Busy busy busy for the past little while, shedding skin and bursting into flames, phoenix-style, for the 52nd coming.
It’s been a ludicrous few weeks, peppered with insanity and et ceteras, parties, dress-up, moving, beautifying, winning and taking the cash prizes, then quitting while still ahead. Satisfying dot com.
I have a few projects on the go at the minute, which is why you’ve been lacking my love of late, but I promise to nerd it up for you again like days of yesteryear. Choons being expunged from my soul and vomited into about-to-be-lost hard drives across the globe, several screenplays taking sweet sweet time traveling to their final destination; under the noses of Hollywood fatcats and other suitably suitable individuals. Photoshoots actually happening, which I know many of you have been missing. Recently I have been working recently with London Cakemaster Cake Follies, who has developed some intensely delicious vintage-inspired cupcakes which will be featured very shortly all over the everywhere. Will have pics up soon, honeys!
Have been enjoying the return of my BFF/partner in drame, insomnia. Although the non-sleeping is awesomely frustrating, it does make for an altered hyperreality I do occasionally enjoy, in which absolutely everything is massively hilarious and unimportant. Though if you read my twitter/fanpages you’ll know one of my waking night-terrors is to have Clonazepam Eyes in a photoshoot. (Although a horrifying concept, developing true Clonazepam Eyes would likely make me the ideal photographic companion for Jonathan Rhys Meyers, who suffers from the opposite affliction, Cocaine Eyes. We could cancel each other’s cray-cray out. By doing sexytimes.) Anyway, We (le Royal We, N’est-ce pas) managed to struggle through it with the help of a billion RedBulls and, as far as I know, the Clozanepam Eyes stayed home. (Please burn all pictures and videos of actual life, however, where they are sure to run rampantly through my social affairs like Tyler Durden contact lenses.)
The only other detriment to normalness is the super-weird dreams (typically kept at bay by sleeping with baby bottles of Veuve), which have resurfaced and developed priority access to the front of the line in my non-sleeping brainium. Latest #WTFs include being followed by a camera crew as if on a reality show, but the camera lenses are tucked into taxidermied wolves’ heads. Also dreamt a hyper-realistic and hostile conversation in which I announced my quitting being vegetarian, and promptly tucked into a raw chicken breast. Exceptionally uncomfortable, particularly as I have been a vegetarian for 900 years. If anyone of you happens to be a terribly clever Freudian analyst, do make yourself known. I will pay your fees in all kinds of crazy. You’ll make a mill writing about me in Awkward Psychology Weekly. Think about it. Fame dot com.
Annnnnyway. A demain, mes cheries.