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I've moved, people. Click the following image to go to my new journal. Add me and I'll add you back.

Made up my mind. I need a fresh start. I really need a fresh start. So, from now on, you can find me on teh_steph .

And that's all. This journal will be used for iconage from now on.

Johnny Depp movies I own:

- 21 jump street
- Nightmare on Elm street 1
- Platoon
- Cry Baby
- Edward Scissorhands
- Benny and Joon
- Fear and loathing in Las Vegas
- The Astronaut's wife
- From hell
- Pirates of the Carribean
- Secret window
- Finding Neverland

Think that I need to , urgently so, restock on more JD movies? I think so too. So, I'll be making a lot of trips to the video store.

The room I'm sitting in is perhaps one of the prettiest rooms in the entire building. You can see that it used to belong to a man, since there is a lot of woodwork and a lot of darkgreen. Very male. I can't say that I hate it. In fact, if my mother loved these rooms, I cannot see why it wouldn't appeal to me. This room was this way throughout the years I grew up, and it is still this way. I have no single reason to believe that my children will transform this room into something more modern. It is family history. And that is why I'm keeping it this way. I've seen pictures however, of how this room used to look before my parents took on the dutiful job of restoring it. Blank, white walls. Ugly plumbing. Floorboards who were in dire need of a sand down and a new layer of varnish. Not something I would have gone for. In fact, the entire building was derelict, but my father refused to let it slip through his hands. He was in love with it, you could say.

But underneath that terrible layer of white, my father found green. And so ... the walls became green. The woodwork was chipped, but he managed to get the paint of it, and back to his original splendor. Furniture that my father bought to match the area of when this room was decorated, although he hated Victorian furniture and had a outmost love for Art Nouveau furniture. Most of the furniture in the building is Art Nouveau. It isn't the nicest style, but it doesn't suck either. But when you grow up with it ... you can't love it or hate it. It's just there, really and you grow used to it.

I was born in this room. I grew up in this room, watching my mother bang away on the only pieces of Art Nouveau in the entire room : The Remington Noiseless that I chucked into the flames in a fit of rage when I was 17, and the Art Nouveau desk, which is still here. My father had such exquisitive taste. Antique dealers who come into the building just don't have eyes enough to take it all in, and walk around with their eyes as big as church bells. I think my father would have been amused, really. And right now, I'm writing in this room.

My parents were both artists, which is probably why they nearly drove each other insane. My father preferred the rich versatility of his piano to the harsh clacking of the keys on my mother’s typewriter. Perhaps that’s why they had separate bedrooms. My father’s piano was downstairs in the lounge, of course, but often while he tossed and turned and tried to sleep my mother would be up half the night, banging out b-grade horror novels on autopilot. I can't say she was a very good writer, but her ideas were out of the ordinairy. Her novels would attract the people who loved a bit of a scare. I believe they can still be found in second hand bookshops. My father, apart from being a wonderful, passionate pianist, which I've learned from the recordings my mother let me hear as a teenager, was also a police officer.

As a teenager, I imagined him nursing his bottle of whiskey late at night, listening to recordings of his favorite classic pianists, weary of his job, but that is perhaps not what he did. It is easy to have a wrong image of your father if you never knew him at all. I adored him, I needed him, I missed him, in a way. Whatever there's left in my mind are vague, made-up images of someone who looks like my father, from the pictures I've hoarded and claimed as my own as the years passed by. Long hair, pale skin, slender build, long fingers, those of a pianist. All of them are pictures of my father with long hair, apart from one, where he looks gaunt and pale, with short hair, ruffled about, messy clothes and a weary smile on his face. It is easy to believe that my mother chucked away all of the other pictures where he could be seen with short hair. It is understandable. She always told me that the man with short hair just isn't your father anymore, just a mere shadow of the person he used to be.

My father had cancer, and he would have died of it, if he hadn't fallen down the mainstairs when he was 32. On purpose or by accident, that I don't know. It isn't easy to fall down them, although the building's history has two recordings of people who have seen their lives end by falling down them. First recording was a servant, who liberately fell down them to end her life, in the 1870's. The second one is ... yes, my father.

The piano that my father just loved to play is still here, although no one has played it in ages. It is tuned each year, although it is far from necessary. It isn't gathering dust either. It is polished at least once a month, because my father did have exquisitive taste. A Steinway from the 1930's, if I can believe my Uncle Noah's insane Irish ramblings, God bless the man. It's just my way to honor him, I suppose, apart from his pictures that used to decorate my bedroom with as a teenager.

I don't think it is odd at all to miss someone you never knew. And in fact, my father, the enigma that he was, since my mother rarely spoke about him, has always been around. He is in the house, each way I go. He is in every single piece of furniture that I touch, he is in every room. Why? Because I want it that way.

But before I continue this any further, do you believe in ghosts? Could you ever believe that they are around us, watching all our movements, watching us being born, watching us grow up, cry bitter tears, watch us eat, sleep and breathe? They watch us live our lives without the singlest trace of recognition as of why they are there. Most of them don't know either. All they know is that they are trapped. I can believe it gets rather lonesome.

The older the building, the more ghosts there are. Roman armies have walked through our basement ever since I can remember, destined to continue their doomed march for so many centuries to came. There are servants, there are Victorian ladies walking through the corridors of this building without taking note of me or their children. But some of them walk talk to you. Some of them will want the contact, but little of us mortals are willing to accept that, and they are ignored.

This building, and the site it is based on, has seen quite the history. What do you wish of a former Victorian hotel? That no ghosts at all wanders through it? It would be entirely inlogical to believe that. Romans have used this site, which partially explains the Romans in the basement. Most of the ghosts in here can be explained, and as the years passed I learned their names and part of their histories.

I need to do something creative. Something creative that doesn't bother the shit out of my wrist.

Something that doesn't involve schoolwork. Something that doesn't involve the GIP and something that doesn't involve photoshop at all.

Hard choice, no? I think I'll whip out my wordpad and write something. Doesn't matter what.

A fanfic, maybe?

Of one of JD's movies? *grabs Edward Scissorhands of the shelf*

And you can be darn sure of it, that when I start writing, that I'll whip out my Chet Baker Cd as well. Yum. Smooth jazz.

Kinky bastard! Grats! You're 79% kinky!

Well well well, you kinky bastard! Most likely you're into some weird shit, which is always great. Consider mailing the author of this test, and keep up the good work ;)

My test tracked 1 variable How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 93% on kinkpoints

Link: The Kinkyness Test written by nilnisicruce on Ok Cupid

What Is Your Animal Personality?
brought to you by Quizilla

And the begging for a paid account commences. It is running out in two days.

And I look like a 40 year old whore who crashed out in her bed after a night of heavy drinking.

What an image.

I thought today would be fun. It wasn't.
I thought it would be impossible to get drooled over by man of my father's age. I was wrong.
I thought it would be possible to keep my hair in tune. It wasn't.
I thought it would be impossible to arrive at school too late. I wasn't.
I thought it was impossible to sneak out of school without people noticing. I was wrong.
I thought it would be impossible to get any whiskey from Hein. I was wrong.

Things I will remember for at least a while : Jesus Christ performing "I will always love you' (Whitney version) and getting almost shot by a killer. (The Bodyguard, anyone?) and the male nurses dressed as females performing "I was made for loving you".

Also Hein and Bert. I loved them.Movies on my to see list : "Fear and loathing in Las Vegas" and "Reservoir dogs". Why? Fuck, that's why.


Hein and Bert as the charries in "Loathing" starring Johnny Depp and I dunno who else.

Hein as Johnny Depp. I think the resemblance is remarkable.


Reservoir dogs style, duds.

Three of my friends. Note the girl with the curly hair, Liesa. A big JD fan.
So from left to right, dunno too tired to remember name, Liesa, Jessica.


And me, of course.

This is me and Jess.

Also went to the movies, watched a big part of 'the aviator" before realising I was going to miss my train. I spent fifty minutes out there in the cold and darkness waiting for the last train for the night. Which would have been this image:



I've only been home for about 40 minutes. Not wanting to go to bed yet. Whiskey's still running in my veins and I'm restless. No school tomorrow, for which I'm glad.

Steph = happy. Very happy.

So, Steph treats on some more new songs.

First up: Missy Higgins. Very good music, think of Bob Dylan and you ain't got it. Trust me, very good music.

Missy Higgins - drowning

Maybe I'm just living out the same old stories in and out
But you know that don't make it easier
Time will fly away with me if truth won't stop and let me see
And tell me I am to believe that you and I should never be again

I'm drowning

When the one you leave is the one thing you believe
You say goodbye when underneaths your one belief
That love rules all, conquers all

( more of it )

And some Monster Mike Welch. I'm in a very mellow, bluesy mood tonight, since it is so quiet around me, and that calls out for some blues. I call this the drunken brawl version of his album version.

I just can imagine him sitting in a bluesbar, on a bar stool, bawling out whatever he's got to sing. Originally was released on his second album, axe to grind, released in 1998. This song might be the perfect example of what people think blues is - soft, mellow and smokey. Wonderful song. I love this version to bits. I don't have the lyrics, but it shouldn't be too hard to understand. And it was taken from his website.

Monster Mike Welch - Take your best shot.

Also very worthy to check out: Lydia Warren. A recommendation by Mike. And he sure knows what he likes! Damn, the stuff she has is good.

And third one up : Salma Hayek - Siente mi amor. Another one of my favorite songs that I play whenever I'm feeling very moody.
I doubt if anyone knows enough Spanish to be able to understand it, but eh. Here goes.

Salma Hayek - siente mi amor (Once upon a time in Mexico soundtrack)

Una historia sin tiempo que no tiene fin.
Un amor como el nuestro no, ni nunca podra morir.
Quiero ser en tu alma un momento feliz.
Te amare por siempre vivire dentro de ti.

En los dias de dolor siente mi amor.
Que vendra con el viento, que vendra con el sol.
En los ojos de Dios, lejos de ti.
Me veras en suenos, sentiras mi besos.
Me oirias reir.

Si te sientes solo y estas en silencio.
Piensa en mis caricias y en nuestros secretos.
Quiero ser en tu alma, un momento feliz.
Te amare por siempre, vivire dentro de ti.

En los dias de dolor siente mi amor.
Que vendra con el viento, que vendra con el sol.
En los ojos de Dios, lejos de ti.
Me veras en suenos, sentiras mi besos.
Me oirias reir.

Me oirias reir.

Siente mi amor. 
Siente mi amor.

I'm very sleepy, but I'm awake. Does that makes sense? I need people to help me. I need to pick a combo of outfits for tomorrow. Theme; victorian whore.

Will update in a new post with new pics.

The featured artists :

Tiffany
 
Mary Chapin Carpenter

Tiffany: Cover Morning Musume Hello! Project

(*contents taken from this website*)

Download the song right here. If the link has expired, tell me and I'll put it up again.

Warning: This song is very boppy and poppy.

( And of course the lyrics, because Teh Steph is a lyric freak. )</pre>

Mary Chapin Carpenter - Hero in your own hometown.

Download here

( Lyrics to the song again. )

Mike, as in Monster Mike Welch, as in the guy of the gig I fucking tried to go to, sent me a mail. I'm not kiddinf, and neither is this mail a fraud.

THIS IS NOT MAKING ME FEEL BETTER.


I missed you at the gig - I was really looking forward to meeting you finally!

I hope everything's alright. Know that you're loved, and if I don't get back to you, It's because internet is tough on the road.

M


I'm off for school now. Nobody hug me. Because I'll fucking cry if ya do so.

I used my "connections" to get Stormie into my new game - hope you don't mind. Figured that we could use some very good players.

Someone managed to confuse the hell out of me today, not on purpose though.

I like men; just, my experiences with Nick never were good - especially the sexual parts of it. Trust me, when someone can't find the hole or never getting an orgasm, you starting to wonder about things, for Christ' sake. And I was a cutter until I met Nick, merely because he told he'd break up with me when I dared to cut myself again. Which was hard. And yet ... I've only done it twice again in the two years we were together.

Pain is a thing I both love and hate. I hate toothaches and my migraines whenever they show up, and can and will whine about them, but when it is self inflicted, I don't whine about it. I carry the pain, almost cradle it. And I'm not talking about cutting - I am talking about the fact that sometimes I will just bang my head against the wall or slam my fist into it, or purpose fully make a wrong step with my foot so that I limp for the rest of the day. Which I did today. And it hurts. I'm limping. Mission accomplished, I might say.

I am tired of feeling so emotionless. Yes, I can act as if I'm really happy and crazy, but there are times when I will just sit down somewhere, get out my notebook and shut out the rest of the world by closing my hearing aids, no matter how many people there are around me.

People don't know me, people don't understand me.

When Fauve made me laugh until I was crying, I felt relieved - the first time that I cried honest in several years. I just can't cry. I can cry on command, that I can. But crying didn't make me feel better.

Have I ever fallen in love? Like, in major droolage over a boy or a girl? No. I get attached to people, but fall in love with them? No. I care about people, no matter if I let it seem so, or not. I show my affection to Fauve and Kaatje, because I feel they're as troubled as me. Perhaps just not the same way I am troubled - but in oth