Не помню, на каком сайте я это нашла. По-моему, когда я заходила туда в последний раз, и сайта-то уже не было. А жаль...

Я бы поставила памятник тому, кто это придумал. Как минимум полчаса здорового смеха гарантированы.



passing notes

Я просто больной лингво-сцукаманьяк. Я по сто раз на дню лажу в словарь, чтобы посмотреть, "а как это будет по-английски/французски/немецки/etc". Я могу переться по оригинально написанному предложению неделями. Вся квартира завалена листочками с выписанными понравившимися фразами. При всём при этом в университет на английский я не хожу. Ибо нехуй. Потому что там полнейшая херня, а препод - пенёк. Она даже не понимает, что я ей говорю. У трёх лучших студенток в группе самые низкие оценки. Труба полная, короче.



Как ни печально, русский язык никогда меня так не интересовал. Может, потому что он мне всё-таки родной, читаю я много, и удивить меня чем-то уже трудно. Особенно после всяческого фаншита. Единственный русский автор, который меня действительно заинтересовал - это Акунин. *да, я люблю попсу - ну пристрелите меня за это!* Офигенный мужик с охрененным чувством юмора. Он в последнее время заигрался со сленгом, но - чёрт! - когда я читала Фандорина, я ржала часами. Акунин просто гениален! Язык потрясающий.



Среди английских писателей намбер ван - это тётенька Роулинг. Чмошный русский перевод рядом не валялся. Это же такая язвительная баба!

На английском я абсолютно помешана. Я люблю его всё больше с каждым днём. Я уже даже думать на английском начинаю периодически. Очень надеюсь не обломиться и уехать-таки в Англию в следующем году. *о, мой божественный Брайтон!! жди меня - и я вернусь!*



Что касается фанфикшна, то тут Maya и Rhysenn- мои богини. Что б я могла так писать! Свет под Водой давно уже растаскан мной на цитаты. И, кстати говоря, перевод Солнечного Котёнка - просто потрясающий. Никто не сделал бы лучше.



А теперь вот на арену вышла Saltywench с её Mirror Image. Никогда не думала, что в RPS можно написать что-то настолько потрясающее: интересный сюжет, оригинальный стиль, абсолютно живые и достоверные персонажи. Я не люблю перечитывать уже прочитанное, но этот фик я затёрла до дыр. Он словно кружево - изящный и тонкий. И полный такой нежности, хрупкости, неуверенности. И боли. И именно потому, что рассказ такой реалистичный, за детей становится страшно. Но тебя уже затянуло, и ты всё равно дочитаешь до конца - что бы там ни было.

Склоняю голову.









“What has you so worried? That thing yesterday”? Gustav shook his head. “It’s all the time. He’s not looking at himself in the mirrors; He’s looking into mirrors searching for something.”







Georg had also pulled Bill aside that morning and laughing, had unbuttoned Bill’s shirt and re-buttoned it correctly, chiding him all the while for still being so hung-over he couldn’t do it properly. They all knew Bill hadn’t been drinking. It had been a kindness to pretend he had been, and Tom was grateful too him for it. Yesterday Bill had put his tee-shirt on inside out, and Dave had made a cutting remark that had left Bill weeping in his little bunk for half an hour.







He also knew Dave would never believe him until it was too late, and he had caused Bill to have a complete meltdown. He’s going to go mental, and when they see it, they’re gonna lock him up.

Then they’ll lie about what’s wrong, and everyone will think he’s in re-hab. Rock stars are supposed to be junkies, right? Not mental patients. They’re going to take him away from me.







The rabbit, no bunny, had been the first thing Bill had ever claimed; other than jewelry that he sometimes kept. Normally he had something rather derisive to say about the toys, they always irritated him. But he had taken one look at that bunny, and it was all over. Tom had seen his face soften, and had watched him slowly pull it loose from the others. The bunny had him at hello.







He realized the tapping was coming from another room. He took a quick look down the hall and saw a tall blond knocking on Bill’s door. Time in Tom’s world slowed to a crawl. In the space of a few heartbeats, he lived an eternity as he watched the Blond man lean against Bill’s door, smile, say a few words and then disappear inside.







Hot tears ran down his face. Tom never cried, and if he had realized he was doing it now, he would have been mortified. I told him to get the big blond. This is my fault. He rolled over onto his left side facing the wall, and sobbed like a little child lost.



A long while later, feeling much better and inexplicably safe, he pulled his face out of the pillow and took a deep breath. A soft hand rubbed his. Startled, he realized that Bill had climbed into the bunk with him and was curled up around him; cuddling him protectively. Tom was utterly dumbfounded. He hadn’t even noticed him climb in. The curtains were closed, but he could tell the lights were out. It was the middle of the night. The road they were traveling thrummed through the thin wall. How long has he been here? Bill’s face rested gently on Tom’s hair, his arm lay on his brother’s, his long, beautiful fingers stroking his hand. His leg was thrown over Tom’s, as if he could hide him from the world. Tom ran the back of his hand over Bill’s knee.







Bill breathed out, a nearly silent “Shhh…” He could feel Bill’s breath on his ear. Tom’s tired and sore eyes fluttered closed. A memory, long forgotten, of his mother doing the same thing years before, came rushing back to him. She had smelled of Lavender. He couldn’t smell anything now because his nose was stuffed up, but he knew Bill smelled of Heather. His mother had cuddled him the whole night; when she should have been with Bill. He had felt badly about that in the morning, but Bill had never mentioned it. Tom had cried all night long because Bill had lost on star search. Bill hadn’t cried. Tom had cried because Bill wouldn’t.







“It’s ok”. It was barely a whisper. He wouldn’t have heard it if his face had still been buried in the pillow. “It’s ok”. Gentle hands traveled over his arm. His hands are so soft, not like mine. No calluses. Tom’s dick was so hard it ached. Christ, I’m fucking gay too.







Gentle fingers were slowly exploring his abdomen. Comprehension dawned in Tom’s battered spirit, and the dawning insight into Bill’s confusion was ambrosial to his ego. Bill hadn’t seen him shirtless in a very long time.



“They’re called abs,” Tom whispered. “Some of us are doing crunches while others of us are putting on eyeliner”.







“Chicken”. Bill whispered. Tom laughed again. “I’m not chicken; I’m not in the mood”. “Bwak, bwak, bwak”. Tom laughed again. “You’re not my type,” he whispered.



“Bwak, bwak, bwak, bwak, bwak”. Tom elbowed Bill in the back. “What are you doing in my bed, you freak?” “There was a puddle on the floor; I came to see what was leaking”. Tom dried his eyes on his shirt. “It’s stopped leaking”. “I can’t tell you what a relief that is. I was afraid I was going to have to use Georg as a floatation device”.







“Touch me”. So softly spoken he wasn’t sure if Bill had heard him.



Fingernails, as soft as butterfly kisses, began to caress his abs. “Yeah”. Tom’s word little more than a quiet sigh. A moment later it was answered by a shadow of sound. “Ok”. He felt the smallest of nods against his shoulder. The soft hand clenched, and a claw carefully scratched him. It did it twice more, both times sending Tom bending backwards into his brother's arms. His left nipple was stroked, and a small gasp fluttered in his ear. Tom had never told Bill he had gotten his nipples pierced. “Hurt me”, he whispered.







Tom used both of his hands to pull Bill down onto his mouth and achieved bliss the moment their tongues touched. They stayed still long moments after that, breathing slowly into each other, first one, then another, sharing air. Getting high on the lack of new oxygen. It was the most intimate thing either of them had ever done.







“What is the sexiest thing ever said to you by your lover?” … Georg pointed straight at Bill. Bill smiled a sly smile and took a hit from his cigarette. He looked at Georg, then back down at the floor, blushing as he blew the smoke out of the side of his mouth. “Hurt me”. He said.







Bill stood on the roof with his head thrown back laughing and laughing at the absurdity of what his life had become. He could see tomorrow’s papers in his minds eye. Riot at Tokio Hotel concert, 400 female children gassed…He could still feel the sensation of being lifted bodily by strong unseen hands, and being body surfed, security guard to security guard back into the building. Someone had groped his dick. He wondered if it had been a girl or one of the guards.







“Bill, come away from the edge!”



Tom turned to look at Bill, who was laughing, and standing on the mantle of the building. He looked back at Tom, and for Tom, the moment was frozen in time. Bill, his hair gently blowing around his face, his gaze filled with tranquility and love, looking into his brother’s eyes; in the space of a heartbeat it was reflected back and forth a thousand times, like two mirrors facing each other. He looked at him and no one else. The sweetest shadow of a smile blessed his lips, and when he blinked, the instant was burned into Tom’s memory. He looked like an Angel, praying. He heard Bill’s voice echoing in his mind; twin telepathy. I Love you. Everything is going to be alright. And then he turned away from him.



He’s going to jump.



Bill struck the asphalt floor of the roof so hard he received a concussion. He lay dazed, under the body of his brother which was trembling like a leaf. Tom had no memory afterwards of crossing the distance between them. Others who saw it said they had never seen anyone move that fast in their lives. Bill lay quietly, his eyes half closed, breathing slowly. “You play too rough,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from shock. He placed his hand on the back of his brother’s head, entwining his fingers in Tom’s dreadlocks. Tom sobbed loudly. “Shhh…” Bill whispered, breathing into Tom’s ear.







They had shown up last year after a meeting where they had discussed his tummy. They had actually called a meeting to discuss his tummy. “The little girls love it when you flash your stomach, your going to get a tattoo, so you have something to flash”. Bill hadn’t minded that, he wanted a tattoo, a skull and cross bones.



They made him get a star.







“My only job is to sing. If I can’t fucking sing why am I in the band? I can’t do anything else”. “No one is going to know you can’t sing, we’ll take care of it. You’re the spokesman, you’re job is to look amazing, and be charming”. … “My only job is to look good”. Tom had heard him mutter it too himself over and over like a sick fucking mantra. Bill had been deeply wounded, deeply horrified. Deeply frightened. All of this, the band, the records, this life, it had all been his dream. He was being told he wasn’t good enough to be part of his own dream anymore.







He had said nothing when the suits had shown up with a team to restyle his hair. “You look like a sixteen year old”. “I am sixteen”. “No, from now on you’re going to be twenty”. They had dyed white highlights in, and taught him to make his eye shadow more extreme. “I look like a fucking girl,” he had complained. “No, babe, you look like a girl people want to fuck”. Another thoughtless remark.







It was a cut, hardly more than a scratch, insignificant. They had taken him to a plastic surgeon. Bill came home pale and completely fucked in the head from it. A plastic surgeon, for a scratch on his face. They had given him two presсriрtions; for special cream, and a wax to cover it. He was to wear it under his foundation. No one would ever know he had been disfigured.



Disfigured? It was a fucking scratch. Bill had sat in his room, trembling in shock that he was considered so utterly valueless as a performer, as a human being, that a scratch had been handled like a catastrophe.

Прежде чем смотреть видео с детьми, необходимо выпить чего-нибудь… Короче, надо тяпнуть. И сегодня я в очередной раз в этом убедилась. Бессонная ночь мне гарантирована.



педофилам на радость

Меня жестоко проглючило, или Дитё действительно смотрит братегу на губы?











Надеюсь, это было детское шампанское?











Какие счастливые детские моськи! *каваится*











Оператор – явно наш человек. Надо же было заснять ТАКОЕ крупным планом!











Так и норовят придвинуться поближе друг к другу.











Ребетёнкина убогая татуировка. Её в этом ролике показывали больше, чем лицо и остальные части тела вместе взятые.











Ну, и напоследок – Детка в своём репертуаре.

О, дайте же мне лекарство от пошлости!!



PS. Откуда у меня ремикс Ретте Михь?? Я его не скачивала!! Вот так и сходят с ума…

Разгребала завалы в шкафу и наткнулась на старый дневник по зарубежной литературе. Да-да, когда-то я читала зарубежку – и даже не в сокращении. Теперь меня хватает только на то, чтобы часов в пять утра наутро перед экзаменом пролистать учебник. И то не всегда.



Франсуа де Ларошфуко



"Максимы и моральные размышления" (1665)





Ум всегда в дураках у сердца.



* * *



Истинная любовь похожа на привидение – все о ней говорят, но мало кто её видел.



* * *



Старики потому так любят давать хорошие советы, что уже не могут подавать дурные примеры.



* * *



Чем сильнее мы любим женщину, тем больше склонны её ненавидеть.



* * *



Мы так привыкли притворяться перед другими, что под конец начинаем притворяться перед собой.



* * *



Вернейший способ быть обманутым – это считать себя хитрее других.



* * *



Зло, как и добро, имеет своих героев.



* * *



Тот, кто думает, что может обойтись без других, сильно ошибается; но тот, кто думает, что другие не могут обойтись без него, ошибается ещё сильнее.



Похоже, почти за пятьсот лет люди мало изменились.

Моск, аууу! Когда-то мы с тобой неплохо сотрудничали...

Ну как можно быть такими очаровательно-ребячливыми и одновременно вызывать столько пошлых мыслей? *ушла за верёвкой и мылом*



twins