i wish i was the only female member in black rebel motorcycle club.
i like comments.
staring at ceilings and ceiling lights, cats, making coffee, michael palin, fingernails and hands, groupies, horribly cheap alcohol, lying in parks looking up at the trees, apple and ginger juice, ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, anise, clove, burberry brit, black berets, beatniks, skinny leg jeans, flat shoes, edie sedgwick, anna karina, arlene dahl, inky black pens and paper, other people's bedrooms, listening, sometimes talking, seeing people's faces in the dark of the cinema, pretending i don't give a shit about hollywood people, taking photos based upon colour, chasing james benny hill style when i don't get my way at work, all them woodland creatures, baltic states, steam trains, agatha christie mysteries concerning trains, henri toulouse-lautrec.
everytime i go to video ezy, i get to pay off the late fees for the films i kept so long hoping that i'd one day watch them.
skins, the news, scrubs like half the global population, black books, later with jools holland, and the good movies on sbs late at night. not the naked ones. i watched them, and they sucked. no plot, and the girls weren't even attractive.
i'm so sorry to be incredibly shallow and not at all hard-beaten by hard-to-read books, but i do enjoy bridget jones' diary.
pretty sure it's the lead singer from cut off your hands!. sure, he may seem like a fag. but i am highly aroused by a man who can shoot his gum into the air and catch it again in his mouth.