Painted with pity and sadness and strife

Splitting
Ambivalence
Passive-aggressive
Dissociation Revictimization
CSA
Borderline_Personality_Disorder

In analyzing history do not be too profound, for often the causes are quite superficial.

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

When the temple of the cat god Bastet was excavated, over 300,000 mummified cats were found.

“He who wins is king; he who loses is the rebel”

  --Chinese proverb

Honey is the only food that does not spoil.  Honey found in the tombs of Egyptian pharaohs has been tasted by archaeologists and found edible.

 

Literature

Part One:

Let's just get this over with...... it's funny.

Part Two:

You know in Portal, the creepy graffiti on the walls?

Here's a snippet:

"Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The cube had food and maybe ammo.

And immortality."

 This is actually a twist of Emily Dickinson's poem, "Because I could not stop for Death —", which begins as such:

"Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality."

Part Three:

 Everyone can taste sugar. But do you know all of the elements that make up sugar, and the flavour of each element alone? And what if you could? Would this ability - no, not ability - necessity, inescapable necessity to dissect that which is sugar make your experience of sugar any more pleasurable? Or would it distract you to the point of no longer tasting the sugar at all, but instead the acids and other less than savory elements simultaneously, each flavour, and each flavour within each flavour, vying for dominance until you are gagging, chockin, gasping for air . . . until sugar is no longer sugar but something awful and confusing and impossibly complex, infecting your tongue and your body and finally your brain and all you want is water?

But what is in the water? What is it made of and where did it come from and why does it hurt?

What depths of horror. . . black, revolting, deadly horror might one experience were one's base ingredients not sugar, but, perhaps, ash. . . or metal shavings . . . or blood?

Ophelia drowned, they say . . . drowned herself, herself drowned, drowned in senses, drowned in sounds, drowned in voices, unhappy and unheard . . . 

We are machines, all of us . . . 

And what does a machine do when too much is assigned to it? When too much coal, too much ink, too much information is forced violently through its channels?

Why, it stutters, it chockes, and, finally, it shuts down.

Where do they put the broken mahines?

There is only one place.

From the Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls,

Emily (with a 'y')

Opheliac

Currently Reading: Memnoch the Devil, by Anne Rice,

 "Lestat Meets The Devil:"

The Devil: "I knew I was right about you all along. I'm in awe of you."

Lestat: "In awe of what? My independence? Look, let me tell you something, Satan, or whoever you are."

The Devil: "Don't use that name. I hate it."

Lestat: "That's likely to make me pepper my speeches with it."

and The Asylum For Wayward Victorian Girls, by Emilie Autumn.

Recently Watched: Constantine. John Constantine, asshole.

Currently in CD player: Opheliac, by Emilie Autumn. That's right, I use a CD player... in my car.

Model fascination of the moment: Daisy Lowe.

She is just precious.

Okay, I admit I haven't seen There Will Be Blood. But I have seen No Country For Old Men, and believe me when I say that this rings true true true as blue.