What is it with some people's blatant lack of connection between brain and fingers when it comes to the Internet? I always thought that the Internet is the place where you can pretty much always be that perfect rendition of yourself. You can carefully think out exactly what you are going to say and how you are going to say it, you can be at your very wittiest and you have the luxury of editing whatever you say until it is just perfect. You can glean away speech impediments and replace then with the true dazzling brilliance of your mind. You can grasp hold of that perfect word for the perfect occasion and look stylish whilst doing it. You can be an Oscar Wilde for the modern age. So then why oh why is the ether populated with beings that seem to have even fewer thought processes and restrain to their inner dialogue?
This was sparked from doing the rounds on the forums, checking to see how the latest set was received. Giggling at comments left by fans, models and crushes then leaving little quirky replies to thank folks for taking the time to show their appreciation. I always feel humbled, even by the more risque comments left, even with a quick "nice ass", because these people actually took those few moments to hammer in a handful words just to let me know that my pictures are achieving exactly what I set out for them to achieve. I pop on the last forum and I am faced with this little gem.
Aren't you just a kinky fat slut; I'm excited!
Um. . excuse me? Seriously? Is that supposed to make me feel validated as a model? Is that supposed to be the chocolately coating on my cereal? Precisely, what exactly is that supposed to be? Would you say that to some girl in a bar, expecting her to fawn over you with fluttering eyelashes and altered breathing then extend an offer to suck your cock?
I thought I was getting ahead of myself and just being a touchy broad. I tried to put things in perspective and reminded myself that my pictures, at their very essence are to stimulate that carnal beast that lives within every single soul that lusts after a woman built entirely from softness and curves. So, I reigned those mules in and decided to just suck it up, like the champ that I am. I thought it would be a good idea to maybe have a peek at the comments he left other models, maybe he is just awkward with his compliments and mine was a one off? Oh ho ho ho ho ho! How wrong could I have been? Check out this steaming little shit nugget of a comment he left for some other unfortunate gal he took a shine to:
Aren't you just the fat trashy hoe, would love to run into you after last call and wiskey dick you till 4am...I hope your taking this as a complement cuz that's what I'm meanin...
Darling, how could a lady NOT take that as a compliment? It's poetry dripping from your gilded tongue like the most glorious of golden honey. I cannot count the hours I have wished upon many a shooting star that some faceless and random man from the Internet likened me to an economy, plus sized gardening implement, whilst waxing lyrical upon your desire to ravage me with your limp booze tainted manhood until the wee small hours. Oh Sir, you put the great poets to shame with your post modern sonnet, oh how I wish the light of my life would spin and weave such sweet gossamer silk of prose about my form.
Seriously?
It positively baffles me as to why anyone would put up a comment like that, sure, we've all had thoughts along those lines when look at naked people doing naked things. Hell, I've even uttered them under my breath as I've been looking at my fellow webmodels. . . but to actually type that shit into the comment box then hit post without a second thought? Again. . seriously?!
I guess it's the whole anonymity of the web that breaks the inhibitions of some, all the way back to the inner monologue or at least that's what I'm hoping, because I am much to much of an optimist to truly believe that some people are really honest to goodness that friggen stupid.
Seriously. . . .
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Take With Plenty of Alcohol
There is something about the social animal that is known as homo sapien that has always caused me a certain amount of confusion, admittedly there are a great many things that cause me massive discombobulation in trying to fathom or figure out about this genus that I am SUPPOSEDLY part of, but this one thing is my current head scratcher of the day.
Now before I go into full contemplative ramble, it should be known that I don't partake in intoxicating substances, legal or otherwise. This was a decision made after realising how incredibly lucky I had been on my path of mass and obliviously unaware self destruction. I am far from an innocent in the matters of consuming intoxicating substances, I had two very distinct nights out: the rock night and the rave night. Both nights brought their own selection of fuels for the upcoming events. The rock night was entirely booze fueled, I would start out at home with my bestest girly friend, she would be tanking back cheap cans of Red Stripe Lager and I would have a liter bottle of the cheapest vodka I could find, mixed with whatever neon coloured pop tinkled my fancy that night. . red cola, pinappleade, cream soda, limeade. . if it was slightly glowing I would drink it. Once we were suitably buzzed we would shamble along to our favourite pub where the walls were decorated with superheroes and supervillans. They had a whole menu of shots that were criminally cheap which we would usually we would make our way through, alphabetically. Once eleven o'clock would roll around, we would pry ourselves from the bar and make the short walk to the club, not forgetting to stop off at the crepe stand and have lengthily conversations with the vendor in drunken and cut and paste French. We never had to pay to get into the club, I had been going since I was fifteen years old, all the staff knew me and I was very close with the manageress and her kids. I was always guaranteed entry, regardless of how full it was and once I was inside, I never had to put my hand into my pocket. I was "taken care of". The drinks went on to what the British call "alcopops" and what I believe are called "coolers" here in North America, I also devised a beverage that, now looking back on it probably wasn't the smartest combinations of alcohols to ever be combined. I would take a pint of cider, usually Scrumpy Jack, sup a few mouthfuls from the glass then dump a double peach schnapps it fill the glass back up. I would on average consume a good half dozen bottles of sticky alcopops and I'd say a good half dozen again of my special cocktail per visit. So let's look at the tally so far. . spirits, I would have drank in total about a liter and a half then cider which has a slighter higher alcohol percentage than beer, a good six pints. Now, bear in mind, I'm a wee thing, I'm five foot three and at that time I was probably no more than one hundred and eighty pounds. What was even more unbelievable was that this was done on average of at LEAST three nights a week, what is more unbelievable still is that I have only ever puked with booze once and blacked out once. I firmly believe I had some sort of magical booze fairy looking after me at all times. Now. . rave nights, I guess weren't as heavy going in comparison and only really happened once a week. . they could only really happen once a week because of the fallout once the strobes had stopped flashing.
I had an entirely different set of friends for the nights I would go out to the rave club. A few folks in that group would occasionally meet up with me on my rock nights, but for the most part those two worlds would rarely collide. We would start the night over at one friends house, listening to the sort of electronic audio assault that we would be enveloped in once at the club, relating stories of the week and how much we were looking forward to the treats of the night then with no more than fifteen minutes before leaving, we would "tool up". I would neck back two grammes of amphetamines and a tablet of ecstasy and I would be good for the night of dancing to music that I never listened to outside of those nights. I used to think I was so savvy, because I had a never ending bottle of water continuously attached to left hand all night and into the wee small hours of the night, never once contemplating what was actually in the powder or pill I was consuming. Once the night of dancing was done we would all trail back to someones house and get wasted in another capacity. It was thought that if we all got spaced out on weed, that the inevitable comedown from the synthetics would be less harsh. I was never a smoker, so I would have a little lunchbox filled with special cupcakes or cookies. Funnily enough, this idea never really worked. I remember having a comedown that would have me secretly wishing for death, no matter how many spiked, sweet treats I shoved into my mouth, which in itself was a nightmare, considering that the speed had stripped me of any appetite.
So. . .now that my reckless past has been made public I can fully get to ranting without sounding like a complete sanctimonious prick. I can honestly say, been there done that and chose not to any more. I don't think it makes me any better than anyone else, but it does mean that I have extra pennies to spend on comicbooks, dvds and shoes. Anyway, I digress. .
What really bamboozles is me is the whole culture of intoxication. I understand drinking for the taste, if you have a palate for wine or certain types of beer. My Mum is a big whiskey aficionado and has been trying for years to get me to join her, but I have never developed the mature palate to enjoy it. I also understand enjoying the buzz you get and the lowering of inhibitions that one builds up to survive. What I don't understand is the bragging that comes with it.
Today, as I was doing the rounds and putting up my the preview of this week's set, I cam across a thread started by one of the forum's regulars. It was basically a short intro about her night out and how she got so drunk she passed out then pictures of her in this state of drunkenness. Admittedly the pictures cold have been SO much worse, nonetheless, they are far from flattering. Why? Why would someone feel the need to do something like that, furthermore, why would people feel the need to encourage such a thing and talk to her as if she achieved something worthwhile?
Where is the pride to take in getting so smashed that you physically pass out? How can people feel a sense of achievement in drinking to the point of puking on themselves? Why would you feel like some sort of champion for comsuming so much of an intoxicating subtance that you did things you would never even contemplate when you were sober? We, as a society seem to celebrate this kind of behaviour and hold people that can consume large quanties of booze or drugs as celebrities for their prowess, calling them "hardcore" and holding them in high esteem for their self destructive attitude. Is it a positive thing to watch someone effectively piss their life away, is this something to aspire to? Is this just another side of the old addage "Its better to burn out than fade away?' or the whole "Live fast, die young, leave behind a pretty corpse" mentality?
I love going out and dancing until I am a sweaty mess or singing karaoke to friend in family in a hammed up fashion or being the one friend that had no sense of shame and will do pretty much anything you ask her to so long as its a dare. I have very few inhibitions and I have never feared looking like a fool in front of people, hell I actively seek out things TO make a jackass out of myself for the pleasure of others. This is all done completely sober, with out liquid or chemical courage. Even as a drinker or recreational drug user, watching my friends get so heavily intoxicated to the point that they couldn't stand and their motor skills were reduced to that if an infant would completely freak me out. . . but the next morning once the vicious wave of hangover was passed there would be that bragging session of how fucked they were the night before.
At what point do we stop commending these people for their behaviour and start worrying? The media has now latched on to the whole rehab/intervention reality show with a rabid fury. We can easily find some show full of pity for people who have gone that step too far and we watch them suffer through the addiction and then become sanctimonious pillars of morality when they fall off the wagon. Its like there is a secret part of us that is hoping that these people DON'T manage to stay clean, because where would the entertainment factor be then? Is it the same with the people we know in real life? DO will celebrate the over indugence of intoxicating substances because it makes us feel better about ourselves to watch others in various states of shame or is it because it brings us some sort of sadistic entertainment value? Either way, I am totally confused and if anyone has any idea whatsoever please write it on the back of a graphically humourous postcard and send it my way. I'm gonna go drink some sugary pop and contemplate singing along, full volume to some staight edge hardcore in a squeaky minnie mouse voice whilst making sexy hip thrusts in self parody for the enjoyment of my dog.
Now before I go into full contemplative ramble, it should be known that I don't partake in intoxicating substances, legal or otherwise. This was a decision made after realising how incredibly lucky I had been on my path of mass and obliviously unaware self destruction. I am far from an innocent in the matters of consuming intoxicating substances, I had two very distinct nights out: the rock night and the rave night. Both nights brought their own selection of fuels for the upcoming events. The rock night was entirely booze fueled, I would start out at home with my bestest girly friend, she would be tanking back cheap cans of Red Stripe Lager and I would have a liter bottle of the cheapest vodka I could find, mixed with whatever neon coloured pop tinkled my fancy that night. . red cola, pinappleade, cream soda, limeade. . if it was slightly glowing I would drink it. Once we were suitably buzzed we would shamble along to our favourite pub where the walls were decorated with superheroes and supervillans. They had a whole menu of shots that were criminally cheap which we would usually we would make our way through, alphabetically. Once eleven o'clock would roll around, we would pry ourselves from the bar and make the short walk to the club, not forgetting to stop off at the crepe stand and have lengthily conversations with the vendor in drunken and cut and paste French. We never had to pay to get into the club, I had been going since I was fifteen years old, all the staff knew me and I was very close with the manageress and her kids. I was always guaranteed entry, regardless of how full it was and once I was inside, I never had to put my hand into my pocket. I was "taken care of". The drinks went on to what the British call "alcopops" and what I believe are called "coolers" here in North America, I also devised a beverage that, now looking back on it probably wasn't the smartest combinations of alcohols to ever be combined. I would take a pint of cider, usually Scrumpy Jack, sup a few mouthfuls from the glass then dump a double peach schnapps it fill the glass back up. I would on average consume a good half dozen bottles of sticky alcopops and I'd say a good half dozen again of my special cocktail per visit. So let's look at the tally so far. . spirits, I would have drank in total about a liter and a half then cider which has a slighter higher alcohol percentage than beer, a good six pints. Now, bear in mind, I'm a wee thing, I'm five foot three and at that time I was probably no more than one hundred and eighty pounds. What was even more unbelievable was that this was done on average of at LEAST three nights a week, what is more unbelievable still is that I have only ever puked with booze once and blacked out once. I firmly believe I had some sort of magical booze fairy looking after me at all times. Now. . rave nights, I guess weren't as heavy going in comparison and only really happened once a week. . they could only really happen once a week because of the fallout once the strobes had stopped flashing.
I had an entirely different set of friends for the nights I would go out to the rave club. A few folks in that group would occasionally meet up with me on my rock nights, but for the most part those two worlds would rarely collide. We would start the night over at one friends house, listening to the sort of electronic audio assault that we would be enveloped in once at the club, relating stories of the week and how much we were looking forward to the treats of the night then with no more than fifteen minutes before leaving, we would "tool up". I would neck back two grammes of amphetamines and a tablet of ecstasy and I would be good for the night of dancing to music that I never listened to outside of those nights. I used to think I was so savvy, because I had a never ending bottle of water continuously attached to left hand all night and into the wee small hours of the night, never once contemplating what was actually in the powder or pill I was consuming. Once the night of dancing was done we would all trail back to someones house and get wasted in another capacity. It was thought that if we all got spaced out on weed, that the inevitable comedown from the synthetics would be less harsh. I was never a smoker, so I would have a little lunchbox filled with special cupcakes or cookies. Funnily enough, this idea never really worked. I remember having a comedown that would have me secretly wishing for death, no matter how many spiked, sweet treats I shoved into my mouth, which in itself was a nightmare, considering that the speed had stripped me of any appetite.
So. . .now that my reckless past has been made public I can fully get to ranting without sounding like a complete sanctimonious prick. I can honestly say, been there done that and chose not to any more. I don't think it makes me any better than anyone else, but it does mean that I have extra pennies to spend on comicbooks, dvds and shoes. Anyway, I digress. .
What really bamboozles is me is the whole culture of intoxication. I understand drinking for the taste, if you have a palate for wine or certain types of beer. My Mum is a big whiskey aficionado and has been trying for years to get me to join her, but I have never developed the mature palate to enjoy it. I also understand enjoying the buzz you get and the lowering of inhibitions that one builds up to survive. What I don't understand is the bragging that comes with it.
Today, as I was doing the rounds and putting up my the preview of this week's set, I cam across a thread started by one of the forum's regulars. It was basically a short intro about her night out and how she got so drunk she passed out then pictures of her in this state of drunkenness. Admittedly the pictures cold have been SO much worse, nonetheless, they are far from flattering. Why? Why would someone feel the need to do something like that, furthermore, why would people feel the need to encourage such a thing and talk to her as if she achieved something worthwhile?
Where is the pride to take in getting so smashed that you physically pass out? How can people feel a sense of achievement in drinking to the point of puking on themselves? Why would you feel like some sort of champion for comsuming so much of an intoxicating subtance that you did things you would never even contemplate when you were sober? We, as a society seem to celebrate this kind of behaviour and hold people that can consume large quanties of booze or drugs as celebrities for their prowess, calling them "hardcore" and holding them in high esteem for their self destructive attitude. Is it a positive thing to watch someone effectively piss their life away, is this something to aspire to? Is this just another side of the old addage "Its better to burn out than fade away?' or the whole "Live fast, die young, leave behind a pretty corpse" mentality?
I love going out and dancing until I am a sweaty mess or singing karaoke to friend in family in a hammed up fashion or being the one friend that had no sense of shame and will do pretty much anything you ask her to so long as its a dare. I have very few inhibitions and I have never feared looking like a fool in front of people, hell I actively seek out things TO make a jackass out of myself for the pleasure of others. This is all done completely sober, with out liquid or chemical courage. Even as a drinker or recreational drug user, watching my friends get so heavily intoxicated to the point that they couldn't stand and their motor skills were reduced to that if an infant would completely freak me out. . . but the next morning once the vicious wave of hangover was passed there would be that bragging session of how fucked they were the night before.
At what point do we stop commending these people for their behaviour and start worrying? The media has now latched on to the whole rehab/intervention reality show with a rabid fury. We can easily find some show full of pity for people who have gone that step too far and we watch them suffer through the addiction and then become sanctimonious pillars of morality when they fall off the wagon. Its like there is a secret part of us that is hoping that these people DON'T manage to stay clean, because where would the entertainment factor be then? Is it the same with the people we know in real life? DO will celebrate the over indugence of intoxicating substances because it makes us feel better about ourselves to watch others in various states of shame or is it because it brings us some sort of sadistic entertainment value? Either way, I am totally confused and if anyone has any idea whatsoever please write it on the back of a graphically humourous postcard and send it my way. I'm gonna go drink some sugary pop and contemplate singing along, full volume to some staight edge hardcore in a squeaky minnie mouse voice whilst making sexy hip thrusts in self parody for the enjoyment of my dog.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Trouble's Braids
I have come to an astounding and yet incredibly bizarre conclusion that two of my obsession are perfectly attuned to one an other. This is an odd marriage, you know what I mean, like when you see that odd couple together: the guy is well over six foot tall and probably weighs no more than one hundred and fifty bills. He dresses impeccably and looks like the kind of guy that probably has a subscription to GQ and does actually read the articles on mens health. The girl is a tiny, little round thing, more than likely with brightly coloured and untamed hair and the kind of clothing that would suggest she got dressed in the dark. You can't hear it, but you can pretty much put money on that she would be singing to herself as she walks. . .come on, you must know a couple like that, don't we all?
Anyway, lets back away from my odd analogies and get back to my recent, fantabulous discovery.
If you have encoutered me at all before now, you will be more than aware not only of my slightly obsessive personality, but also that I am for one, a girl who games, in all senses of the words be it video, table top RPG (okay, it was once. . but nevermind, it would have been more had I not moved halfway across the globe), board games. . yeah, you get he picture. For two, I live my life to a constant soundtrack and frequently rediscover music from various points of my life, only to completely emerse myself in that artist or artists to the point of listening to nothing else for a few days. . .weeks. . months. Recently I have been introduce to an online role playing game, Guild Wars. . think World of Warcraft, but without the monthly subscription fee and you're pretty much there. I now have two characters, since I bought further expansions to the game and opened up more character classes, yes, obviously Ihad had to get a nice new shiny character for the new world.
This game comes with its own sound track besides the atmospherics, its a sweeping background of strings and orchestral celebrations when you are fighting creatures. Imagine Toto's soundtrack to Dune making sweet love to Mozart's Magic Flute minus the opera and you're almost there. It entirely unoffensive and you actually start to become entirely oblivous to it after playing for a while. Being me, I felt like I was missing out on some serious music listening time and thought that not only could my real life have a taliored soundtrack, but so too could these new online lives. Last night I was playing my character who communes with the spirt world and kicks arse in a decidedly stealthy ninja style fashion, she is set in a psedo oriental type world, complete with Kirins and Kappas. . so what did I listen to as I cut a bloody path through all that stood in my way? Well, Tom Waits OBVIOUSLY.
This odd blend seemed to work some kind of magic. My concentration improved and those enemies that had once been virtually unconquestable were now slain with total ease. Quests were ran through with the double blades of my trusty sai with flourish and all thanks to the chocolate coated, broken glass tones of Mister Waits. Who would have thought that the music of a burbon soaked Californian from the mid seventies would so inspire the sucess in a vaguely asian fantasy setting?
Right, I'm off to listen to Raindogs in its entirety and slay a few dozen more local infected with an infernal plague, till then. . . . .
Anyway, lets back away from my odd analogies and get back to my recent, fantabulous discovery.
If you have encoutered me at all before now, you will be more than aware not only of my slightly obsessive personality, but also that I am for one, a girl who games, in all senses of the words be it video, table top RPG (okay, it was once. . but nevermind, it would have been more had I not moved halfway across the globe), board games. . yeah, you get he picture. For two, I live my life to a constant soundtrack and frequently rediscover music from various points of my life, only to completely emerse myself in that artist or artists to the point of listening to nothing else for a few days. . .weeks. . months. Recently I have been introduce to an online role playing game, Guild Wars. . think World of Warcraft, but without the monthly subscription fee and you're pretty much there. I now have two characters, since I bought further expansions to the game and opened up more character classes, yes, obviously Ihad had to get a nice new shiny character for the new world.
This game comes with its own sound track besides the atmospherics, its a sweeping background of strings and orchestral celebrations when you are fighting creatures. Imagine Toto's soundtrack to Dune making sweet love to Mozart's Magic Flute minus the opera and you're almost there. It entirely unoffensive and you actually start to become entirely oblivous to it after playing for a while. Being me, I felt like I was missing out on some serious music listening time and thought that not only could my real life have a taliored soundtrack, but so too could these new online lives. Last night I was playing my character who communes with the spirt world and kicks arse in a decidedly stealthy ninja style fashion, she is set in a psedo oriental type world, complete with Kirins and Kappas. . so what did I listen to as I cut a bloody path through all that stood in my way? Well, Tom Waits OBVIOUSLY.
This odd blend seemed to work some kind of magic. My concentration improved and those enemies that had once been virtually unconquestable were now slain with total ease. Quests were ran through with the double blades of my trusty sai with flourish and all thanks to the chocolate coated, broken glass tones of Mister Waits. Who would have thought that the music of a burbon soaked Californian from the mid seventies would so inspire the sucess in a vaguely asian fantasy setting?
Right, I'm off to listen to Raindogs in its entirety and slay a few dozen more local infected with an infernal plague, till then. . . . .
Such Great Heights
Ah, a brand new, virginal blog to spew the contents of my rambling mind on to a clean and unmarred screen. Blogging isn't something I am new to, but as my role as "naked chick on the web", I have had the odd request or two to begin something so that those who have interest could take a peer inside of my muddled mind and have some sort of insight as to what makes this girl tick. I toyed with the idea for sometime and eventually after appearing on a few other people's blogs (cheers for the free plugs folks!) I conceded and set this very thing up. It tickles me the proverbial bending of red and white to think that there are people out there who have found my pictures and have enjoyed them so much that they felt compelled to stick my naked arse up in their blog and say rather nice things. You can guarantee I will be tracking these folks down and leaving them gushing and blushing comments, for actually taking the time to smear my name and kitty across the web.
So what can you expect from this blog? Basically the meanderings of one who calls herself "Queen Geek", contemplations on anything and everything from the latest comic book to movie screen adaptation, random rants and trains of thought, opinions and ideals, reviews for my favourite things and of course, just the usually Honey styled ramblings.
Pull up a seat and get comfy, get to know the odd workings of my fevered little mind and be stunned at just how inherently geeky one small, chubby, naked woman can be.
So what can you expect from this blog? Basically the meanderings of one who calls herself "Queen Geek", contemplations on anything and everything from the latest comic book to movie screen adaptation, random rants and trains of thought, opinions and ideals, reviews for my favourite things and of course, just the usually Honey styled ramblings.
Pull up a seat and get comfy, get to know the odd workings of my fevered little mind and be stunned at just how inherently geeky one small, chubby, naked woman can be.
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