! Bit of fun ennit ? I'll make you a cup of coffee, I'll pay for the taxi, once it gets here. We can talk more at my house go on, seriously ! Oh nice one !"
Cos I'm listening, yeah I'm tuning in ! Cos what you say is really interesting (yeah !) Cos I'm tuning in, yeah I'm zooming in ! Cos when you talk I really do listen. (honest !)
So we get onto this conversation it was oh so fun. And when she finished I downed another drink of coke and rum, I got a toilet break and had a cheeky fag; she went when I came back I had to guard her bag.
"If you come home with me, I work all you need cos I've got a nice place and I don't mind we can walk at your pace, if you wanna stay the night then it really is alright cos there's enough space and I really think that you'd like my place !"
*Snoring*
So I asked her what music she liked:
"A bit of everything really !"
I asked her "Be more specific", but she can't answer my query. Ok, that's enough, I've heard enough mindless chat ! I need to curb on the bullshit and get her back to my flat.
"Girl I've heard enough, you talk about such wanton stuff ! Cos I've got a nice place and I don't mind we can walk at your pace. I've sat right here polite, let's go back now I'm borderline. Cos there's enough space and I really think that you'd like my place."
Bla-blah blah blah, blah-blah, blah blah blah-blah, blah blah
"Come on ! Go on... You know you wanna ! Bit of fun ennit ? I'll make you a cup of coffee, I'll pay for the taxi, once it gets here. We can talk more at my house go on, seriously ! Oh nice one !"
You're working harder than ever, which puts a crimp in your social life. It may be necessary to back out of a party because of your job. Although you resent this intrusion, you have to admit the sacrifice will be worth it. You're making real strides in your career. Take care to save as much money as you can. Having a nest egg will help you move to a more glamorous sector. Making money from your creative talent will be fulfilling.
Mad fer it.
"You could think I'm wrong, but that's no reason to stop thinking ?"
Dr. Gregory House