Superlative strangers

I forgot to tell you. At the party a girl called Aurora (another fantastic blogger) collapsed. When we found her she was still shaking in spasms. Eyeglobes white as eggshells. Silkydress turned wet and her left hand grasping for the material
She looked so fragile and alien with her blooded lips it took me a moment to realize she was human and needed help.

Once, an indian guru stopped me while struggling with shoppingbags the weight of my body. He wore a smelly tshirt and said his name was Morgan. He was showing all of his teeth to me and talking about higher states of consciousness. I was thinking about his teeth all the while.
But when I saw Aurora lying there she looked like a superlative. Close to death or something.
I keep blaming myself for calling the ambulance.

I would love to see you suffer.

.. if you do it for me.

5 inches away from the lemongrassmoothie mom unempathically smashed on my bedtable. I wish I was 5 inches taller, but the laptop screen is perfect 4 my size. Yes the world is getting smaller. So am I.Sunlight trickles the sweat on my forehead. It's last nights memories that vaporizes from my pores.

We all wore real fur for the Stalingradtheme and by morning they all smelled like dead rat and cheap tobacco. Avy didn't. She smelled cherryliquor, like grannie used to. I wouldn't have given a rat's ass 5 glasses ago or two bounced calls to Lars. But I did.

Touching thighs and talking softly is easy if you have the key. In a swift moment of selfdepravation I kissed her. Or maybe it was reverse, however mutual. I'd forgotten the softness of our lips. Of hers. Taste of revolution was mumbled unhearably.

Noticed the nervous glance she threw at a particularly fairhaired guy at the cornerbouquet. Oh we played our parts well. But it's all á cause de garcons.

1048, 10 hours and 26 minutes..

..and counting down. That's the moments left til 1212. I need a reason to put my dress on and my hair up.
I have been sleepy these days. The sheets are getting looser around me like biggirl's jeans. The air I'm breathing under the pillow is so thick I haven't been able to eat. Vacuum between my ribs, I can feel it now. Occasional coffee with mom. She always keeps refillin the cup when I drink, as she refills the whineglasses of her evening guests at their tete a tetes.
- Feeling bettah dahlin? Go walk Guillermo's puppy. Get a sunburn, you look like a fading snowdrop. Schneewitchen.
She's right. The last generation doesn't have a sunburn.

I have a friend and her name is Avy. She is a very sweet girl. I think she could use a session with my mother. But my mother is simply too expensive.

My phone buzzed sum minutes ago, my dress still hanging like a cadaver over a chair. Today's headlines flashing on the screen. Avy's having fiesta. Says I can't invite my friends if they're not at least on the B-list. Avy is, but it's genetical and doesnt count.
Dress on, nude linens as pale as me.
Avy's mom left and it's not really a party, more like a joint decapitation. Conspiciuous consumption. I'll stop counting hours, parties like these are better measures.

Viktor Vauthier took the pic.

Things I can't discern

Is he dark enough?
Enough to see your light?
Does he drive you mad,
or just mildly free?

My little heroine

Two things are white.

Innocence and cocaine.

In our youth we used to sit on the attic. The floor filtered mom's and dad's voices from below. It was the closest to heaven we could get at that time. It scares me to think that maybe it was the closest to heaven I've ever been. The ground hits hard but heaven hits harder and I've been falling falling. Flawlessly, but nonetheless falling.

13 and lolitas. I remember Calais's prophecies about our future. Offtrack hands, cheekbones and pubic hair. Of course love was not one of those things we used to talk about. Neither was drugs. Up there, white as dreams.

Then we started talking talking. Ladylove liberty LSD. Like love, it's not a dirty feeling once you're in it. This one nite I experienced both. Two atomic bombs imploding, unveiling me in compressed format.

I had my kokakola veins pumpin nirvana into my brains. I had my heroine, my heroine friend.

Bend back , arteries in my neck pulsing and I feel slightly seasick when I think about those days.

There are still white clouds above me. White as innocence. White as cocaine.

I realize I always wear black. Makes me feel safely tied to the ground.

Found the pic somewhere, I'll refind it soon. (Oh youth I despise thee.)

Et vous? What are your secrets, please unveil them for mankind. Yes that's me.

je vous aime -maybe you could teach me the perfect shade of gray.

found prophets

Decided to ask Calais about the mother/Lars dilemma. I realize it's not the first time. Calais is good at giving advice.

Especially when it comes to love and drugs.

She introduced me to my first love of my life, and my second. (whether the second is a person or a substance I don't know.) Her sleeping with both of them is another story.

Now she said. Quote.

"Quote: Only impossible love can ever be romantic" End quote. (the same is not true for drugs of course)

So here we are. In our current state of delirium chippin nailpolish and castrating love until it's impossible enough.

From now on I will only date guys who look and speak like Marquis de Sade / or have had a relationship with my mother.

And I will tell you more about drugs tomorrow.

Nude

Lars gives me the blues. The bottle of cherry wine I stole from the cellar is almost empty. Feels

like the last kisses of a nameless lover. They s

ay love is eternal. But it's just like wine.

Tomorrow I'll wake up. Sore head. Probably even sore heart.

My best friend

Sitting in the chaise longue with a glass pinot noir. Ma’s looks unnaturally happy in the twilight zone. Naturally, she wants to chat.

-So? Telltell. Who’s the lucky guy? Her smile craves sacrifices. She doesn't know I've been with Lars.

-Huh? I don’t do guys. I gush-faux.

-Oh, mäuslein. I just want your smile.

-I smile. Decide to go for the winning spiel. Blush.

You’d never believe me. He’s far out of reach. Silke pouts, triumphantly. Goes for the Oscar.

I’m your mother. Trust me.

Last time I truly made her happy I had this hair-pulling madness disease. Made her prescribe Prozac to her poor enfant terrible. I consider telling her about Lars. Envisage her triumph.

Gravity is more important for those falling in love

Mom. I already know how heavy her eyelids will get as she sees us together. Her former lover. Her former daughter. What a drama.

It suddenly gets repulsively obvious how incestuous this might seem to you. (For the confused compadres- Lars is NOT my father) And maybe it is.

Once when we had sex mom came into my mind. This specific time it appalled me (more than ever). I knew how her body looks naked, the cellulites and bruises. Some rare imperfections. Slender neck and arms. I doubt I will look like her when I'm her age. (mental note: chinese say fragile beauty is the most admirable)

Anyhow. Disgusted by my thoughts of them together I got all turned off. But what nags me is this. Did he think of me and mom?

Pics: From Russia with love & The House Next Door

youth is wasted on us

We are wanted. Lars's "friend" Chris got home yesterday.

He must have seen that the painting has gone missing. Or maybe he just noticed the smell of shalini in the bedsheets.

We are wanted. That's the ultimate compliment in Los Angeles. Soon we'll b

e wanted everywhere. A pity they don't know our names yet. I want shout out loud.

- It's us. We took the chubby ballerina painting. Miri König und Lars C.J.

But I don't. Fame is

Lars has humour. He laughs as I say we should kill sum days @ mom's house.

Mom. I'll tell you more about her tomorrow..