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Longina Manswell
This is an urgent appeal to hydrozoa.

You have made me realize something incredibly important.

I desperately hope you have not banned my emails. Please, please, if you have banned my letters, try to salvage them from your junk folder and if they are totally gone then i will send them again. I am not crazy and i am not trying to act like an asshole. I'm really sorry if it seems that way, because it is not my intent. Please hear me out.
 
 
Longina Manswell
11 March 2009 @ 10:17 pm
Dude...

Chocolate covered bacon.

We made some; i ate it.
 
 
Condition: enthralledenthralled
Soundtrack: "White Wedding (Literal Video)" - Billy Idol/Dustfilms
 
 
Longina Manswell
27 February 2009 @ 06:44 am



1 - Go to wikipedia. Hit "random" or click http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random

The first random wikipedia article you get is the name of your band. (Alternatively, if the first article you hit is already a band or celebrity, hit Random Article two more times.)

2 - Go to "Random Quotations"
or click http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3

The last four or five words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your album.

3 - Go to flickr and click on "explore the last seven days" or click http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days

Third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4 - Use photoshop or similar to put it all together.

5 - Post it with this text in the "caption!"
 
 
Condition: creativecreative
Soundtrack: "Say it is So" - Grand Unification Epoch
 
 
Longina Manswell
21 September 2008 @ 08:39 pm
...  
Escalade Hybrid = Oxymoron
 
 
Condition: apatheticapathetic
 
 
Longina Manswell
23 August 2008 @ 01:07 am
The winning lottery drawing for tonight's New York Daily Numbers was: 666.

You know there's a goth kid somewhere (In a Bodega Near You) shouting: "At last! My number is up!"
 
 
Condition: mellowmellow
Soundtrack: "Burnin' For You" - Blue Oyster Cult
 
 
 
Longina Manswell
24 June 2008 @ 09:26 pm
Yesterday
As I lay in bed
A young thug passed beneath my window
And this is what he said:
"He had fucking lipstick! And fucking blue eye shadow! And fucking rosy red cheeks!"

And I laid there for a long time, contemplating those words, as one might contemplate Descartes.

Later, on the way to the public mailbox, a little boy on a bike in a bright red shirt came peddling past me and stopped to huff out these words: "I’m out of breath!" Except it sounded more like 'bweff,' which was pretty sweet. And then he went trundling off into the greater beyond.

Foremost of the recent random street encounters I shall relate happened last Sunday night. It would be prudent to offer some illuminating back story, so I shall tell you that last Sunday night was a gathering of The Court of Lazarus, "a Metropolitan Vampire Society"/"Salon Noir." We meant to attend in the spirit of irony.

Listen, I fucking love vampires, okay? I love vampires ninety hundred times more than the next guy. I’ve read more shitty vampire novels and watched more shitty vampire movies than I’d care to enumerate. Vampires are boss. However, no matter how much I love vampires, or perhaps because of how much i love vampires, I do not pretend I am one of them. But this whole vampire business is too enormous an issue to get into at the moment, it demands a starring role and not a mere cameo, suffice to say I have a very specific notion of vampires and The Court of Lazarus does not embody it. We were after a good laugh and a good laugh is what we got.

Firstly we meant to honour the requirement of elegant gothic formal dress. So I threw open my wardrobe and offered its myriad fruits to Helen of Troy. She chose a deep red corset embellished with dark beads and embroidery, paired with a short black fringed skirt, fishnet stockings, and black satin opera gloves adorned with snap buttons running up their outer length. Her companion, the Prophet Jeremiah, whom we dubbed Demetrius for the occasion, wore a traditional black ensemble accented with a dark red tie. I myself donned a long mermaid skirt of black lace layered atop skin-toned fabric and a black lace top unlined in the back.

Thus was I clad as I made my way down the street to my car and as I was unlocking the door I felt a vehicle slow and stop beside me. Suddenly I was filled with a vague dread and reluctantly looked up to see a white sports car, a young man with a crown of brown curls as its driver. And he said: "You are a very beautiful woman. I want to take you to a party." He had an accent. I couldn’t place it. Spanish, perhaps? As seems to happen to me on an alarmingly regular basis these days, my brain was stunned. But you see, I was late, as I always am, and running on autopilot. So I simply tossed out an obligatory thank you and got in my car, though I did roll down the window as it seemed he was content to linger. He said, "My name is Eric." I should have reciprocated, but my knee-jerk response was: "I’m sorry, I’m in a rush." And he nodded and smiled, getting the message, and left me with these words: "Good night. I love you!" And then he went trundling off into the greater beyond. Never, I’m sure, to be seen again.

I acknowledge there is a certain element of vanity in relating this tale. It’s a bit of the ol’ masturbatory ego stroke. But this particular encounter resulted in a peculiar realization. For, my friends, I did not notice until after he had driven away that our man Eric was actually a rather handsome lad. He looked similar to David Alpay in the role of Mark Smeaton on The Tudors. And he had an exotic accent! Thus was I instantly flooded with profound regret. Too late!

Here’s the deal: usually the only people who are bold enough to hit on someone in so presumptuous a manner are vile beasts. Such monstrosities don’t have time to get to know a person well enough to make proper overtures – their only goal is getting laid. Their reasoning is one of probability: the greater the number of people they hit on, the greater the odds they’ll find one who’s up for an anonymous fuck in a public bathroom. Therefore, I have been programmed to believe anyone who hits on me is a creep. So deeply rooted in my mind is this that I completely failed to register anything else about our man Eric beyond the fact he was hitting on me, the one criterion I needed to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was in fact a creep. And you know, that’s just…well, it’s surprising – and sad. I had no idea! A new idiosyncrasy comes to my attention.

There’s every chance he could have been an actual creep, of course. But he was a handsome man from a strange land with a nice car who felt moved enough at the mere sight of me (in elegant gothic formal dress) to stop his car in the middle of the street just to talk with me and what he chose to say was romantic and respectful and not at all vulgar or seedy. For all these reasons I should have given him the benefit of the doubt, but instead I only acknowledged he was hitting on me and so presumed him a creep. Alas.

I wish I were the sort of good natured soul who could think back on this and draw comfort dreaming of an alternate dimension in which I had told him my name and accepted his overtures and learned he was a European Prince and became his Princess and lived with him in a gorgeous castle overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.

However, I am the sort of dark hearted blackguard who would rather draw comfort imagining him an imbecilic deadbeat reprobate with herpes and eight tragic bastards begat upon no less than eight different women. So it goes.

I have learned this: Accept the gifts the Universe gives you. It bestows them so rarely.
 
 
Condition: jaded
Soundtrack: "Creep" - Radiohead
 
 
Longina Manswell
29 May 2008 @ 02:32 am
Last night I sat in my bathroom for an hour crying into a towel.
Relapsing again.
Last time was about two weeks ago, instigated by "The Sound of Silence," which tipped the scales into Tearland. That Simon and Garfunkel really know how to pull the heartstrings.

I thought I had gotten better about this, doing an admirable job coping. But I guess I was wrong. Hey, four years is a long time and it’s such an enormous body of experience and memories and joint identity to move on from. I’ve been trying to pick up the pieces pretty steadily, but Time isn’t working fast enough – it never does, not when you want it to, so obstinate in keeping that regular pace. According to the Rules of Engagement as conveyed via American sitcoms, it takes a person half the duration of the relationship to get over it. Which means I’ve got two more years of purgatory before I turn the last page of this chapter. Of course, I’m not exactly the sort of person who lives by the laws of American sitcoms.

It isn’t going to change and there’s no going back. Even so, I feel like I’m waiting. And if I’m to be honest with myself, I shall have to admit that deep down in the most isolated, inaccessible zones of my soul, I’m waiting for this to be over, for the nightmare to end, to wake and find us back together again. But that can never happen. Everything is different now, all is changed, and I cannot forget or forgive the cause. The hurt I have suffered has left a scar and that scar has sealed off certain avenues of feeling, as a means of protection and self-preservation. What came before is gone forever and nothing new can grow up in its place, for the ground is poisoned and fertile no more.

My mind keeps drifting, most unexpectedly, to one unremarkable occasion when he met me in the street, at some ungodly hour, lost in the tangled mess of Park Slope. Eventually he emerged from out the darkness and we embraced and kissed and carried on our way, easy and natural as an organic pair, a joint unit formed of two interconnected parts. I ruminate on this and think how easy it would be to see him in the street and embrace him and kiss him and carry on our way, like I did so reflexively for four years. It would be so easy to go through the physical motions. Muscle-memory, autopilot. But in my head I would know it was fake and in my heart I would feel it was wrong.

One of the problems comes in that I made him such an enormous part of my life that with its ends I lost more than our relationship. I lost all his friends and family. I lost creative and vocational opportunities. I lost an entire community of parks and restaurants, dog runs and street fairs, bars and butcher shops. My slothfulness encouraged me to simply leech off his life thereby foregoing the need to maintain my own. I recognize now that doing so was a huge mistake. I think I even knew it at the time, though never cared to admit it to myself. So this is the lesson I have learned from my latest go round the romance rollercoaster. This is the nugget of wisdom I take with me and grow better for it. As comfortable as one feels as a couple, as content one is to identify as half of the gestalt known as Us, it is of paramount importance that both parties have their own lives and friends and pastimes. For if you make another your whole life then your own is forfeit.

In addition to betrayal and heartbreak I have also been exiled.

Strange that I should feel this way, so shunned and alone, after the most social week I’ve ever had, out and about almost every night and day. But it doesn’t matter who is excluding you or when, only that it happens. I am uninvited and it cuts me in an old, familiar way.

Thus I have to find all new things. I must create a new life to replace the one I’ve lost. It is a Herculean task, one I eschewed by hiding in my relationship, huddling like a refugee seeking sanctuary, absconding from the duties I owed myself. So I am making new friends and finding new bars and generally forging a new path that is entirely my own. Meanwhile he gets to keep the old. But maybe that’s worse. My new things aren’t tainted by what came before. They do not remind me of him because he was never there. I can escape his memory for awhile. But for him there is scarcely a take-out meal he can order without remembering my favourite dish. He cannot satisfy his mandatory iced coffee fix without his eyes first passing over my traditional 'morning offerings.' The playfully bounding canines in the dog park can do nothing but prompt memories of Waffle, our imagined future pet. My absence must be as palpable as my presence once was. And it is all on him for making our life together too unbearable for me to remain. Surely my memory haunts him as his betrayal haunts me.

I should focus on the bad things. After all, our relationship was by no means perfect. I will always be the first to admit it. It was riddled with flaws that still goad me to this day. But a great many things about it were rare and perfectly fit. I had something that worked, that made me happy, i was content, and the parts of it that were a bit rocky, well, that was just like having a leaky faucet in the bathroom or a mostly working piece of technology you have to kick every once in awhile when it starts acting funny to make it work again. It was nothing worth demolishing the whole house over, is what i'm saying.

In the end, though, I know I am better off. It’s a good job I escaped when I did. The man is a sinking ship. I spent so much time bailing out the overflowing waters that I got to thinking he had stabilized. But he proved me wrong. So I am saved and We are lost. Except I still wish I could save him too. Alas, I helped him as much as I was able and now it is left to him to save himself. Would that he could find the strength to do it. Knowing I am better off is no great comfort, however. I still find myself wishing things had gone differently. I wasn’t ready for our relationship to end. I still loved him. I wasn’t finished. And I fucking miss it. My whole old life. But it’s broken and diseased and gone. It’s lost to me now. Lost to the both of us.


So shall it be great hurt unto us twain,
And yours the loss, and mine the deadly pain. – Thomas Wyatt
 
 
Condition: brooding
Soundtrack: "Lonesome Town" - Ricky Nelson
 
 
Longina Manswell
23 May 2008 @ 05:12 pm
I was inspired quite unexpectedly to share my own experiences as concerns duel obsessions with both candy and justice (and how sometimes, miraculously, they happen to overlap) after stumbling quite happily upon allsortssrsbzns. So allow me to get right into it.

When I was a senior in high school I took to the habit of carrying around with me an enormous box of Wonka Rainbow Nerds®. In spite of the name of the product, and despite my love of said sweets, it nevertheless rubbed me the wrong way that Nestlé’s idea of the rainbow consisted of a mere four colours, those being: purple, yellow, green, and pink. Pink is particularly galling given that while they shunned the other four legitimate colours of the rainbow (red, orange, blue, indigo), they went out of their way to mockingly include a colour that doesn’t even feature at all (as conceived by the helpful schoolyard mnemonic device of Roy G. Biv).

However, I happened to notice one day (which was only natural considering the copious amounts of nerds I consumed) that strangely, indeed, strangest of all things strange, every now and again I would come across one single solitary sugary nugget coloured and flavoured in such a way as to represent one of the four missing colours of the rainbow. A stray orange nerd submerged and alone, lost amongst an entire package of otherwise purple, yellow, green, and pink. There were also red and blue ones similarly underrepresented. And that wasn’t all; occasionally I came across an albino nerd.

Well, how shocked and indignant was I when I discovered that Nestlé was not only capable of producing the true spectrum of the rainbow in all its glorious entirety but was also actually manufacturing nerds of all seven colours and was yet inexplicably and obstinately not including the full range in their misleadingly named Wonka Rainbow Nerds®?

I ranted about this to a great number of people.

So, one night, at a party no less, I sat down at my friend Mike’s kitchen table resolved to empty a whole package of nerds onto its surface and separate out the anomalous colours so as to properly document my findings. Mike, being similarly unhinged, provided small plastic jars in which I could store isolated colour groups. And I did indeed find every colour of the rainbow present (minus indigo, which, being somewhat of a transitional hue between blue and violet, was a loss I was prepared to accept), plus a goodly number of albinos besides.

Thus did I resolve to write Nestlé a letter conveying said findings and my friend Mike obliged by offering to play secretary as I dictated my angst. He blithely retrieved a spiral notebook and tore free a sheet of lined paper complete with a fringe of jagged papery bits on its left side. He wrote in pencil and handed over the utensil when it was time for me to apply my inimitable signature. Then he simply folded the unkempt notebook sheet as one would fold a proper letter, stapled it shut, addressed and stamped the backside, and immediately put it in his mailbox.

About two weeks later I received a letter from Nestlé apologizing for the inconsistency of their product and assuring me they would rededicate themselves to excellence in all possible ways. Also included was a coupon voucher for a mere $1.19. How they came to this seemingly random sum has always been a mystery to me.

Nonetheless, they appeared to have missed the point of my epistle entirely, for Wonka Rainbow Nerds® to this day remain purple, yellow, green, and pink. Clearly the gentle folk in the public relations department thought me either a child humoured by her parents (no surprise if one recalls the slipshod state of my letter [I suppose it didn’t help that I addressed my concerns to one Mister Willy Wonka]) or completely deranged.

So there you have it. My own Allsorts sort of Saga.
 
 
Condition: righteous
Soundtrack: "House of Fun" - Madness
 
 
Longina Manswell
I am disappointment made flesh. I am the manifestation of deflation. I am the aftermath of a let down. Let me tell you, frankly, it is not pleasant.

A shocking upheaval has taken place in the game of dating. The tables have turned. Traditional gender roles are not as the comics and clerics would have us believe. I find now that women are the predators and men their prey. Women are lusty and just want to get laid and men are all skittish and coy, sentimental and slow. All the boys are a bunch of cockteasers and I want to know – When did this happen? And how?

I’ll tell you this, it’s Fucking Frustrating, with capital effs. I now quite intimately understand the meaning of blue balls and mine are substantially cerulean. Though I have time in abundance, all the time in the world, I have no patience for these games, for this playing hard to get. Ambiguities abound on all sides and there are too many shades of grey. I’d like to meet someone who’s on the level, the only problem being nobody is. They all have issues or lingering exes or The Fear. What a shame. I’m a perfectly good young specimen going to waste here, by god. It’s ludicrous. And I just want to say that commitment is not a necessary consequence of physical intimacy. Can we not just enjoy each other, please? Allow me to play Casanova and love you for just tonight.

It’s not going to happen, of course. Because they’ve all gone round the u-bend. Bugger it all. It used to be that women and their unknowable appetites were a colossal joke upon mankind. Yet now it is the men who are variable – and only a madwoman would treat with them. It’s not even just the sex thing, either. I am shocked anyone at all is in a relationship, to be perfectly honest. It’s impossible to seal the deal these days. The territory is beyond treacherous and slippery to an extreme. There’s just no feasible way to negotiate it. At all. I don’t know what’s become of things, but it’s a sorry state, it is, and I feel of quitting before I’ve even truly begun. Good grief. I hate dating. I loathe dating. I detest it with every quark and lepton of my being. It is a madness threatening the precarious stability of my mind.

I need a tougher skin.
 
 
Condition: predatorypredatory
Soundtrack: "Dilaudid" - The Mountain Goats
 
 
Longina Manswell
10 May 2008 @ 08:12 am
I feel incredibly lonely today.
I felt incredibly lonely yesterday, too.
I don't know where this feeling is coming from or why it started or when it will end.
It may be Crimson Tide related.
Or it may just be indigenous to my existence.
 
 
Condition: lonelylonely