Important 365 photos photo because it’s probably the most representative photo I could take.
I was mid-posing when I mid-judged how much space I had and actually rolled off of my bed. The photo caught this. I think my foot looks like a flailing cat paw, like the kind in the really absurd photos of cats on the Internet. You know what I’m talking about.
But yeah. This photo probably embodies me the most of any I’ve put on here. Tried to be sexy, fell on my head.
I think my aesthetic sometimes hovers between trashy and sweet.
It was a good night, tumblr.
So, ah.
This is gonna bruise.
Maybe.
Sweetheart’s a silly girl.
But – sometimes, usually – she learns her lesson.
There is so much condescension in being told to slow down.
Like, “shh, shh, sweetheart, slow down.”
I can honestly barely write it, it makes me blush so much.
“Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness,“ Allen Ginsberg, in Michael Schumacher’s On Being a Writer.
TISSUE Magazine N°2.
So, I got flogged for the first time yesterday.
Right on my thighs.
Here’s a fuzzy webcam pic as evidence.
(Mind the photoshopping in the bottom left corner. Can’t have all of you seeing my bedroom furniture.)
I like when it begins with absentminded brushes of fingertips, the drawing of my leg against yours like frustrated tectonics, the wry grins over planned accidents.
I like when you touch my leg under the table or your hand lands on my thigh and I adjust myself so you can repeat the mistake. I’m a multiple offender of being over eager, but you’re a willing accessory.
I like when we both sort of quietly and politely pretend we don’t want it. There’s a word in some strange language for it, the way we both wait for the other to bring it up. But we both speak a strange dialect of badly constructed euphemism, peppered with the occasional outburst of something not for the dinner tables, but maybe for the bedrooms or that phoneless island community we create when it’s just us and our poor attempts at subtlety.
Annie Clark has the most magnificent and unusual sex appeal. She’s a little strange, a little sweet, even a little child-like. Her voice is hauntingly gorgeous.
Not to mention she’s crazy talented.
St. Vincent at the Met, photo Ryan Muir