Category: Creativity


My chest is covered with red glitter because I have spent the day courting my skirt and fixing up the panels that happen to be covered with… well, red glitter. So my breasts are superstars and my room is dusted with sparkles.

I have also been making rat ears.

Well, all right, I made one rat ear and got bored.

I have one rat ear, behold its corpulent velvet loveliness. It’s huge because I’m a theatrical attention seeker

Why am I making rat ears, then?

WELL, on Friday I’m going to see EMILIE FREAKING AUTUMN which is, you know, cool.

She is one of the only musicians I actually obsess over, as opposed to being mildly inclined towards. You will have guessed this from the number of times I’ve stuck her songs on here. The above song is fucking hilarious. (The other  artists are the Dresden Dolls, Fiona Apple and Alice Cooper, just so’s you know.) And a little bit of Google-fu will tell you that she’s obsessed with rats and plague and whatever so a bit of costume is needed. I ordered a corset with red and white ribbons on (swoon) and I will spangle and ratify and be a dirty fangirl.

SPEAKING OF DIRTY FANGIRLS, I now have a bag with the Mad Hatter on. To join, you know, the bag with Jack Sparrow on, and the hoodie with Edward Scissorhands on. Mwahaha.

I have no fucking idea why I’m so hyper; I’ve only had Diet Cherry Coke, which contains no real sugar. And no calories, so I can overdose and be pleased. On the other hand, I’ve managed to eat eight hot cross buns in two days.

Clockwise from left: Count Festoon, Professor T. Pimlico, Sir Scrofula and Caractacus Jones.

Last night I watched Kubrick’s Lolita… I have nothing to say other than when I get my own house, it will look like Clare Quilty’s.

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Thriga.

I must be bored, since this is my third post today…but this is AMAZING.

Scar is a beautiful kitty.

homg I want to cuddle him and feed him Whiskas Temptations. Lookid his liddle fwuffy cheekses.

Body.

Emilie Autumn, covering Alice Cooper? Heaven.

Based on my birth length and heights of my parents, it was predicted that I would be 5′ 9″ at full adult height.
As it is, I’m exactly the correct height to be a jockey.

I used to despise my height; now I adore it.

The length of my hair has become somewhat of an obsession: I intend to grow it as long as possible. It gets madder and more ringlety with every inch.

I used to hate my hair too; now I love it.

I, for whatever reason, looked up scarification photos; I wonder if I could get a Scar scar? In all seriousness? Along with a Dark Mark, Jack Sparrow’s sparrow, Bellatrix’s prisoner number on my neck and musical notation (as tattoos, not scars, owwy) everywhere. If only I was rich and didn’t need to get a job eventually.

I’m so short and stocky: I’m very Mediterranean.

I’ve stayed at the same weight for weeks. I NEED TO LOSE MORE.
On the plus side I’m under 11 stone. I haven’t been this weight since I was at school.

I see people the size of small planets and want to be sick, then I remember I look exactly like them and it’s almost, but not quite, enough to make me anorexic.

I have scar tissue on both of my heels, so thick it doesn’t feel like skin any more. They are my “badges of honour,” and they were crafted lovingly by one Doctor Marten.

x

TOFFPOX: Prudence! What kind of person drinks rum?
PRUDENCE: …A person who wants to get drunk?
TOFFPOX: No! Yes! I mean – what sort of rogue is usually associated with rum?
PRUDENCE: …Johnny Depp?
TOFFPOX: …Who?
PRUDENCE: Johnny Depp, the local barman.
TOFFPOX:
(disdainfully) “Johnny Depp, the local barman”?
PRUDENCE: Yes – well, if you told me to say the first thing that comes into my head when you say “rum”, I would say “Johnny Depp”, because he’s the local barman, and serves alcohol, including rum, so, yes, he’s the sort of rogue that I would associate with –
TOFFPOX: No, no, Prudence, you’re missing my point –
PRUDENCE: Which is?
TOFFPOX: Pirates! Pirates drink rum!
PRUDENCE: …And?
TOFFPOX: We could dress up as pirates and run away to sea!

First night of Fairytale Shorts – ten minute fairytale adaptations/devised pieces performed by the uni’s drama society – went well. My short, “Scurvy Curs: A Delightful Tale of Whimsy”, about two ladies who seek adventure as a badly-disguised male pirate and a parrot named Nobstradamus, went down well. I am extremely pleased with the audience’s reaction to the whole thing. Pirates having an orgy to the tunes of “Love Shack”, a maid with a feather duster wound into a coathanger and worn as a headdress and the crew dancing around the stage to “Why Is The Rum Gone?” seem to go down well with people my age and older, which excites me. I’m glad I wasn’t just writing stuff that I thought was hysterically funny and alienated everybody else. AND they laughed a lot at my character, which I suspect is because of the highly nasal voice and the glasses perched on the end of my nose. I love Bluster. She’s insane.

COCKSWAIN: Do ye swear by the sword that ye really be a scurvy cur and yer true callin’ be to run through bluejackets and lobsters?
BLUSTER: Are you averse to killing naval officers of any sort?
TOFFPOX: No.
BLUSTER: No.
COCKSWAIN: And be ye true to the sweet trade until ye find yeself in Davy Jones’s locker?
BLUSTER: Will you be a pirate until you cop it?
TOFFPOX: …I suppose so.
BLUSTER: Yes.

Second and final night of the performance tonight. I had a nightmare that I was forced to rewrite the entire thing and everything fell apart on the night, and I’m glad that’s not the case. (I guess now that I’ve written that, half my cast is going to fall ill or break body parts. I hope not.)

In other, more academically-focused news, I got the same mark in both my first essays for this year: THREE MARKS short of a first. I started out on a trip of self-loathing once more, until my seminar tutor told me that actually, it’s really good at this stage, and next time I can work towards a first. I am very happy indeed. I got a couple of firsts last year, which don’t count towards my degree mark, but I hope to repeat the performance again. It’s very odd. I’m used to A*s in all my English pieces of work, so not getting a first kind of equated to getting a B. You won’t really appreciate this until you know that, consistently throughout my school life, I have been achieving among the highest marks in the year in everything to do with English. It was that one subject that I never ever really tried hard at but enjoyed and got high marks in anyway. Science and Maths? Bollocks to them.

I leave you with this most important moral message from my play:
BLUSTER: And disregarding the danger of STDs, they all lived happily ever after. Remember girls, you CAN do anything, but you WILL end up as a sexual object anyway!

So I settled on my Hallowe’en costume after much agonising because that’s what I do when I want to dress up. I agonise. For a long time.

And so I will enter the revelry dressed as a Filthy Victorian. For those of you unfamilliar with the term as a name of sorts, it sounds like what you think it might be: a Victorian who is filthy. Except not in an urchin-type manner, oh no – think filthy nobility. Marquis de Sade on something stronger. Anachronism alert. I think too much about costumes. I’m madly tired and awake at the same time.

And, for those of you unfamiliar with the term as a name of sorts, it comes from the lovely Emilie Autumn, a singer to whom a close friend introduced me a couple of years back. I’ve posted some of her work up here before. A family friend commented that she sounds like what Kate Bush might have been today. She plays harpsichord, electric violin, plenty of other delightful-sounding instruments, sings alternately like an angel and a banshee, and describes her brand of songitude as Victoriandustrial. Amused, I have always been. She’s totally nuts as well, which is always a perk.

Here is the song that will be stuck in my head for the rest of the day thanks to my dedication to make you listen to what I listen to:

I think the inspiration came partly from watching Corpse Bride too; I love that film entirely too much.

So I bought a long black skirt and four metres of emerald and black organza and will attempt to make a Victorian-bustle-thing-of-sorts this week. And lace gloves. I won’t make these, I have already bought them. And a fascinator. When I become rich I will buy ridiculous things like this all the time and spend my days rolling in velvet wearing Elizabethan ruffs and monocles. I may invite you to join me for sweet tea.

I saw Up yesterday with two of my delightful friends and though I am not about to review the whole thing I need to say that a) dogs that sound like Foamy the Squirrel make me cry with laughter and b) finding out that animated characters are infertile is intensely heartbreaking. When I first saw the trailer I wasn’t particularly thrilled, mainly because I’m neutral towards Pixar in general, but if you’re having doubts like I had doubts, forget them and go to the cinema. Go and see Up, obviously, not just any random film.

My Southampton accent has gone away! This is because I have spent lots of time in the company of people who speak rather beautifully. The life of the wife is ended by the knife!


Beautiful.

The websites I really really like today are…

Music Map – find out similar-sounding artists to the ones you like, a lifesaver if you like relatively obscure stuff and trawling through garbage on YouTube isn’t something you want to spend your spare time on. Like Last.fm’s facility but far simpler visually.

Jelly Towers – so my brother introduced me to the parent website and now I’m hooked. Jelly Towers involves feeding jelly cubes to “Jydras” (basically sugar-junkie hydras) using simple balancing methods. It’s meant for younger children than I. But can I do it? Can I fuck. It’s one of THE most frustrating games I have ever stumbled across. Those fucking jelly cubes only have to take a slight knocking to make them fly everywhere. Irritation in game form can now be yours.

How to make ruffles is a skill everybody should learn. Ruffles are sexy.

You didn’t fully believe me when I said Emilie Autumn is totally nuts, did you?
NOW YOU WILL.

Know what I loooove?

Sit ye down and attend to this
My pretty tale of cakey bliss
Which for pudding I consumed
And prompted my gaiety into full bloom
And stirred me to create this ditty
(Though it isn’t very witty)
All in all for the singular sake
Of spreading the word of the Chocolate Cake –
The chef possesses magic hands
And causes me to be a fan
Of her splendid pudding treat,
But baking it is no mean feat
I am grateful to the cook
Who makes the cake without a book
With eggs and sugar and flour and butter
It makes my heart go all aflutter
When chocolate sauce is swirled around
That hearty crumbly chocolate mound
And served up in a porcelain bowl
This wondrous treat oft steals my soul –
Which I’d sell without much strife
If Rachel made cakes for me all my life.

We’re kind of considering getting a blue-tongued skink :3
I skink it’s a good idea, though maybe we’re teetering on the skink of insanity…

So that was the stupidest thing I have EVER said in a university dramatic society audition. What fun.

Luckily, I was allowed to say stupid things – well, make up a stupid story – and it’s not untrue, either. My dad has black fillings in all of his back teeth. He looks like a pirate because of this.

I also had to break out my rusty, awful American accent for the same audition. Bear in mind that I learned the accent from Hehrry Pahhtter pahhdcahhhsts, and so it’s a weird robotic drawl, an American radio voice of sorts. But I think it was acceptable. Just.

My second audition involved the discovery of a character who is CLEARLY related to June Buckridge from Frank Marcus’s The Killing of Sister George, whom I adore and have played. Drunken, loudmouthed, boorish females for the win!

I hope I get a part this term. If not, it’s more time to concentrate on my writing and finding a job. If I get a job, I have promised myself private voice and piano lessons. Yes really. They’re things I’ve wanted to learn for a long time and I’ve never yet have the opportunity to seek tuition. With any luck, I’ll soon get a job.

Money is always a good thing.

Back…to the Twenties!

Ambitious little creature that I am, I am going to attempt to stage and direct Love’s Labour’s Lost in the spring term.

It will be set in the Roaring Twenties – because, let’s face it, things set in the Roaring Twenties are AWESOME.

I intend to play Moth myself, unless I find someone totally incredible who has “Moth” inscribed in their little thespian veins.

There will be NO Holo-fucking-fernes because he is a deadly dull BORE of a man.

WE WILL WEAR WINGTIP SHOES AND BE AMAZING.

As a result of my mad brain-racking, I have been trawling through samples of classic ’20s jazz hits looking for suitable musical accompaniment.

Also, today I signed up for both pole- and swing-dancing lessons at the uni. I am thoroughly excited, if a little unco-ordinated and, well, stocky. I blame my genes and my awful metabolism: since returning here, I’ve gained FIVE POUNDS. This isn’t at all fair, as I haven’t been snacking between meals or drinking anything more vicious than diet cappuchino sachets and occasional glasses of lemonade. The only things that can have contributed to this disgusting weight gain are:
– Two slices of birthday cake; no, I did not wolf them down in quick succesion;
– Three fun-size bags of Maltesers – again, not eaten one after another;
– A glass of wine.

…Erm?

Of course, I’m doing a lot of curling-up-and-reading for my course, but that doesn’t really account for anything – it’s not as if I’m normally leaping around lifting weights and doing cardio. Bah humbug.
…Or just the bah, the humbug contains empty calories.

“Nothing brings more pain than too much pleasure; nothing more bondage than too much liberty,” according to Benjamin Franklin, and DAMN he was right. I. Am. FESTERING. With boredom, I truly am, three months, no job, nothing to do except lounge and study, except we all know that studying never happens when you have the time to devote to it.

To all the unemployed chavs out there, HOW CAN YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELVES? Your brains must be rotting away in your skulls. Is this why you breed so much? Nothing else to do? Really? Because I can believe that, I really can, I’d have sex constantly if I was locked in a house with nothing to do except watch Jeremy Kyle. I mean, really!

Exercising, writing, reading and moody wandering have been my primary activities. It was fine at first. Then one month developed into two, then three. Everyone seems to be raving about their marvellous summers, but I am on the verge of doing something stupid.

I am a person who NEEDS to be kept busy. This was why I was happy at school (when I wasn’t a target for the cowardly underclasses) – I had a solid, day-filling routine. Nowadays, you can only clean and vacuum and dust and sweep and organise alphabetically so many times before you rise up and cry, “That’s IT! I have had ENOUGH!” Believe me, my inner voice has been screaming this for the past five weeks. It’s tedious.

I cannot WAIT to get back into uni. I will plan reading and writing and extra-curricular activities around my classes so that I am never just “being”. I want to learn to sing. I want to participate more in the drama side of things. I want to STIMULATE MYSELF SO I DON’T GO BARMY.

Two good things have so far resulted from today’s activity of being awake – one, I received an email from one of my college drama teachers, who informed me that she misses my giggle and that my version of George in Frank Marcus’s The Killing of Sister George has put Beryl Reid’s version out of her head…for now. I was greatly moved and excited.

The second was that I was able to open up my vacation ‘reading’ list for my European Film and Literature course – and the teacher had grouped The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari in with the films “dir. Fritz Lang”. Silly teacher. All self-respecting German Expressionist geeks know that Caligari was dir. Robert Wiene.

“Hello, I’m Robert Wiene.”

I pause here in the highly important and cathartic process of making an extensive list detailing what I need to move into my new house in preparation for, er, tomorrow, which is:

a) an effective method of prevarication;

b) proof of what I suspected long ago: I’m a thinker (read “procrastinator”), not a doer. At least not yet.

This is to inform the internet that I, The Original Sporadic Scribbler, will be partaking of much unedited rambling in the form of NaNoWriMo in November. Yup. My profile, for anyone keen to see me crash, burn and perforate a new hole in the ozone layer, can be found here.

I also intend to take part in Script Frenzy in April – provided, of course, that my exam timetable is kind to me.

Back to the suitcases!

P.S.: I’m still reading Great Expectations. I fail.

EDIT – an hour and a half later…over halfway there. No, no! Three-quarters of the way to packing heaven. Oh yeah.