Black and White and Dead Inside (a GRADUATED TALE) ((installments of 8trillion thousand moving parts)) (greetings from the land of mizzle, emerald city town)

by heytherewildflower

Yesterday I found myself in this badass ALL WHITE hipster cafe called CAFE ANALOG. i mean, FOR REAL.

this gives rise to the debate: WHICH IS MORE PRETENTIOUS, CAFE ANALOG, CAFE BAUHAUS OR CAFE ZEITGEIST? all are dear to my heart for divine reveling in their own exquisite hotness. its like asking, blondes or brunettes? pumpkin or pecan? LOOK, I AM A FALSE GINGER and I make my pumpkin pie with rum and a dollop of pecan pie filling in the center. I have cake and I fucking eat it.


JK. I do have a favorite. A few days ago I read an article about how, subconsciously, parents always have a favorite child (try as they might to lie about it to you or themselves.) its normal. its biology. its animal nature. its darwin. its in the syntax and subtle favoring.

cafe bauhaus (the one with all the boring looking books for decor) is a bit much for me. zeitgeist is a bit blah. Naming a cafe something that means “the spirit of the times” that had its sexy day in the bourg circles of yesteryear is almost ironically passe. a hot concept from the spirit of years past. so obviously pretentious, everybody knows its pretentious. its cool is lukewarm, for older types who remember a world in which Nietzsche was still considered a fascist nazi. BUT ANALOG, OH THE ANALOG, it is perfectly rustic and white with its recycled wood and architectural uncozy couches and its only decoration is a giant and perfect print of the interior of an abandoned insane asylum in the english country side (I know this because I once spent 8 hours looking through an internet archive of photographs and paper scans collected at this spooky and beautifully ominous ghost asylum. if i am not dramatic and ridiculous in the same breath, then who am i?) anyway CAFE ANALOG is juuuust right. and I am goldilocks with a tinge of ging suckling upon my latte like a fiend. blogalugging to my hearts content.

so I was sitting in my cool ass cafe analog eating my mother fucking tomato toast beautifully renamed “BARCELONA PAN CON TOMATE” sipping on a mother fucking latte served in a mother fucking PINT GLASS with a motherfucking decorative swirl that looks like a motherfucking heart with an arrow going through it goddammit


I picked up this random cool looking magazine to read and be cool looking while reading my cool looking magazine in the all white cafe ….and it turned out, the magazine was cool looking because its an architecture magazine. not just cool looking, NAY, it featured SAM’S PARENTS who are architectural hotshots in this town (and were the architects for the Capitol Hill library….which is the best library I’ve ever seen and I KNOW MY LIBRARIES) (if you dont believe me about it being the greatest and most superior of libraries, CLICK HERE.)



moving along. my point is, Sam’s parents were the architecture magazine’s featured writers and their features featured the risk component in the life of the artist trapped (or freed) by a kaput economy.



well… I am the greatest supporter of anti-cynicism (which would be grandiose naive over the top idealistic disgusting ambitious romanticism. ) (which means- RISK.)


“The absolute highest priority for most large corporations (and the insanely rich people who hold their stocks) is to avoid substantial change. We have legions of lobbyists, PR flacks, think tank mercenaries and bought politicians whose major task every day is to stymie change just a little longer. Think about the climate “debate,” which has been over scientifically for decades but is continued politically by people paid to keep up a campaign of fear, uncertainty and denial.

These people (and their employers) couldn’t care less if we’re cynical about them and their motives. In fact, they tend to drench the public debate in the politics of disgust because it makes their jobs easier; cynicism makes it difficult to see virtues in new approaches and isolates us from one another. They want us to believe in nothing, do nothing and demand nothing. Cynicism is obedience to their wishes.

In today’s politics, especially in the United States, the most independent stance is pragmatic optimism. Nothing drives the opponents of change into a greater frenzy than simply being unwilling to accept their definition of “realism.” The working possibilities in front of us – the array of solutions and new models we know have already proven practical and successful in various places around the world – and range of debate inside the Beltway (or in Olympia, for that matter) are so far apart that the only option left is a sort of relentlessly confrontational optimism grounded in facts and good examples.” -Alex Steffen

it is solid reading for all you pussies.

and for all you post graduates.

you know I love you.

You know I love you at the fashionably undead party last night where I danced to music by HEAD LIKE A KITE, DJ SEVERED HANS and TALKING DEADS. oH punz, how i love thee as names of vintage/consignment stores and bands.

to celebrate my deep and abiding love for bad punz, i went dressed as black and white and Dead inside. a blood sucking, heartless fanged newspaper. needless to say, I did not win the costume contest which my roommate was judging. but i did get in for free because i was on THE LIST.  biased behind the scenes reporting brought to you by yours truly, a thoroughly bought and sold woman with an unquenchable appetite for juicy heart morsels ripped from the hot throbbing bodies of her victims. (THE READERS)


I was too drunk face to take an outfit picture when i returneth from the lair of the undead at 4am, but i did manage to take a real good cleavage shot

see.  a face full of drunk and fail. you cant tell, but i did wear fangz. and i did wear red shoez. you, my readership of 3 people, and maybe more, are the benefactors of my post graduate five. mainly the post graduate five manifests in the chesticles region. and the other 2 1/2 pounds is probably my new muscley butt and thighs because of all the hustling and hill climbing.

and i did wear my leather fanny pack. and i did make my packed fanny and packed leathery fanny joke approximately 10 times. it elicited many laffs. gay men love me.

since it is fall, that means i have a new color mood. last year’s fall made me want to be COLOR-RADO red red red all the time. when i dyed my hair red, the leaves had just started to turn…i felt so carefree and happy 2nd block,  most of my outfits for the next 3 months (late late long ass fall last year) were interpretive leaf colors. I literally felt like a floating leaf caught on the wind like once a day. this eventually dried out my hair to a state almost beyond repair (now repaired after one year of bad hair texture) but whatever. now, i am feeling the slow creep of the righteous red…but as accents for black and white, or blue, or  green. today it is the blue and red. velvet on velvet style. im hardcore.

the ones that are good of my face arent good of the outfit details. i have priorities.

channeling the S/S12 dumbass greasy messy hair that takes 12 hours in a salon to create. but my way takes partially dried hair and fingers.

if you think this looks difficult and uncomfortable, you are correct. but i like how all the colors of the outfit are united in the clip. I also like how the glow of the beads sets off the glow of the velvet.

my grandmother’s reading glasses. given to me until mine come. also, bindi set given to me by mihi. thanks dude.



(who just learned how to spell shish kum ba!? THIS GUY.)


(yes i went there)

(and im going to keep going there with all the powers of hyperbole, performing myself with bathos of bathos. a double negative that cancels itself out. like if the hipster cafe was called “zeitgeist” as a joke that nobody is supposed to get.  and im going to keep going there with rottten bad taste. much to the discomfort and cautionary advisement of Sam and David Mason.)

slice me a world piece of that post graduated apocalypse hot off the precious 20 something year old white riot grrrl, THIS JUST IN breaking nuisance, BREAK ME OFF A piece of that tits out kitten in a cat costume. confidently incompetent with a high alcohol content, costume whose concept is a bad joke walking on a pair of legs like a run on sentence.

I’ll let you in on a secret: When the baristas a woman, i take my latte with skim milk. when the baristas a man, i take it whole.

la-te amo

from the land of mizzle, heart of the emerald city, city on the Hill, Sir Lancelot Apartment, the girl whose skin reeks of last night’s whiskey.