To A One Night Stand...

"You're so unbelievably beautiful" you said, as you affectionately petted the hair you'd attempted to rend from my skull a mere twenty minutes previous.

[I got the distinct impression you were referring only to your workmanship - this quasi-conscious young woman, beaten about the face until she saw white bleed into the corners of her vision.]

Not so attractive any more, all swollen lips and bruised fingerprints, was I.

Was I?

"Now, come sleep with me", American intonation creeping across my aching body like a malignant melanoma.

Even through the concussion I wanted to scream; "You're as much a notch on my bedpost as I am on yours, moron!"

[But in the end it's all just a bit of fun.]

6am, I caught you sneaking out like a true guilt-riddled Jewish boy.

Four hours later I woke up and patted down the bed only to discover the cheeky, Colonial cunt hadn't even left me a tip.

Well, fuck.

Annie.

<3

Sometimes, My Life Is Utterly Fucked Up...

Annie Phetamine.

You've been a bad, bad girl.



<3

I Think I'm Due a Doctors Appointment...

You'll never read this.

So I, behind that fondly described

Too-wide smile where

Gritted teeth disguise the

Rise of cyanide tainted bile,

Will write you a broken heart.

A novel of three parts in

Indelible, invisible ink.

I'll learn to cite my soul

In Chicago format and

Make pain a perfectly

Punctuated

Paragraph.

Copyright page after page as

The product of a mind you wagered;

"Shouldn't be known to those from stable homes".

Publish my prose under

'Notes', 'quotes', 'anecdotes' or

'The trouble with blokes who think they're rock stars'.

For clarity:

Promises, made in basement bars occupied

A ha'penny stride from 'one too many',

I'll italicise:

It's me and you, babe, fuck the consequence.

Then underline the lies.

I love you.

© Annie Phetamine

Annie.

<3

Words, Like Cake, Taste Better Stolen...

If you're going serenade me with a song - make it this one:



Annie.

<3

A Rose by Any Other Name, Still Makes You a Prick...

I often get asked why, when my birth name really isn't that repulsive, I choose to go by nom de plume even within my everyday life.

The reasons are many but probably distinctly less interesting than you might imagine:

It is not pretension.

Nor a sinister endeavour to obtain internet celebrity by being kitsch or avant-garde.

I have no desire to escape my genetic history, utterly fucked up as it may be.

And I most certainly didn't create Annie to pick up men, if anything she's actually an utterly intimidating (and mildly repugnant) young lady.

First and foremost, as today's rage-inspiring message from my creative writing instructor Alan Gillis proved, despite a more than sufficient grasp of the English language you'd be surprised to hear quite how many people have issues with spelling (or pronouncing at a glance) the name Elise.

From even my earliest visits to the hospital I have bitter memories of being called in as Elsie, which has always held disturbing connotations for me with fragile old ladies.

[It was a name shared by an elderly neighbour who died (and wasn't found for a considerable amount of time) whilst I was growing up.]

One could understand if my moniker was particularly exotic or contained more than two bloody syllables but as it stands the bastardisation of something so simple remains a source of almost constant irritation to me.

A second point, and one much more applicable to the life of a candid Internet blogger, my full title leaves a rather noticeable trail when run through a search engine; often dredging up photographs and articles I would much rather be condemned to the bowels of digital history than be ever present as I age.

[I believe I also discussed the compulsive catalyst behind my constant altering of pseudonym in an earlier blog so rather than flogging a dead horse I suggest you go back and read my posts from October if you wish to explore that particular potentiality.]

Finally, and likely the most brutally honest response I can give is as follows: I don't like a large number of people.

The adoption of a false persona is much akin to handing out your phone number having switched the final three digits...it makes you an easily forgettable enigma or, in some instances, unforgettable but unquestionably unattainable.

Those with inquisitive minds need know only this, if you meet Annie it's probably because you're asking utterly redundant questions.

Annie.

<3

Post-Modern Pubes...

We all have personal preferences concerning body hair and often we're not opposed to vocalising and/or entirely altering these opinions in relation to a new partner, circumstance or simply due to the natural progression of ageing.

For example:

Recently I've found myself with a preference for men that keep their hair cropped and also reassessing my stance on facial hair that looks as though it required the aid of a protractor. Equally so I remain unchanged in regards to excessive underarm hair but with a growing fondness for a little chest fluff...although I pointedly leave the room when confronted with anything that progresses beyond ones shoulders.

Despite our comfortable and relatively laid back attitude concerning head, torso or thigh the sticking point often comes when we venture below the panty line; I am yet to meet a majority, within those willing to discuss it at all, who are also open to changing their preconceptions about pubic hair.

Luckily, Amanda Palmer has thrust this debate into the public forum over the past few days with her new video for 'Map of Tasmania':



Not only is this a fucking phenomenal piece of visual art but it promotes an incredibly valuable message of comfort and creativity with ones own body.

Which leads me to the point of this blog - where do my readers and peers stand on hair vs. bare?

Admittedly, thanks to formative years spent in high-cut lycra, I've always been hairless and fancy free but I'm rapidly starting to agree with Ms. Palmer's observations regarding stubble and a lack of pubic topiary looking disturbingly prepubescent.

I know, from forced discussion, that most of my previous sexual partners have been bought off by the hygiene pseudo-science or beaten around the face by the commonly accepted, modern notions of female beauty but it really isn't a that distant past when a bit of bush was erotic vogue.

Now, I can fully understand the desire to keep your lady garden in check but when you begin to give it a little thought there's really no end to the imaginative fun one can have whilst doing it.

Further to this, the choice to "grow that shit like a jungle" needn't be a call to abandon other female grooming habits nor does it require adopting any affectations of militant feminism - the point is only this; ladies, you have a choice.

The world will likely not end should you go wild for a few weeks and if your partner takes issue, you could do worse than asking them to justify it - I wager they'll either rapidly change the topic of conversation or will find themselves inclined (with a little prompting) to rediscover a now exotic landscape.

Annie

<3

Shit Creek, Seeking Paddle...

There's actually a blog of academic merit set to be published sometime later today but currently I'm burning the midnight oil again...and by 'oil' we mean 'semi-illegal substances'.

Based purely upon that I need to do a little 'head clearance' if I'm going to get anything bordering on a passable sleep, without the requirement of fashioning my multiple duvets into a makeshift womb as a means to stave off paranoia.

I've been mulling over my questionable actions the other night (admittedly whilst listening to music that's really only going to exacerbate the situation) and discussing my dilemma with a few close friends.

The overruling opinions are as follows:

1) The man sounds like an absolute cunt. Leave well alone, young Annie.
2) You just want him because he's ignoring you and we'll happily do that pro bono.
3) 'Fangirling' is not love, it's a restraining order waiting to happen...the Alan Rickman incident taught you that.
4) You're getting worked up over him? *Uncontrollable laughter*.

As much as these contributions from my nearest and dearest have been undeniably insightful, behind the feigned acquiescence, I'm still no closer to ridding myself of an utterly redundant infatuation than I was anything from 48 hours to two months ago.

To knock about a phrase that has seen more use in recent years than a particularly fetching, 12 year old, Taiwanese hooker: "Fuck my life".

Possibly the biggest punt in my metaphorical clunge (dubious Moosen aside): I've put so many respectable young chaps on the back burner in the hope he'd eventually come round that I've subsequently not been laid in a very long time.

[Deftly done there, genius.]

Obviously, making allusions such as those (that no bitter woman worth her salt would have missed) in the paragraph before last, isn't going to help my cause in the slightest but being clandestinely bitchy does seem to have soul healing properties comparable to a Big Mac.

[Being that it's raining, I'm wearing socks and a blanket and I have no money - I'm going to take the free, warm, non-punishable-by-imprisonment option.]

Honestly, on a Saturday night in a place where 'drunk and vulnerable' is basically a citizenship requirement, all I can really ask is why am I sat at my computer and not flat on my back in a gutter?

Annie.

<3