The american dream

Come to think of it, my family must be the biggest cliché that's ever lived in a Silver Lake mansion. I've got a daddy who's almost never at home, since he's so busy doing business and fucking beautyful women in hotel rooms.
I've got a mum who's almost always at home but never really there, often letting time pass by in bed with her best friends Xanax and Klonopin, and a cat with the intriguing name Mr Whiskers.

And I've got myself, premature teenager combining healthy grades with unhealthy leisure time.

We're really living it, we're living the american dream, right?

Fortune cookies and unfortunate reactions

L gave me a fortune cookie today. He got it at some greasy chinese restaurant. Anyhow, he obviously thought it was a good idea to give it to me. Of course he understood I'd never eat it. (I don't eat sugar)but I kind of appreciated the gesture though. So I broke it and looked at the message inside. Your love will last forever. L looked at me.
– Will it?
– Nothing lasts forever. Hey, dont touch me.

God, this just might be the biggest lie of my life.

Crazy video, kinda wish I had her hair.

The L.A light

I keep thinking about David Lynch’s desciption of the L.A light.

I arrived in L.A. at night, so it wasn’t until the next morning, when I stepped out of a small apartment on San Vicente Boulevard, that I saw this light. And it thrilled my soul. I feel lucky to live with that light. . . .

Even with smog, there’s something about that light that’s not harsh, but bright and smooth. It fills me with the feeling that all possibilities are available. I don’t know why. It’s different from the light in other places.

Dear David, the light has nothing to do with the sun or the sky. It comes from the people on the streets, inside cars, on the bars, at partys. They radiate. They are blinded by their supposed bright future. That’s where that special L.A light comes from.

Dresden

Woke up at someones floor in a house which I later found was located in the outskirts of Silver Lake. I was lying with my face right down on the black shag rug and I could see blonde hair and stains from unknown liquids on it. Sitting up I realized why my head felt like Dresen post 1945, on the table; a big pile of white powder.

Fuck, did it again, obviously. While searching for one of my Margiela glass slippers (oh, the irony) I heard sounds from a nearby room, on a round bed, a woman with huge silicons and long blonde hair was slowly fucking some guy. The only sound was her heavy breathing. I think the guy was asleep, or maybe passed out. Thought for a second about joining in but then realized, I'm not really into plastics.

Was this the remains of an afterparty? Must have been a good one, considering the bite marks on my neck and the empty bottles everywhere. I left witout my left shoe, and if some prince finds it, he can keep it.

Mayhem

I will never be ok with people who work out too much. Or people who use spray tan. Some people are so bizarre.

Anyways, see u at the Tropicana tonight? If I remember this night tomorrow I will be very disappointed. Bisous.

FWLHNYMLA

Love this time of the year. Browsing through zillions pictures from the fashion weeks in NY, London and Paris(altough we'll have to wait for that one a couple of weeks more).

LA Fashion Week is in two weeks. Such a sad excuse for a fashion week. People here don't know how to dress, that's for sure. But they never say no to an opportunity to flash their new abs/surgeries/ lovers.

But nevermind the sarcastic tone, I'm probably going to be there. We all will, drowning in free drinks and white powder, la-di-da.

Pic: Burberry Prorsum ss2010. Gotta have this. Avy, what do you think?

Yesterday after school I met mom at the Intelligentsia at W Sunset Blvd– she obviously wanted to play the mother and daughter game again. And since I wanted to make her satisfied, and not turn to dad with her concerns regarding me and my night time habits, I thought; allright.

Sitting there, sipping our bitter organic morrocan mint, the silence was only broken by moms bizarre statements about the my appearance(she doesn’t like ripped jeans, although I tried to tell her that what I paid for them is equivalent of the price of a small car), or about Obama (she doesn’t like him either). Myself, looking around, hoping not to meet ‘anyone I know’, browsing google for different ways to commit suicide on my iphone.

Mom’s staring at the other customers, and in particular their lattes and cappuccinos, raising her eyebrows in chock of the thought of so many calories at one time.

– So, Wins, how’s school?

– It’s great! (instantly turning to lie mode) My teachers love me and…

As I continue telling her exactly what she wants to hear, I see her mind drifting off. She’s staring at the other guests again. And when I’m finished;

– I’m so glad that everything is going well for you

Then we leave, relieved and my mom assured that she’s a mother, a real mother, and that our relation is nice and, of course, normal.

Spit/swallow

Good girls never spit, they always swallow. But if you'd asked them, they'd probaby tell you they spit.

The most important part of being a good girl is pretending to be one. Only bad girls tell the truth.

And so I am born. The digital image of myself has landed. Stay tuned.