(no subject)

I had a dream with erzibet (Melanie) tonight. I was a policeman and I was interviewing her boyfriend. He was a businessman, in his 30s, of Pakistani or Indian descent, with gelled hair and wearing an office suit. I was talking to him about Melanie, trying to get some information out of him.

Then, either through flashback or through his account, I was on a beach, looking at Melanie. She was running around, laughing, jumping in the water then coming out again. Her hair was dyed black, but I could see her hair roots were red.

Her Pakistani boyfriend was also at the beach, lying on the sand. Suddenly, a muscular black men was on top of him, trying to fuck him. He tore the clothes off Melanie's boyfriend and I saw that he also had a very muscular body. They started having very hot sex on the sand.

By then, Melanie and I had disappeared... and I think I became the Pakistani man!

Does that mean I want to be erzibet's boyfriend???

This dream almost caused a sticky incident for me... thank god I woke up in time.

Conspiracy theories bore me

Princess Diana wasn't murdered by Prince Charles; she died because she wasn't wearing her seat-belt. It's ridiculous this story being pushed around by the tabloids. You just have to look at Charles to know that his only concern is whether he'll come back in his next life as a tampon.

Her butler said it himself: Princess Diana never buckled up. She didn't know how to because she was a spoiled, pampered woman. He had to always lean over and buckle her in. If she had been wearing her seat-belt on the night she died (when her butler wasn't there to strap her in) she would have been ok.

Human beings are stupid, forgetful. Did you ever try in school to start up a conspiracy, and have it fall flat on the ground because someone involved was a big blab, or moronic? We are too scattered and conserned with our fragile egos to be able to set any secrets in stone.

Let's stop giving Prince Charles so much credit. He's not that imaginative.

Duh!

My first gay novel

When I was 18 years old, I lived in Hong Kong and went to an American high school for expat kids. My hair was long, black and I wore doc martens. I listened to The Smiths, The Cure, Siouxsie when everyone else was into Green Day, Hootie and the Blowjob and Nirvana.

I was gay and in the closet. There was nobody around me I could speak to, and nowhere to go. So I bought a lot of music magazines, dated a different girl every week and didn't know what to do about meeting other boys. One day I found out, in a magazine review, that there was an author called Poppy Z. Brite who wrote novels about sexually confused boys who listened to The Cure and had sex with their buddies.

The next day I went to a bookstore and ordered the book - there were no copies in Hong Kong so they shipped it from America for me. It was called Drawing Blood.

When I went to collect it, I felt as if everyone in the shopping centre knew! I read that book so fast, specially the part where the two main characters (one guy with long blond hair, and another with short spiky black hair) made love on an old mattress, in an abandomned house.

Thanks to LjDrama.org, I just found out Poppy Z. Brite has a livejournal! Sadly, she doesn't allow comments. Oh well, nostalgia caught up with me today.

Here's her journal, in case you are interested: docbrite