Used condoms are being recycled into hair bands in Southern China
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Louella is morbid-minded. Thanks to her parents' (both physicians) daily discussions on hospital deaths over breakfast.
Louella is a graphic design student, illustrator, creative writer and a one-time independent film director.
She hates summer, 12 noon and dirty toilet bowls.
The Navel Ring Catharsis
February 14, 2008
My father twisted my arm blue after discovering that I wear a navel ring.
I argued that I have had the navel ring for six years now and that I believe he knew about it after I’ve had it for three years.
He, out of the blue, launched into a litany of ridiculous accusations, even associating me with the ‘whorish women he sees in the streets’ and telling me, with point blank assurance, that no person—men, most especially—shall never pay me any form of respect or regard.
Yes. All these blind and unfounded shit were slapped square on my face all because I wear a godforsaken navel ring.
I stood there by the dinner table, taking it all in as he threw one insult after another.
My mother, in the process, just sat quietly before her plate of apples, munching as if nonchalantly.
I finally crumbled and gave in. I told my father that it is surprising how he lectures me about false judgments and here he is basically naming me a whore all because of the stupid ring I wear on my navel. I stressed that he knows ‘I am no whore.’ and there is no point or reason of him labeling me as such.
Immediately, he grabbed me by the arm and my backpack and dragged me from the kitchen to the stairs. I yanked myself away from his clutch only to have my arm twisted blue in the process. After I caved in, he swung a slipper to my head but missed my left cheek. He screamed at me to shut up or else the neighbors will hear.
My mother appeared in the background, closing windows and sliding doors. Afterwards, she stood and watched from a distance.
Perhaps she must have heard me crying behind the home library door after it was all over. But she never came to assure me that none of the hurtful things my father had said to me were true and that things should be all right in the morning.
Instead, I heard her slippers softly padding down the hallway and a door creaking then closing.
He could have asked me to just take it out and never wear it again because he believes a navel ring is not me.
But instead, this: a streak of blue and orange on my arm.
And my father complains to my psychiatrist that he doesn’t know his own child.
And he complains to the whole world why I do my homework, locked up in my room, while a weekend family party is bustling in the gardens outside.
And he complains why I choose to shut up regardless of a thousand problems he sees looming over my head.
Go figure, Daddy.
Happy Valentine’s Day, all.
My father twisted my arm blue after discovering that I wear a navel ring.
I argued that I have had the navel ring for six years now and that I believe he knew about it after I’ve had it for three years.
He, out of the blue, launched into a litany of ridiculous accusations, even associating me with the ‘whorish women he sees in the streets’ and telling me, with point blank assurance, that no person—men, most especially—shall never pay me any form of respect or regard.
Yes. All these blind and unfounded shit were slapped square on my face all because I wear a godforsaken navel ring.
I stood there by the dinner table, taking it all in as he threw one insult after another.
My mother, in the process, just sat quietly before her plate of apples, munching as if nonchalantly.
I finally crumbled and gave in. I told my father that it is surprising how he lectures me about false judgments and here he is basically naming me a whore all because of the stupid ring I wear on my navel. I stressed that he knows ‘I am no whore.’ and there is no point or reason of him labeling me as such.
Immediately, he grabbed me by the arm and my backpack and dragged me from the kitchen to the stairs. I yanked myself away from his clutch only to have my arm twisted blue in the process. After I caved in, he swung a slipper to my head but missed my left cheek. He screamed at me to shut up or else the neighbors will hear.
My mother appeared in the background, closing windows and sliding doors. Afterwards, she stood and watched from a distance.
Perhaps she must have heard me crying behind the home library door after it was all over. But she never came to assure me that none of the hurtful things my father had said to me were true and that things should be all right in the morning.
Instead, I heard her slippers softly padding down the hallway and a door creaking then closing.
He could have asked me to just take it out and never wear it again because he believes a navel ring is not me.
But instead, this: a streak of blue and orange on my arm.
And my father complains to my psychiatrist that he doesn’t know his own child.
And he complains to the whole world why I do my homework, locked up in my room, while a weekend family party is bustling in the gardens outside.
And he complains why I choose to shut up regardless of a thousand problems he sees looming over my head.
Go figure, Daddy.
Happy Valentine’s Day, all.
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I survived Hiroshima and all I got was this lousy skirt
Examine the photo above.
If you think you're still fluttering about your neon-colored, Doreimon dreamscape of odd inventions, you are wrong. This is an actual, bizarre solution of the Japanese to alleviate their growing fear of crime (fanned by this sushi nation's sensationalist news media).
Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, this is a skirt invented by fashion designer Aya Tsukioka: The wearer fashions it as a plain skirt and should a Sake-drunk maniac stalks the poor miss, she could simply lift the flap on the front of the skirt, hold it up fully open, step to the side of the road and elude her attacker by disguising herself as a soda vending machine. Atsu-jan!!!!
Akachibarachi!!!
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Girl, constipated
Job interviews constipate me.
At age twenty one, out of boredom and a last attempt at convincing my parents that I am not the spoiled rotten brat that they raised over weekly shopping orgies, I sent out an application for a telephone operating job. Yes, I wanted to be a telephone operator---despite the elite-college education under my belt and consternation among friends waiting to happen[ Click here to read more ]
At age twenty one, out of boredom and a last attempt at convincing my parents that I am not the spoiled rotten brat that they raised over weekly shopping orgies, I sent out an application for a telephone operating job. Yes, I wanted to be a telephone operator---despite the elite-college education under my belt and consternation among friends waiting to happen
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905,657 reasons not to hang yourself tonight
According to the American College Health Association, about 44 percent of students were so depressed that it was difficult for them to function at some point in the 2006 school year. It also found that nearly 10 percent reported seriously considering suicide at least once last year.
Richard Kadison, chief of Harvard University's mental health services, said most students tackle the often overwhelming demands of student life such as developmental issues, parental and societal pressures, and economic hardships with "incredible strength and resilience." --CNN.com
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Richard Kadison, chief of Harvard University's mental health services, said most students tackle the often overwhelming demands of student life such as developmental issues, parental and societal pressures, and economic hardships with "incredible strength and resilience." --CNN.com
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That is so 10,000 BC, dude!
A good, normal person would, of course, contemplate to himself and end up with a conclusion that the boy is a schizophrenia-suffering youngster who traded soccer, alcohol and speed dating to months of fasting and meditation in exchange of the sought-after experience among Buddha-believers: spiritual enlightenment
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Eat me
Do you remember the impertinent email featuring a fetus-munching Oriental oddity which circulated the web community sometime in 2001?
I was a terribly neurotic medicated mess the time this godforsaken 'urban legend-posing-as-reality' bull was hot[ Click here to read more ]
I was a terribly neurotic medicated mess the time this godforsaken 'urban legend-posing-as-reality' bull was hot
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Holy Horrors
Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ never made even the slightest impression on me. I refused to watch this Oscar award-winning motion picture not even for the fact that its realistic and convincing ‘Scourging at the Pillar’ scene drove hordes of people to bawl their heads off over popcorn nor for gaining commendation from distinguished critiques like Scott Foundas of L.A. Weekly and Peter Travers of Rolling Stone.
Irrefutably, The Passion of the Christ has a brilliant cinematography and cast list. However, the movie failed to openly illustrate Christ as an epitome of vivacity and demonstrate his moral radicalism, charisma and fervent eloquence. Gibson, a devout Catholic and director/co-producer of the movie said that he financed the project because “Whether you're a believer or not, [Christ’s] death affects you[ Click here to read more ]
Irrefutably, The Passion of the Christ has a brilliant cinematography and cast list. However, the movie failed to openly illustrate Christ as an epitome of vivacity and demonstrate his moral radicalism, charisma and fervent eloquence. Gibson, a devout Catholic and director/co-producer of the movie said that he financed the project because “Whether you're a believer or not, [Christ’s] death affects you
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