When Dust Bunnies Attack

Never Let Yours Toes Peak Out of the Covers


As if it never does...
Suicide
little_dormy
Paranoid, delusional fool
I,
fall in love to watch the sky

I
let myself
deceive my eyes.
perfect sight all awash
blurs and fuzz become distinct,
vibrant
haunts and rituals reclothed
tailored by inaudible music
caresses of absent hands.

Walking again to places
already seen,

I
love you
making all unfamiliar.
more beautiful
exotic than ever
only dreams and memories
I
play it with out a partner
happily held a secret
alone.

My problem
Suicide
little_dormy
When I care:
I like to learn and observe people's wants and needs.I paint a dream world around them. Not a paradise, but the place where I imagine they would be happiest. A place where they can live and be with the people they love and do the things that they want, succeed at their ambitions.
I want to see them happy.

My problem is: I never paint myself in. Somehow in all that coaxing out of wishes I always come to the conclusion that I'm not a part of their dream. So I paint it up and walk away carrying my thought of them with me.
I thought it was kind. The fact is they never get this ideal world I made for them. Some of them don't even hear about it. The people who I admire and love best are rewarded with my distance.

I may not be part of their perfect world but, the world we are in is far from perfect. Perhaps I should start behaving as if we live on the same planet and stop waiting for their dreams to come true.

Sexy sexy sexy obviously not in order
Suicide
little_dormy
Helena Bonham Carter


Julie Brown



Fuchsia Foxxx


Evilyn Sin Claire



Fannie Beaverhausen



Mercury Troy




Jet Girl



Eszter Balla



Lou


Cyndi Lauper



Marilyn Monroe




Iris Adrian



Marion Martin



Randi Rascal and Harlequin


Sarah


Ben Delacreme



Waxie Moon




Mana


The'Trojan Original



Alan Cumming



Steve Buscemi


Christopher Walken



can't make one of these with out Johnny Depp




Jean-Louis Barrault ... Jean-Baptiste



Marcel from Bel de Jour aka Pierre Clementi



Vince Noir & Howard Moon. I love them both: Deal with it.
not equally mind you...




Bernard L. Black aka Dylan Moran



Eric Idle



Eliot from Leverage but only when he is fighting... and best if he's wearing glasses. In combination he is what made me sit down and watch the show in the first place.




Hugh Jackman



Papa Lazarou




..... and Reece Shearsmith but separately.


Hugh Grant


David Bowie


Eddie Izzard



Tim Curry



Russell Brand

Remember this name.
Suicide
little_dormy
I <3 Russian Orthodox churches.

Also
Sergey Tyukanov
Awesome awesome illustrator.

Post posed tit notes
Suicide
little_dormy
Hi!
Naked, naked, always naked. Trying to clothe the other people.
They always feel exposed.
I like the cartoons that bleed and pulse through my eye lids. The painted paintings moving like they smudged and gushed around. Hands unseen drag the images into the darkness again and again. Blink, blink I wish that my eyelashes shape would remind me... remind me of my purpose. To make cartoons, images, alive in the dark by myself. Understanding, plotting and changing what I see and then taking it for me. From this realm near my pupils, kicking and screaming on the edge of a brush.
Marry the master, lie with him. Let him have you, your movement, your sound. Let him enslave you to that bed... do it's bidding and make many more of you.

My face is burning and the moons face is glowing loud up above the clouds. Here I sit entranced by possibility, the maybe. I cannot stare down over my nearly naked body and recognize it. It's pink softness doesn't hold my pictures, my words, my writings. How special can a temple be? When I see me I want to feel an instance of solidness... whether that means I all there now or that at least there is a conformation to the dedication, its the intention from one and all to be there. Just call, just ring and the dreamers and slackers who live in but on the outside of me will be reeled in. Just an illustration show that I am all here. I'm an individual human being. With lots and lots of unseen things. Unfelt unimportant so far.

I'd like a bundle then so I can put me on the outside as well. Sitting on shoulders living in boots under ears underwear. When we are pink and patternless I feel so far from from being home. In that state you are ready to be eaten.

The Tiger Lillies CARE!!
Suicide
little_dormy
They actually posted my picture... and it not even the picture I gave them but it mine.
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=95977206&MyToken=66a96751-0210-4a7b-b922-3843024d6763

WAHH whole sale posters.
Suicide
little_dormy
http://www.elcheapoposters.com/elcheapoposters/Cheret_1.htm



WANT

A phrase
Suicide
little_dormy
"I want my mommy"
Sometime ago, when I was a child, it was a demand, request, a plea. The sentence meant something to others. I knew it meant the same thing to them that it meant to me.
Now crying, now wailing, the words still ring in my mind but I cannot speak it allowed because it no longer means what it once did. "I want my mommy" has become a state of being.

It no longer matters if mother is present or not, the thought still stings me.

The words have become a place in my mind made of fear and loneliness. A place where I am small and dirty, hurt, alone.

I sometimes find myself there in dreams, the full embodiment of the phrase painted out in darkness and echoes.

I don't know when this happened... the exact age or time but I do remember it being born. I remember my bicycle and I remember bleeding and tears. I remember my mother holding me and the phrase whispered out of my mouth. Safely choked in sobs it reached no one. "I want my mommy"

I do not like being an adult. My mind has become too big and I find myself constantly lost in new rooms. My old dreams are dwarfed in their once cozy homes, now vastly deep filled with unmet specters who whisper doubt and criticism into those dreams' tiny ears. My reason, a false King, has gorged himself into obesity, on what I do not know. As he stomps about, his feet pound the floor shaking the foundation of my mind. He laughs and bellows ridicule at every passing thought. My head, which used to feel so full, now feels empty... scattered and cold.

It's no wonder that phrases have ceased to be words. They feel the need to take up more space and hence become places. It is easy to imagine the words gathering up their memories, the places, the times that they were said. I can see them sewing the memories together, patch working them nothing is left but to sew themselves into the center.

How to dye Orens Jacket
Suicide
little_dormy
Stupid computer wouldn't let me past this in a word document.

1. "Cloud Washed" - The process for these is very simple. First, soak them in water. Then pour bleach right onto them. Be careful the bleach doesn't settle into any creases else you will get more of tie-die look. You can also add a little water afterward to encourage the bleach to spread out in 'cloud-like' patterns. Afterward I washed them in cold water with an entire bottle of fabric softener. This really softens them, making them A LOT more comfortable, and it makes them look more worn-in. Some things I'd like to try in the future would be adding the bleach to a misting spray bottle, or using a wire-brush to work in some wash-lines.

(no subject)
Suicide
little_dormy
"I feel like a little girl.
Everything is so much bigger than me, and I'm so shy."

She sat alone in the middle of a soft soft bed the quilts squares billowed up between their seams. Pictures of stars stitched to pictures of moons and bubbles, soft clouds spread out beneath her legs. One of her hands tugs angrily at a thread, she watches the fabric ripple and curl, her other hand half manicured touches the ruffles on edge of her brassiere. The mobile turns above her, parts of it torn to shreds parts just hanging strings. Butterflies of all different colors slowly twirl in the constant imbalance.

She never pulls hard enough. The quilt remains intact. Her anger is dormant for now. She sits silently, patiently like a good girl. Night after night she has sat in that place and she tries to stay like this just tugging ineffectually. She knows that what she did to the butterflies didn't help. She misses them now. How they used to fly. There used to be a blue butterfly, a light blue butterfly. It was her best friend, the one she talked to... the only one she talked, her only friend. But now just a string remains.

Anger doesn't solve anything.
She doesn't have anything to be angry about. She's been told. It's like a game now not being sad not being angry or at the very least being quiet. Which is easy now that she has no one to talk to.

The tears stand still in her eyes. Her screams are stifled in her throat.

?

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