Wednesday, 31 December 2014

Plasticine Animation Figure

I was crossing the road, and a nasty kid on the sidewalk pushed me over with a long stick, like a life guard. I fell down and was run over by a tram neatly slicing me into three parts, my head rolled away a bit. As soon as the tram was gone, my body snapped back into one piece like a bouncy rubber ball , my three parts gravitated together and stuck each other back like a plasticine animation figure, and off I went again, none the wiser, rather more dazed and confused than I had been.

Tuesday, 30 December 2014

Private Polly Post (PPP)

i write stories, books, make films, listen to glitter metal, watch dreampop videos, & used to like indie. Dislike shopping. dislike groups. go out with moderation. i take city walks by myself. drink a drink, eat a sandwich, no biggie. Sometimes it gets late, if i make acquaintances -- tell the story of life, or listen to someone else's, bye. I like to dress up, i am not shy. i dislike being drunk. it's the un-cleanest high-low messy inarticulate whaaaaa that i know. i like diamonds, but i don't have any. but i wouldn't take fakes instead, then rather nothing at all. don't mind sewing when i'm in the mood. i write on trains, in airports, in bed, and in libraries. hot and cold on cafes -- find myself eavesdropping despite myself, losing focus... I'm not sure what i am looking for in my creations. a lot of what I do has already been done. i want to bring out the new sheen from under. i find dream sequences psychologically interesting, and sometimes artistically useful. but on the whole i don't get the hype. in reality i meet many artists, more and more. too many, far too many, whom i happen not to find that interesting. too commercial. commercial, said of art, is a big word obviously. i'm mostly disappointed when i artists tell me they have big plans for the public... when the "art" part becomes the "imitation of successful other artists" part, feel like a rug's being pulled from under my feet. And of course, there's the "I am friends with such and such" part. Barf. I also cringe at bad poetry a lot. I usually know straightaway whether I like a work of art or not. Very often I don't, but I also know how bad it is to tell an artist that, so I don't. But I am not happy. Because i feel so mushy about the arts scene, and because i don't know what's to be done, i'm mostly absent. To crack the code of how to make a beautiful and ravishing work of art, i value most the deep and uninhibited conversations with inspired people. who may or may not be artists. oh my. arts scene dysphoria big time.

Saturday, 27 December 2014

It doesn't shine

it doesn't shine, so it's not there, and only stars can be seen in the dark, i am invisible, i am a prisoner, of night's dirty dragnets
and what, if I don't shine, then you can't see who i am, and if I drown in the morning, in the grey lake of your broken memory
the night will eat me, like it ate you

Wednesday, 24 December 2014

Cold coffee with vanilla ice cream

Summer, lakes, and people throwing nice smiles around like frisbees -- red and white marquees, Cold coffee with vanilla ice cream, and sparkly sandals

the distant summer

Merry Christmas!

Monday, 22 December 2014

Baroque Anatomy and Abstract Charm

Shopping online for a bikini is unaccountably difficult, because the ladies modeling them have the baroque anatomy and abstract charm so characteristic of the Uncanny Valley girls, who hail from Photoshop-land.
Shoppers on the internet want to buy an item they will wear, not gaze perplexedly at brutally starved young girls on the catwalk. Isn't it backward, that the skeletal woman is perceived as the ideal one? In these consumerist, overfed, and supremely food-wasting parts of the world that I inhabit, someone may be naturally thin, or cultivate a slim frame as a lifestyle choice, at their own leisure. But online retailers need not photoshop every woman into a disjointed humanoid to sell clothing.

Tuesday, 16 December 2014

1960s Shopping Center

Twas in a 1960s shopping center, which was desperately trying to be up to date with today's mall culture. On the rooftop -- say, on the 6th floor -- was a spa, the pool in a half moon shape, Greek amphitheater style steps rising up to sculptures of classic nudes in the corners. An unreconstructed disco bar served big beers to men in loin cloths, and in a smoking lounge adjacent, they sat wrapped in bath robes, watching the X-factor. Though advertised as a mixed nudist spa, guests were mostly straight men, who stared intensely, almost aggressively. The life guards kept reminding me to take off my panties, yet to put on some slippers because... Phwoar! Slippery. It being Christmas time, some kind of gingerbread hearts, candy floss and mulled wine mile was going on down in the streets below.

The Jenna Marbles of Heroin Addiction

is there a Jenna Marbles of heroin addiction? The internet's full of addicts three weeks clean, who speak of revelations, of plans to "rebuild their life", "spreading the word" and (gasp!) "helping others". But what of the ones clean for a longer time, like i have been, past the honeymoon and the hard work?

From now
will it just be long walks
in a dark grey valley
under a sky of squealing glass

blackened foil quivers
between parched silver membranes

Tuesday, 4 November 2014

Night song

Street light standing in the middle of the street
It shines a petticoat of light.
The trees stretch out an old and leafless hand
Right under the petticoat, right under the petticoat 
And I'm a walking shadow
Breathing in the wind
And I keep singing 
Old Berlin, old Berlin.

Tuesday, 14 October 2014

Nanowrimo is coming

Announcement...nanowrimo...I think I will do that this year, ideally for charity. Write a 50k words novel draft in a month. If there's one thing I've had trouble with it's plot making, and that's really why it will be so great to do this challenge.

With *fcking princess* I can begin to see where this is going. It's about a woman who ageing and desperately shopping for symbols of youth. And it's about feeling like plastic, like you're trapped in a gigantic Truman show. Wondering and keen to see if there's any gray and Orwellian bureau behind the scenes that orchestrates it all, looking behind the curtains, eventually slipping through cracks of everyday life, and be sucked into orbit--not a bad place to be, orbit, after all. Alien, and yet strangely dear. 

Being a woman in a world that desperately tampers with its own archives , and desperately wants to look and be different from the way it really is. And dampens voices and deletes furiously, and overstates, and shamesX and exaggerates... 

Saturday, 27 September 2014

Entangled in a Few Tufts

Dozing under a tilted roof I discover raw onions, peppers and pork meat stuck to the ceiling with egg yolk. A curly head walks in, I ask her if it's her food, she says: "no, it's my life".

I sit on a crest top by the sea and watch what looks like crawly spiders, but really is a swarm of little monkeys swimming in the sea.

A person is swimming in the flood as well, entangled in a few tufts of seaweed, dragging all the seaweed along with herself as if she was swimming in a green and tasseled furcoat. Big-shouldered and shaggy; like they are in fashion now.

Snow Cream

Glazed twists in pastel green
Snow cream 
Hansel and Gretel
Ziggy Stardust.

Toxic or amazing?
Glitter and hundreds and thousands
Candy icing
Pink unicorn.

Sunday, 14 September 2014

Drip With Pastel Icing

The sky is clean and baby blue, a few cotton tufts of clouds slide themselves along, and then they turn pink and vaporous like candy floss. An unseen golden cherub shoots at them with glinting golden arrows, and they pop like balloons. They explode into a million little pieces like the villains of '90s computer games, as sprinkled doughnuts in in the grass drip with pastel icing.

My first novel (similar style) on amazon

Wednesday, 3 September 2014

Glittery, Poison-colored Paste

I went for a random city wander in midst the sandwich papers, autumn leaves and flyers on the floor. Between the slowly awakening neons winking moodily at the city sunset from sleazy windows, from behind plastic palm trees garlanded with Christmas lights, tinsel and fake sunflowers, pushing the violet hour away slowly, with flickering fits and starts, as the blue velvet swirled in convulsively, grimly threatening to drown out all of the day’s light and life.

I kicked before me some crumpling night club flyers and looked at the long road before me, noticed a drug store to my left and remembered about some nail varnish that I wanted. Inside the store, I stood momentarily mesmerized by the long row of make-up displays, full of pink and silver, purple, green and red colours, black, yellow, and gold, too. I slowly picked up one nail varnish, turned the bottle on its head and watched the glittery, poison-colored paste move slowly and sluggishly, like amoebae, through the tiny glass vial. The glitter was very fine, in dark silver and purple tones, and it seemed strangely animated, the way it slowly let an air bubble swim from one side of the bottle to the other, like a cute brat popping bubble gum.

I stood there with the nail varnish, thinking, “I wonder if they are actually all as ugly as this, or whether some of these could pass for good taste”.

I picked up another. Here, the glitter was much less fine and dusty, and it was multicolour, more like confetti. It was swimming in bubble gum colour pink fluid, and had a similarly caterpillar-like way of moving its gooey consistency about, as I turned the bottle over and a bubble of air went through the body, like a pulse, it seemed.

The lip pencil section, with fragrances and tastes as well, had me particularly transfixed, as a dance of words like “ballet pink”, “blushing nude”, “sexy cherry”, and “dreamy decadence” stared into my eyes. “Such crudely misogynistic, pseudo-girly conceptual tags for such pathetic, distasteful goo”, I thought, “what a shambles”, as a big and bulging pink cloud fell over my brain.
I started to think pink handbags, Barbie dolls and watermelon martinis, white cars and palm trees, and then again, I started to think that all the make up and nail varnish I ever wore was like so much dust from a poisoned cloud settled on my skin, and on everybody else’s too, like so many worms and maggots moving over my lips and eyes and nails, a thought I found difficult to shake off.
Yes, I thought, I had recognized the decay to be what it was, decay, rather than the lavish joie de vivre that happy people fondly refer to as decadence. Creeping out of a rotting cake like a stray worm and trying to make it on my own amongst the bubblegum-plastered streets, ducking the crushing boot of society, seemed to me just as insane as staying in the mold, hatching in the familiar nest of desperation and thinly fading southern comforts, and whiskey sours rubbing off and off on purple velvet bar furnishings like a big, fat, vulgar fungus on the soul.

First published in IndieBerlin at

My first novel (similar style) on amazon

Tuesday, 2 September 2014

Adjust the Ill-adjusted

I was obviously very drunk. Like children's hands reaching into a bathtub full of foam and toys, an invisible hand from outside reached into my heart and poked at it, like at a marshmallow. Although everything was getting a bit vague, I was hoping for a revelation from this innermost, marshmallow-like depth of myself, which I all too often gloss over with hard candy. It's how I can fall in line with society's and the media's obsession with "making it", with chasing opportunity.

As I am sure you know, no-one is ever good enough in their capacity as self, in the present, and the aim is always to be better. Better than...? I walked unknown, unlit streets with a tear in my eye, each step closer to shutting down, hoping for a car to kill me or a hole in the ground to swallow me, but no. Only dark homes, and sleeping windows. Cheap double glazing and unwashed net curtains, battered bikes, chained to battered railings, rubbish out front, faded door knobs.

My first night on a park bench, I swallowed every objection that it might cause cystitis. That would be almost guaranteed. But I finally don't care. I am a grown-up. When I was little, I was told I would make up for all the wrongs, clean up the whole mess. As if that were some kind of honour. I would bring peace to the world, wipe out poverty, put a stop to racism, and make it a green planet. 

Wrong. I'm walking around at night depressed and pretty drunk. Bit of a chicken and egg as to which came first. But, it occurs to me, depression is a dirty word. What I feel now is nothing like the "depression" they describe in mental institutions. It probably is, only there, they systematically lie about it. It's depressing, but you have to see it from their perspective, too: a mental institution is a socio-emotional correctionary. A psychiatrist's job is to adjust the ill-adjusted, not to explore the beauty of their visions. They can't very well say that depression is an emotion from outer space that occurs when an individual realizes, to their pain, that the social pressures surrounding us don't provide guidance and stimulation, but instead deliver self-policed oppression, together with a false sense of purpose, all couched in a pompous rhetoric designed to make us accept and take pride in our fate as the pawns of capitalism.

The true purpose of life is unknown. To have an aim in life is, of course, the alpha and omega of each person's integrity in this contrived microcosm. Have a foot in the door, the other on the ladder, it seems to say. Is it very morbid if I say I still prefer to have one foot in the grave, and one foot in the shower.

Saturday, 30 August 2014

Popular Buzzwords in Women's Lifestyle Magazines

Popular buzzwords of women's lifestyle magazines :

- narcissist
- millionaire
- gluten-free
- glamour
- conspiracy
- manipulator
- "meant to happen"

Sunday, 3 August 2014

Mushrooming in Slow Bouts

Fuzzy radio waves grace this landscape of surreal trees. One is wrinkled and aghast like a woman, or a scarecrow in a snowstorm. One is man-made and threatening, all rusty machine parts, and the leaves screech on their hooks like the copper signs of old-fashioned shops.

I'm after a little thing on wheels, it rolled downhill ages ago, but it'll still be there when I get there. Nobody knows it's got that secret special code inside it, to unlock the door to life again, so no-one will take it, I'm sure.

These are grey trees, their sap is quicksilver, and balls of a ballpoint pen run through their arteries like larvae. 
Some trees are growing downwards, spreading nodes of roots in cable spaghetti style. 
Nightmares grow downward like that, parasitically spreading their filaments, mushrooming in slow bouts, and end up covering the entire world with their thin fluff. Basically, the whole world is moldy. 

If I had a mask, i would wear it now. I wonder if anyone will notice if I go to sleep for a little? I'm after that little thing on wheels, but I'm sure it will still be there. Which reminds me, last time I went to sleep, the truth changed overnight and everything looked different the next day.

The truth that had been spiky and twisted In the sun , tantalizing and mysterious--an erotic dance to uncover it--had been replaced by a card catalogue of true facts. Nothing held them together. 

This is how the curtain fell on all things amazing. Life's ability to buzz in my lips and shoulders like bumble bees, went silent. Where is my candy floss tent at the fairground? I gaze after old and starry moments, but there's only a feeling of nails scratching white and chalk-like trails into styrophone boxes. And. Nothing.

If that thing hadn't rolled down the hill, I'd take out the secret key now.

My first novel (similar style) on amazon

Sunday, 20 July 2014

Permanent Flash

Dead grass rustled gently, in midday heat's shallow breath. The sun, white as a permanent flash, parted my head in two. Its axe split my body down the middle. Two wooden halves fell to the ground knocking, echoing, in their stupid, wooden way.

My melting sneakers' soles smudged in a softened tarmac street, and in my thirsty vision, the road became marshland. I waded knee deep in boiling chewing gum, stood there in an Acheron bubbling in pale pink, like dirty hubba bubba. 

Feet on fire, burns stinging all over my skin, I scaled a heap of rusty auto parts, and thereupon became dusty and old like a car. 

Life's many hyperventilations vanished in thin air : where I was going and who I even was, or wanted to be. From the top, blissfully vacantly I overlooked a grand bowl of fog in the plain. Let me walk through this fog in peace, I thought. It might be narcotic. I might see white horses in there.

My first novel (similar style) on amazon

Wednesday, 9 July 2014

Discoloured Smoking Area

Street artists had blown out giant soap bubbles in the morning. Once these fickle and beanie-shaped bubbles had all popped in the air, a flimsy foam fell to the ground and coagulated between broken tiles on the pavement. An evil air of iridescence and oily black stared back at us all from the ground. The smell of detergent evaporated, and then it was as if those magicians had never even been there. Nothing more to see. 

What if I will have never travelled beyond this tea room of few words and of short dreams?

Kids touch the brown and wooden, uneven pub floor. Under a creamy layer of smoke and cough, the yellowed walls sweat nicotine. An old and greyed velvet curtain puffs out clouds of dusty particles. The fear that time might stand still grows knotty fingers reaching like the long roots of trees. Surely not here, not in this winter of the soul spent sitting in a discoloured smoking area that blasts with the fuzzy sound of outmoded punk records. The heart of Saturday night is dull and void, not labyrinthine or enigmatic like in the pictures. There is nothing to fret over here, only the same old rotten minds that bounce off these pasty walls and slide down between identical faces dangling on a washing line. 
And if it's after midnight, tomorrow is already here...

My first novel (similar style) on amazon

Saturday, 5 July 2014

Life in a HubbaBubba

Multicolored, that's what every kids' thing had to be. The colors of the 'eighties, so pretty on a child... I see them on the tutus of the skaters passing by. 
The powder blue and well-rounded, candy scented "my little pony" toys, tattooed with love hearts under their pastel rainbow manes, looked at me dolefully from their cartoonish, made-up eyes, as I melted a pack of flying saucers under my tongue. And Barbie with her ethereal, half-sleepy and half-perky, preppy and sexually available, lifeless and painfully perfect look of blue eyeshadow and long lashes just stood or lay there catatonic as someone wriggled her in and out of an iridescent plastic siren dress. 
These dazzling and somewhat estranging objects, which looked a bit like living beings, but then again not, curiously resisted most games.  Along with the tiaras and the glittery firefly wings, there was only one way you could play with these toys. This ain't  Legoland...
Like all the things my friends had, which I wanted but didn't get, these multicolored, silicone and rhinestone studded, rayon delights hailed from a toyland beyond the towering gates of shopping centers full of headless rubber mannequins behind glass, where you could eat soft ice cream and play in a cage full of multicolored plastic balls.
But whatever all this was--and it also went in pairs with the Disney movies, and the kids' cartoons on TV--it was brightly colored, and it was sticky, and semi-transparent, like rose colored glasses made out of jello sweets, and it buried all of life under a huge, bubblegum-flavored condom. I seemed to be just on the edge of life in a hubba bubba, trying to kick in a door, but hey, it was a stretchy, elastic door, and it was pink...

My first novel (similar style) on amazon

Friday, 27 June 2014

A Grape of Plastic Heads

We walked by the sea, and stopped for refreshments. When a few people neared our table to pinch a few salty peanuts, I saw what strange looking folk they were. Blow-up people just a few inches taller, and wider, their faces fuller, and their eyes further away in recesses than usual. Uncanny valley again. Something told me I knew them, or used to know them. They seemed too tall and wide, moved in such slow motion, and had such a distant look of sadness and revenge in their eyes as they were cracking painfully stupid jokes, laughing the metallic laughter of robots.

Someone was giving a speech in this great and tall Victorian hotel dining room. The large overlooking the sea trembled in the wind and a salty mist was rising from the grey ocean. The speech was tedious and stilted, we crept out on to the muddy slopes outdoors.

In our absence there had grown a Stonehenge-like stone circle on the field, and just as I was thinking how odd it was that I had never noticed it before, it morphed into the ruin of a Roman forum, an amphitheatre on the hill...

There were broken columns and a pile of marble heads on the slope, cluttered together in a pyramid, looking like a super-stern conference of disembodied policy-makers. Next to them, a grape of plastic heads with black sunglasses and headphones on, a transparent vacuum in their head, reminded me of the blow-up plastic people from inside.

I started talking to an old teacher, and her frozen raspberry pink lipstick disappeared from one minute to the next.

 my first novel (similar style) on amazon :

Wednesday, 25 June 2014

Platform Shoes and Acrylic Sweaters

One day, I walked through a shopping mall with someone much older who, hating it there and looking at me sideways, threw out "You used to be a mall girl, didn't you?" 

The shopping malls I had known, with glass ceilings, part fake and part real potted trees, bright lights and hot air vents, was a strange con on my generation of teenagers. On the one hand, an industrially repetitive architecture of cheap thrills created a feeling of familiarity in almost every city I went. The magazines I read went with the malls, too, kids all over the land were reading them, rushing to follow trends. Mostly, this involved sticky lip gloss and novelty nail varnish, platform shoes and acrylic sweaters.

This glassy place created and served the artificial need to reinvent myself through the medium of disposable clothing. I reinvented myself lots of times, believing I might find myself. But there was a glass ceiling, it was all skin deep, and teenagers go through momentous turmoil. These polyester and acrylic moments were not built to last, they were built to wear off and become truly ugly. 

I stopped the shopping mall weekends, the sneaky cigarettes by multicoloured indoor fountains, the snickers ice cream bars and Britney Spears tunes. It was surprisingly easy and I wore blue jeans and black old hand-me-down sweaters, old cords and men's shirts. 

Some day, I was the right age for Vogue or Harpers Bazaar. There it was again, that same call to self-reinvention. Updated and upgraded of course, incorporating some of the old princess myths they tried to sell me already when I was a little girl, a bit Barbie, and a bit grunge and britpop, too, cause they figured...

my first novel (similar style) on amazon :

Sunday, 22 June 2014

Pitiless Bite of Bleach

Vestiges of an abandoned fantasy world from the 1960s lurk in the corners of my kitchen sink. It may be the 2010s and overcrowded conditions have made London deeply dirty and infested. Black mould gnawing at it everywhere. No less, a pristine charm of iridescent soap bubbles still sleeps within bottles of poisonous green liquid called Fairy. The tired genie wheezes, remains stuck on crumbling rubber gloves and foams inside of gargling siphons. Now, Fairy finally shows its true identity : toxic goo. The pitiless bite of bleach, channelled through the image of a muscle-man stud with a diamond in his teeth, returns the familiar smell of indoor swimming pools to my clammy shower room at home. Those old city pools, all hairy drains and germy shower walls, no longer  keep up the squeaky clean and shiny, spotless turquoise tiled glory of the old futurism. 
Environmental disasters, acid rain and clogged sewers, the burnt faces of industrial janitors are now more readily associated with that chemical spectre, and the happiness of cleanliness shrivels. Still, remains of the old fantasy castle silently line the tiled walls of every kitchen. 
Once, for a month or two, I took Cerazette, the anti-baby pill : instantly, not only did I go up a cup size and develop an hourglass figure, but also, I felt like a blow-up doll, nervous, neurotic and fragile, a bit Plath, and a bit Monroe. It was like going back to the 'sixties, and then I too had this dream that everything would be wonderful, if only things were bright and clean.

my first novel (similar style) on amazon :

Friday, 20 June 2014

A Poisoned Hive of Uncanny-Valley Girls

If I had the money, I would have tried joining this post-punk resurrection tornado : a bleached and black leather, distressed denim army of middle-aged faces in glitzy jackets and skinny jeans. But since I didn't have the money, the next best thing was to see through the facade. Now that I frequent the grown-up, elegant shopping malls, where scary make-up ladies give me stern looks of disapproval, I'm right in the middle of a never-ending, perpetually self-repeating, graduation prom for big mall girls. Full of 300 dollar skull t-shirts and a kaleidoscope of handbags in the spotlight, and though I can window shop and walk through these glassy walls, I can't join the party. 

I decide that this, too, is a pretty vacant corporate con. Subtly invasive images of starved, enslaved women wearing almost nothing except jewellery that no real man can afford, float in and out of mind thick and fast, like a poisoned hive of uncanny-valley girls for women to look at, to feel represented by, and understood in their fragile sense of self, in their atrophy and imprisonment. 

So now every woman starts to need to date a prince, and to achieve this, has to go around life disguising herself as a princess. There are many princesses in the adverts. There is Snow White, there is Cinderella, there is Pockahontas; which one are you? Change your face, change your body, and buy a piece of beauty right from this store... oh, the phrases they tell these salespeople to say. I wonder what would happen if one day they stopped the machine? There will be nothing left in the soul but empty shells and bulky, undigested memories.  
When I was away wandering burnt landscapes, my angry feelings didn't change. Life slowly rolled forwards and its toxic-particle-laden tide sometimes buried me whole, the wind and the waves threw glassy sand in my face and the skin on my hands became a bit rougher. I never thought back much about our old fights that we used to have, how brittle and ashen they would leave me feeling. I didn't feel happy, but I carried that brittleness along, thinking, at least there is one person out there, who knows how I feel, because they did it. It took me so long to see at last that even you had no idea, and I am alone with the strange trees and the ashes within. I started building my own little house. Now that many years have passed and I once again look in your eyes, the will to fight back and to say how I have felt and where I've been, now that I am strong and you are old, has turned sour like the old soups from my kitchen, when i forgot to put them in the fridge.

One sentence from this blog was already published on:

my first novel (similar style) on amazon :

Monday, 16 June 2014

Tutu and the Crossroad Blues

I've been meaning to answer you all these years. I was locked in a cube of time, like a glass brick in a wall. In a present that never becomes past, like a past that moves itself along. A soap bubble should hold all that has happened since, and take the rest of life on a fantastic voyage. And I would sit in the old four walls, staring at something, letting time freeze, as life coagulates darkly. Afeeling like snakes in the stomach, hissing rains in the window, a night walking soundscape of unknown noises and painful flashlights. Walking at night on the glass shards of other days, under street light hummings, the squeal of crystal at summer weddings rises and falls in my lungs like a fire-spitting dragon, locked in a cube of time.

In between the flames of two candles on a late night table, everything a bit woozy through drink, as I can see from that man's cartoon-like head motions -- his gaze shoots through the two dancing flames like an arrow. I think he is thinking "hey, I'm still waiting for my life to begin and it's already half over!" as he examines some ash on the table -- and the other people in the room turn blue, like poisoned aspidistras, and their chairs grow taller, and taller, and taller...

My disposable childhood rises from the ground like a ghost : all flimsy cartoon strips from the back of cereal boxes and ice cream wrappers, all freebies and kinder surprise eggs, crocos, hippos, turtles and glitter stickers, plastic toys from Mc Donald's kids' menus, dinosaur magazines, tiny toon pogs from crisp packets, collectible bumper stickers, and endless bubble gum from bubble gum machines, smurf sweets, cola sweets, and slime jelly toys, glow-in-the-dark plasticine in a pot, and worthless accessories from a teen girl's magazine, like stick-on tattoos and rubber bracelets, and fruit flavoured lip gloss. One day we bagged it all and threw it out, since then I have taken to burning clothes.

I don't know what poked open and collapsed the bubble of cheap dreams, with all its fake needs and sheepish wants created by salesmen and adverts, the Diors and Zadigs of this world, that still want me to want to be a princess -- but why would I want to be a fucking princess? The faces of the past have vanished like ghosts, and all I have left is a tutu, and the crossroads blues.

 my first novel (similar style) on amazon :