Poll: Which is this month's weirdest search term?

Man. There are some fruitycakes out there, non? I'm always interested in the search terms that lead people to my blog. Vote below and choose thee weirdest, and I swear to all that is covered in chocolate I'll write a fantastical blog post about it. Yeah, Beyotches, it's on!!!!

more at twiigs.com...

I've compiled a list...

...of things that exist in my head that, make me happy to think about. Because I've been bitching all day long...

1) a cupcake with a yellow duckling on the top in icing.
2) a round-neck white cotton t-shirt with Ian Curtis*' face on it.
3) a handwritten letter from a friend with stickers and photos enclosed
4) a kitten wearing a tyrolean sweater and knitted bobble hat.
5) painting my nails with lavender-blue nail varnish, with tiny silver dots.
6) talking only in the present tense. "I am sleeping well, last night. I am having dreams. Let's shopping in Dubai"**.
7) a free ticket to any country that has Starbucks.
8) Marc Jacobs designing a shoe based on my wonderfulness, and Philip Treacy doing a matching hat.
9) sleeping late every day for the rest of my life.
10) papering my apartment walls with pale robin's-egg blue and eggshell-white lace.
11) breaking into exclusive books and stealing all the new books I can carry in a black bag, so many that my entire apartment smells of fresh paper and ink for a week.

Also, I would like my colleague to remove Toto's "Africa" as her cellphone ring. It's been a stressful day and that's just not helping.

* This is why google was invented.
** much like english is spoken in Japan.

A Very Brave Girl.

Yesterday was my first beach day of the season, and a very exciting one it was. You see, I had resolved that ennough was enough, no more would I suffer the tyranny and shame of the two white triangles of dead-looking white flesh! No more would I have to photoshop self-portraits to even out skin tone on my chestal region! Yes, people, I this is the year...for toplessness!

Seriously.

I'm not one for exposing myself in public. But, honestly, it's practically become de rigeur these days to go about like a three-year-old*. And for a while I've been gazing jealously at the bronzed noombies of the beach girls**, who have no top-half tan lines, and can ear low-cut tops, and don't look weird naked. Well, unless they just look weird naked naturally, but that's another topic for another time.

So, I decided to gird my loins and stop being such a big baby. It wasn't easy though. I got to the beach, ready for my quest. I scanned the few people on the beach: nice, not too few for me to stand out, not so many that it would be intimidating. Mostly girl, and families with naked children. Good, nakedness of children helps my cause. There were some fully-dressed beach-watchers, which was totally creeping me out, because I just knew they were dirty perverts waiting for my boobies. Beaches= beachwear, it's a dress code, and people who don't respect that... perverts!

Anyway, finally the time came, and I whipped of my top and lay down like a little person trying to be unobtrusive. Nobody jeered, pointed or giggled. In fact, very few noticed, possibly. As I've mentioned, my ta-tas*** are not that big. So, I passed my first tan time without event, enjoying the cool breeze on my skin. and I think it'll be a little easier next time.

I feel very brave, and accomplished, like I climbed a mountain or something. Only without the physical exertion part, which would suck. Score one for the half-naked lady!

*but with boobs.
** well, until they noticed and then suddenly it got all weird.
*** starting to run out of synonyms for breasticles.

Intenational Talk Like A Pirate Day- ARRRRRRRRR!

Today be international Talk Like a Gentleman o' fortune Tide, an' as a practisin' swashbuckler*, I feel 'tis me obligation t' raise awareness o' this fine tradition. This tide aims t' honour them great swashbucklers through history- such as Blackbeard, William Kidd an' Johnny Depp. Men who swashed, buckled, an' stomped around on peg legs, drinkin' rum** an' buryin' booty, instead o', fer some reason, spendin' 't. Also: they be really good at trap design, 't seems. An' had plenty o' time t' do so, on accoun' o' those things be complicated … like th' flyin' spike ones. How did they get them things t' reset? I'm only askin' on accoun' o' thar be always dead bodies o' swabbies who got caught by th' flyin' spikes/ darts/ spears/ capuchin monkeys, but th' traps be always still primed… hmmm. Arr swashbucklers also hire good long-term caretakers. They’re planners, arrrr.

Belay that, hearties.

Anyway, 't must ben fun t' be a swashbuckler, all that fightin' an' drinkin' rum t' prevent scurvy*** an' robbin' an' eyeliner. Men look good, sometimes wi' eyeliner. This be also why Goths be popular. An' Brandon Flowers. But Brandon Flowers be nay swashbuckler. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! He’s, frankly, a bit unconvincin' an' weedy. A real Gentleman o' fortune be dirty an' unkempt an' hairy an' possibly keeps a spare eye patch fer formal occasions. He climbs th' mizzenmast an' uses his knife t' slash his way aft down th' sail. He sweeps ladies off the'r feet, an' right onto th' plank.

If I be a swashbuckler, I would be both fearsome an' proud. Also, ribald. I would swear a great deal. An' be obsessed wi' dubloon. I would be havin' a large beard. An' th' wenches would tremble as I strode into th' alehouse, an' plunk me rum down right quick!

An' always, always, thar would be th' Arrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

*some would insist that I’m more o' a wench, but them scurvy dogs will feel th' taste o' me cutlass.
**ugh, tho, rum gives me heartburn. Well, I like spiced dubloon, wi' Appletiser.

*** a sound nutritional theory, t' be sure.

Bunny Love...

I know. I've mentioned it before, my crazy love for teensy bunnies. But my mania for fluffumses has been stoked of late...My mother made the mistake* of taking me in to Perky Pets in the Gardens Centre over the weekend, where they have the darlingest dwarf bunnies. For only R80!! How they do undervalue the little balls of fluffy goodness, but oh what a temptation for me! I could totally get a weensy black bunny... or a tan one.

Not a white one though...they show the dirt most dreadfully, and they're rather démodé and 80's...Which reminds me of a rabbit-fur coat I used to have, before my mom discovered fur was evil. I used to feel both glamorous and dorky in that coat. But is was so soft! Sometimes, I would pretend I was a bunny, when I was wearing it.

... did I just overshare?

Anyway, so I could get a bunny, but not while I'm in my place...I'd need a little patch of grass at least, although I do plan to have a range of super-cute leashes that match my shoes and/ or handbags, and then we can go for teensyy walks on the promenade. Actually, that might not work, some awful miniature Pinscher or Maltese bitch** might think he's a chew toy and bite him. He's need a little hutch to sleep in (can you paint them? I want one in pink and gold). Do bunnies like cushions? Must Google "bunny needs"***.

What's a good name for a bunny? Not anything like Benny, or Bobo, or something dumb with a B.... Ehhhhhm. Elijah...Elijah bunny! it totally works!

* but a good one
**female dog! female dog!
*** hmmmm. what do you bet there'll be some sort of porn result?

The Falcon: Running Hog Wild in Italy, and soon.

Because I'm lazy, herewith an excerpt of a skype conversation with The Falcon* edited for brevity** and spelling, of course. Read on at your own risk.

The Falcon : Well I never! Drugs? I couldn't even name a drug.
betenoir : ...
The Falcon : Hmm. Cocaine would technically be going buck wild. But I am afraid of cocaine.
betenoir : rock n' roll? starting a band?
The Falcon : ALWAYS ROCK N' ROLL! I am ALWAYS STARTING A BAND!
betenoir : ..can I be in it?
The Falcon : No. Yes. Maybe. I know you can sing, but I want to be lead singer.
betenoir : bitch. I'll be the “occasional, need-a-girl-for-this-song singer”
The Falcon : Goddamn though, you were good in Guys and Dolls. Did I ever tell you that?
betenoir : no. thank you.
The Falcon : You can sing backup.
The Falcon : But you will not be paid.
betenoir : fuck you, I won't sing backup

betenoir : I will be the sex appeal
The Falcon : You'd better! Or learn to play the keytar.
betenoir : I will draw the crowds.
betenoir : I will be Nico
The Falcon : I hate Nico.
betenoir : I will DRAWL in a GERMAN ACCENT!!!

betenoir : it’s fine. We’ll fight on stage. It will play well.
The Falcon : Okay. You can be more like Karen O.
betenoir : Okay
The Falcon : Except backup.
betenoir : screw you! I’ll be backup if I can stand in front!
The Falcon : You will stand to the side and a little back. But you can do arm motions.

betenoir : I’ll learn an instrument
The Falcon : Do arm motions as you play the keytar.
betenoir : bass guitar
The Falcon : No, I play bass.
The Falcon : And during concerts we play recorded tracks of me playing bass.
betenoir : why?
The Falcon : Because my bass is unstoppable...We already have a guitarist.
betenoir : who is our guitarist? why not have more than one?
The Falcon : We already have three if we need them.
The Falcon : Drums. We need a drummer.
betenoir : I can do drums
The Falcon : All right, you're on drums.

The Falcon : But you have to drum slutty.
betenoir : drum slutty?
betenoir : what, like with my boobs hanging out, and my bra strap showing?
The Falcon : You'll figure it out.
betenoir : can we still fight on stage?
The Falcon : Sure, sure.
betenoir : sweet.

* this is what happens when you let people choose their own pseudonyms.
** yes, this is the shorter version.

FAQ

What's up with you and the bunnies?
pygmy bunnies are super-cute, especially with the big eyes and the flopsy-forward ears. Also, I'm desirous of a pet, but I read Bridget Jones' Diary a while ago* and the thought of dying old and alone and being devoured by my cats/ dogs/ pet rocks became sort of a theme in my more obsessive moments** rabbits are a) vegetarians and b) mostly live in cages, so they don't get to live off my body. A horse would probably also be okay, but they're a bit big, aren't they? A teeny tiny horse, therefore, would be perfect.

What's the weirdest birthday present you ever received?
Mr Flinn sent me a full-frontal naked picture of a young Tony Danza. I'm now pretty convinced that He's the Boss. Tony Danza, I mean.

What's your natural hair colour, anyway?
Sort of a dark-blonde-to-light-golden-brown. It's unexciting, except that in sumer it used to go pretty light. But since I was 16 I've had red hair, auburn, champagne blonde, black, brunette, platinum blonde, and even a brief, accidental period of purple, which taught me the lesson: don't dye your hair in Israel. All of which has been way more fun than my "natural" hair colour, aside from the occasional need to remove all my hair.

Axl Rose: what's up with that?
I dunno. He used to be the epitome of bad-boy cool. Mind you, that as when I was about 11 or 12, but still, everyone that year had the bandanna or the sticker or the little Gn'R pendant/earring whatever. Then he got all weirdy, tubby, and...ginger. How do you suddenly become an eyebrowless Ginge? was he not blonde, most of the Cool years? How does it take ten years to record an album? Actually it's more like 15 at this point. Whether or not the album is good or not is somewhat moot: would people spend money on what is essentially a joke band at this point?

Mind you: people buy Michael learns to Rock***, Avril Lavigne, and Nickelback. Next question.

What's the longest English word in the world?
According to Wikipedia it's (deep breath, now) pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, a 45-letter word which refers to a lung disease contracted from the inhalation of very fine silicious particles, which just goes to show research scientists have as much of a sense of humour as the rest of us. When I was in junior school, however, I was taught that it was Floccinaucinihilipilification, the act of estimating something as worthless, which ironically enough, was what I was doing earlier with Nickelback. Think about it, very time you find yourself contemplating Urine...I mean Irene Bester, you're engaged in Floccinaucinihilipilification. Don't you feel more well-rounded and interesting already?

Why do you swear so much? And why is your blog so relatively sweariness-free?
I can't swear so much on my blog because I'd get blocked, or some shit. The kids read this stuff, you know what I'm saying? But swearing is fun, satisfying, and also it juxtaposes nicely with my cute, sometimes ladylike exterior. Belching loudly and being cynical are also hugely entertaining, especially if I can do all three at the same time.

Better yet: making up my own obscure cusswords. People are never sure how to react when you call them a bok-dancing monkeysmuggler. Or a pituitary-glandular Robespierre. They look at you funny, and that's the cue to feel smug and superior.

What are we having for dinner tonight?
I dunno, what are you cooking?

Don't be like that. I made Sashimi last time.
Yeah, sashimi is hard to make.

Biyatch.
dumbass. What kind of questions are these anyway?

* I'll never admit that again.
** All the time.
***he actually learned to suck.

this Monkey's going to Heaven

I had this whole post planned out in my head last night as I lay in bed, drifting off into slumber. I was going to talk bout the Pixies, and the song Debaser, and the link to Salvador Dali, and how this influenced both my taste in music and my taste in men*. But then I fell asleep.

I keep doing this. I'm a bedtime thinker. When I'm under stress, this results in pointless obsessing over not only what is worrying me, but also unimportant things like whether I have the right belt to go with an outfit I'm planning.** When I'm not, I tend to ruminate on life, love, friendship and TV programmes. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, I start to slip into that half-drowsy state where I'm dreaming, but not quite asleep, and I suddenly realise that my thought patterns have suddenly veered into the ridiculous.

Sometimes, If I think my thinking will possibly keep me awake, I'll listen to my iPod, although more often than not this will result in me dancing around the room***, in the dark, because who has time to turn the lights on?

But more often than not I write blog posts in my head. And then promptly forget them. And trust me, they are some pretty damn good writing, much better than I do during the day. And I should probably rouse myself from my snoozefulness, and type them. But I'm too sleepy at the time.

All of which is a roundabout way of saying: I wrote an excellent post last night, but you're getting this lame one instead.

* do you have arcane knowledge of music/ literature/ romantic languages? I like people who are smarter than I.
** What am I SAYING! That's totally crucial! The wrong belt is like..the wrong shoes!!! Or Forgetting mascara, when you totally planned your eye-makeup around it! FFS.
*** biggest culprits: Baby got Back, My Humps, Our Velocity by Maximo Park, anything by Franz Ferdinand.

Antisocial.

Yesterday was a new record for me. Or perhaps a new low. I started off my morning watching an episode of Heroes. And then I couldn't stop. For fourteen hours. In the end, I had a migraine and was getting a little bit crazy, so I was forced to go for a walk to clear my head.

Actually, that was a description of a pretty cool day.

I think, being an only child, I grew too comfortable with my own company. Armed with a vivid imagination, a safe neighbourhood and having read every one of the Famous Five books, I pretty much lived inside my own head. And it was a pretty cool place to be. Anyway, as an adult, sometimes I just don't want or need to be with other people. People, are for the most part annoying. They have emotional needs that must be navigated. They want to talk about things I'm not interested in. I'm not talking about my friends and loved ones, really: it's new people strangers and acquaintances that are the problem. And they are all over the place. I meet them all the time. And sometimes I'd rather just stay home with a good book*, or some DVD's.

It's a good thing I don't have Katamari Damacy** anymore or I'd never leave the house.

I guess I'm just having one of those phases where I'm all hermity and Garboesque. and Garboesque is never a bad thing to be.

* My Ideal Sunday morning: wake up, have sex with significant other, read awesome book for a few hours, nap, wake up, eat waffles.
** Does anyone have a PS2 and a copy of Katamari Damacy to lend me?

Regrets? I have a few.

so, there are a few things I would really like to have done in my lifetime, but haven't. I mean, I've accomplished a whole lot of really cool things: putting myself through two degrees, getting really involved in photography, living in strange countries for extended periods, giving a volcano the finger-- these are just a few of the awesome things I have enjoyed doing. But I'm talking the really awesome things, my dream activities, my fantasy life.

get your mind out of the gutter.


anyway, herewith find enclosed the aforementioned list of things I would like to accomplish at some point.

1) Being a ninja would be Pretty Damn Cool. I think that my life is essentially an empty sucking void when it comes to my lack of Ninja skills, or skillz as it were. I often imagine how much better everything could be if i could jump around buildings, kicking the shit out of people, throwing shurikens in the supermarket, and generally delivering Hard Life Lessons to people that annoy me. Especially guys who kmake kissy noises at me when they drive past. Or who walk past and are all like: "hey babay" I'm not your fuckin baby. But I digress. who wouldn't want to be accomplished in silent, gymnastic kick-assery?
2) Being an invincible robot ninja would be even better. do I even have to clarify this? I thought not.
3) I would like to smash a beer bottle across the face of a punk-ass. A green one. And not a wine bottle. and no, not smash a beer bottle and cut someone. I want to actually whack the bottle across their cheek, due to their deserving it. I can see it. I think it might be satisfying.
4) wait. A ninja pirate!!!!! holy cross-genre fantasticaciousness! Skaaaaarsgaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrd!
5) Killing a Zombie, obviously. with a crossbow? nothing too gross or bloody, like a chainsaw. whatever: I'd like more than 50 action points a day though.
6) Is it too late to learn to skateboard? or is it too having-a-midlife-crisis? Can women even have midlife crises? I think I would make an awesome skatepunk: I already have a snotty attitude and a tattoo, and enjoy rebelling against authority (ie: The Man).
7) eventually, before I get too old, I'd like to turn Vampire. With an awesome sword that glows blue and steals souls, which would feed my eternal.... ah. wait. that's the plot of Soul Reaver*..... oh whatever.

I really did not intend for this to contain quite as much violence. Oops. Next post: sunshine, kittens and picnics.

* I once found the cheat that allowed me to get the Soul Reaver during Baldur's Gate. It was pretty sweet.

Our Gmail conversations tend to disintegrate like this

Gmail. this morning. As usual:

E-Poops: so Ladies’ Dan and I spend an awesome evening last Thursday playing drinking HOUSE! with one of the new episodes. (too bad it was the most boring episode ever... except for when house says "rape baby") so Ladies’ Dan, I finally got the other episode to download properly, and watched it with molly on Saturday evening, and I wish you had been there to play "take a drink for every foot of tapeworm house pulls out of the patient" -- it was like 25).

Also, remember when that doctor pulled 25 feet of anal beads out of Bertrude’s mom?

Dr. Esteban: Oh I totally saw that episode!
E-Poops: I liked how they added the following lines to calm people's fears about giant 800 feet tapeworms living inside of them:
Nurse: could I have a tapeworm inside of me?
House: no, you would feel it. The only reason this girl didn't know
she had a tapeworm, is because she can't feel pain.

Also, random fact. The "can't feel pain" disease only has about 35 cases reported in the US, but there are over 300 cases in Japan.
Me: I thought that was the "can't feel empathy" disease?
Dr. Esteban: No, it's Can't Understand Why Everyone Isn't Exactly Like Me disease.
Me: ah, I see where I was confused. I think that goes hand in hand with "claim everything as our invention" disease.
E-Poops: I thought it was the "can't understand why everyone isn't exactly like me, and I am also unable to walk properly and choose attractive clothing" disease
Dr. Esteban: You mean Spontaneous Fashion Barf-o-plosion?
E-Poops: that would be the scientific word.... yes
E-Poops: (oh... sorry... the scientific word for word is term)
Me: what about "my panty hamster gets so hot in winter that I have to flash it even if it's snowing" disease?
Dr. Esteban: Did you just refer to a clunge as a "panty hamster?"
E-Poops: Betenoir is a little confused, because her cooter IS in fact a living breathing, hamster.
Me: it eats seeds.
Dr. Esteban: it eats seed?
Silent disapproval robot: ...
Me: ...and nuts.
Me: don't judge me.
La Chica: I ate some nuts today. Pecans & Cashews. Are you gonna judge me?
Dr. Esteban: Only if you ingested them through your "panty hamster."
E-Poops: Chica’s is a gerbil.

** Names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved in this... incident...

gnah. gnf. blep.

Fah, but my brain is deaded. it's somewhat amazing how a relatively simple but mind-numbing task can rob you of your cognitive power. Also the ability to walk, talk, or breathe through the nose. The key is to find something repetitive and boring, requiring just enough coordination/ skill to make it annoying. Then do it for an entire workday, or two, or (it looks like it's gonna be) three. Add a soupcon of interruptions, other tasks that need to be handled urgently, and a phone that rings constantly. Then bake in a windowless office, until nicely zombified.

I will not be able to make witty conversation tonight, I can just feel it. I hate going out all unwittified. I might as well not wear makeup. Or deodorant. Or pants. I don't feel I am being too arrogant when I claim that I am the Oscar Wilde of my Generation... Okay, Not quite, but certainly the...someone... of... fuckit, I am unable to maintain this post. Here I am trying to be funny and I just cannot pull it off. This is vaguely pathetic. And yet I cannot stop. Oh, and it seems I have lost the ability to speak in contractions.

Help. me.

Some Days are weirder than others.

On the days that I don't feel like being at work, I do weird things to entertain myself. today I have:

• annoyed and intrigued most of the office by asking the unanswerable: "how and where do the staplers go in the copier? what if they run out?" Cue Jocelyn and I taking apart the machine in an attempt to find the source of the stapley goodness. No luck, but I found the pack of spare staples. copier staples have no bends. how cool is that?!!!?
• caught a falling phone book, and reacted by growling and making claw hands, and yelling:" reflexes of a cat!!!!!!". The volunteer did not think that was amusing, but it's not my fault she has no sense of humour.
  
• stood silently by Jocelyn's desk until she noticed me. raised my eyebrows. then walked away.
• answered everyone's "can you do me a favour" by saying "no. no i don't feel like it".
• Gone online window shopping. Does anyone want to buy me some sweet Cons? I'm a size 5 ½.

sigh. 1 Hour 5 mins till I'm free. why is the shortest day also the longest?