- Reconnect with Her!
- Send Her a message!
- Write on Her wall!
- You haven’t talked on Facebook lately, sen Her a message!
- Reconnect with Her!
- Write on Her wall!
- Send Her a message!
- Help make Facebook better for Her.
- Poke Her!
For what feels like several weeks now, Facebook has been placing a small picture of tiny in the right column of the home page. Never anyone else. The picture shows tiny looking at me from below, somewhat hunchback-like, and Facebook continously attaches subtle messages to her picture. The words change from time to time, but the original message still remains. tiny doesn’t fit into the Facebook Dream. For that I love Her.
And the Facebook shall never know.
Showing posts with label normality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label normality. Show all posts
2009-11-01
2009-10-27
Instead of Lindsay Lohan's take on nipple tassels...
After a hard day’s work in school, I find it highly rewarding listening to this song. Because, contrary to facts, it makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something. Bryan Ferry might not be the prettiest puppy in the petshop, but his voice IS smoother than sunshine. And since the sun’s been hiding its ass for over a week now, Roxy Music is my substitute.
On a darker note, Halloween’s coming up and I might’ve promised hosting some kind of black-spandex-red-lips party. Somehow, I find that thought highly depressing right now. But that’s probably just my heavy workload talking. Can anyone be so kind as to inform me of the cancelability of that specific event?
And finally, tiny, remember that time when we were at that awfully trendy club somewhere close to Champs Elysées and that horrible guard insinuated that my awesome dress was too coat-y, simply by asking if it was a coat and if so advised me to hand it in to the wardrobe? And I was like Man, me and my dress are are as coat-y as this place is ghey! Of course I didn’t say that. What does that even mean? No. Instead, I felt strangely exposed, almost naked, when naturally, I should‘ve felt the opposite. But - and here’s my point - apparently this kind of conformist shit happens to other people as well. And I swear, I didn't even wear turtleneck that specific night.
On a darker note, Halloween’s coming up and I might’ve promised hosting some kind of black-spandex-red-lips party. Somehow, I find that thought highly depressing right now. But that’s probably just my heavy workload talking. Can anyone be so kind as to inform me of the cancelability of that specific event?
And finally, tiny, remember that time when we were at that awfully trendy club somewhere close to Champs Elysées and that horrible guard insinuated that my awesome dress was too coat-y, simply by asking if it was a coat and if so advised me to hand it in to the wardrobe? And I was like Man, me and my dress are are as coat-y as this place is ghey! Of course I didn’t say that. What does that even mean? No. Instead, I felt strangely exposed, almost naked, when naturally, I should‘ve felt the opposite. But - and here’s my point - apparently this kind of conformist shit happens to other people as well. And I swear, I didn't even wear turtleneck that specific night.
2009-05-11
Help me help you help yourself. And then let's go public!
So what we did was we put tiny stretched out on a couch, after we had finished a cider & soup-dinner and a delicious dark and white chocolate cake covered in various roasted nuts. Having briefly discussed whether a canapé is a divan or finger food, we quickly identified tiny's very outspoken wish to “become normal” as the key symptom of her disease. With the help of Rorschach ink blots we encouraged her to see genitals where she at first glance had seen nothing but factories and Santas. When she had hugged a pillow for thirty minutes or so, while getting a jellybean for each of what we considered to be the only one correct genital-answer to the ink-blot pictures, we finished the session and watched half an episode of the unfathomable series named True Blood. I think, all in all, we did good, Ape and I.
According to Lisa, in France, all you have to do to work as a psychoanalyst is to have undergone psychoanalysis yourself. Yup. It's what I’d like to call a “Plan B”.
These are tiny's "two santas" that we successfully made her turn into a "vagina"
According to Lisa, in France, all you have to do to work as a psychoanalyst is to have undergone psychoanalysis yourself. Yup. It's what I’d like to call a “Plan B”.
These are tiny's "two santas" that we successfully made her turn into a "vagina"2008-12-29
Wanna know how I got these scars?
I have just been informed of the existence of smile-activated shutters on digital cameras. Cameras that, on demand, won't take the picture until the object smiles.
Tell me, is this common knowledge?
I don't know what to make of it. Of course, I love when people smile. I love happiness. I love taking pictures. And I, like tiny, love portraits.
What I don't love is this orthodox assumption that a portrait with a smile naturally is more sought-after than one without a smile. I, and I believe many with me, have always felt more or less anguished every time someone asks me to smile for a camera. Or asked to smile, no matter why. To then design a machine that refuses to accept me unless I alter my face into a predetermined shape is like spitting in my face. And that certainly won't make me smile.
Tell me, is this common knowledge?
I don't know what to make of it. Of course, I love when people smile. I love happiness. I love taking pictures. And I, like tiny, love portraits.
What I don't love is this orthodox assumption that a portrait with a smile naturally is more sought-after than one without a smile. I, and I believe many with me, have always felt more or less anguished every time someone asks me to smile for a camera. Or asked to smile, no matter why. To then design a machine that refuses to accept me unless I alter my face into a predetermined shape is like spitting in my face. And that certainly won't make me smile.
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