Wednesday, 28 March 2012

Pastel Candy Madness

I wanted to experiment with some make up for a project I'm working on. I'm not a make up artist but I had a palette and some lipstick and I wanted to have some fun! Since pastel colours are big this Spring/ Summer I wanted to use Candy colours with a Neo-Midsummer nights dream theme. I'm calling it that but only heaven knows what I was thinking. I kinda like it though. ^.^

Here are the results complete with cam-whore poses...

And another one...

And finally....

Well that's it. There were more but they were hideous.

Bye now~!

Monday, 26 March 2012

The death of Trayvon Martin

I haven’t felt the need to comment on a news story since the London riots. It saddens me, what brings me back to a more sombre tone. On February 26th Trayvon Martin, a 17 year old student, was walking home from buying some snack during a break in a basketball match on television. He was followed by 28 year old, ex military personnel, George Zimmerman, beaten and shot. George Zimmerman claims that he was acting out of self-defence and Trayvon Martin attacked him when he was climbing out of his SUV. And yet remarkably there are recordings of his phone call to police stating that he was following a ‘suspicious’ young man. He was also caught on tape cursing ‘f***ing coons’. In addition to George Zimmerman’s recordings, later T-Mobile provided recordings from Trayvon Martin’s phone in which he tells his Father’s girlfriend that a strange man is following him.

The police were not incompetent in their response to this incident. They were deliberately blind to the fact that there was evidence to disprove Zimmerman’s defence. They took a statement from an eye witness claiming to see Martin on top of Zimmerman, punching him while Zimmerman called for help. Another witness Mary Cutcher made numerous attempts to give her account which was to the contrary and she was repeatedly brushed off. Why was it that the police would push away the opportunity to gather more information? The police also failed to check Trayvon Martin’s mobile phone to find a contact number to notify his loved ones of his death. Instead of identifying the boy, they stuck the body in the morgue under the name ‘John Doe’. His parents spent 24 hours in suspense, wondering what happened to their son. It was only when they themselves filed a missing person’s report that they found out their son was dead. They were asked to identify ‘John Doe’s’ body.

Zimmerman is still, a month later, free. The police’s refusal to conduct a thorough investigation, to release the police tapes to his parents and finally to arrest Zimmerman; has come under scrutiny from the media. Personally, I am disgusted that in this day and age, a young person can be murdered, the evidence can mount in piles against the murderer and the police take no affirmative action.

There are massive racial undertones to this story. Usually I try my hardest not to get into debates about race and ethnicity, they are messy and seldom ever resolved. However, I must speak my mind on this point. I cannot comprehend why George Zimmerman is still free. I will not accept the feeble excuses that the police have given, having ‘missed’ the racial slur that Zimmerman uttered moments before he shot the boy. That it is ignored that Zimmerman told his neighbours to watch out for ‘young black men who appear to be outsiders’.

My heart is heavy for Trayvon Martin’s parents. No matter what happens as a result of the investigation that opened March 20th, nothing will bring back their son.  I think or I hope that this is not considered a blow to the African American community, or the black community worldwide. Even though I have touched on the racial implications of the incident, I hope that people worldwide can separate the fact that Zimmerman was Latino-Caucasian and that Trayvon Martin was black. I hope that people can see the incident in these simple terms.

A seventeen year old boy was murdered; there is mounting evidence against the perpetrator of the crime. Nevertheless, he walks free and the evidence is ignored. I do not think this is right.

Despite the fact I feel quite passionate about what I’m saying, it tires me to see the New Black Panther Party’s response. Mikhail Muhammad, the leader, has offered a $10,000 reward for the capture of George Zimmerman. Really? This isn’t the dark ages. An act of violence will not help to rectify the wrongs done by George Zimmerman. Just because the legal system has thus far failed to respond to the incident doesn’t mean a civilian can don a mask and run out, guns blazing in search of home-made justice. It’s a ridiculous idea and a dangerous one. It’s the very idea that resulted in the death of the boy in the first place. By even suggesting this, you are equipping the people who are supporting George Zimmerman’s actions more ammunition. You are giving them false evidence to prove that blacks are violent, uneducated and irrational beings; who can only communicate with primitive violence. You are feeding them.

Use your words. Force them to be accountable, protest, petition, march against them peacefully. Please, don’t use violence. The last time I wrote a blog as serious as this was when violence exploded after the death of Mark Duggan, which was also badly investigated. As I said before Violence begets violence and hatred begets hatred.

I hope there is justice for Trayvon Martin’s family, legal justice. And wherever you are George Zimmerman, I hope this boy’s death weighs heavily on your heart.

Sunday, 25 March 2012

In need of a shot of Shabby Chic!

I believe everything should be pretty...
That was a line from one of my favourite films, Park Chan Wook’s ‘Sympathy for Lady Vengeance’. I think that film is beautiful, touching, profound but this isn’t about that film. This is about something that’s been bothering me for ages!
I’m so sick of my room being so very full of potential but still being bland as hell. There is no color scheme, no decor theme. I think a girl’s room should be her sanctuary; her own personal paradise. Mine is my own personal preferred space. That’s okay I suppose but I’m not proud of it. By having a clean room, it improves my mood. If I had pretty room as well, that would improve my mood tenfold.
I have images of Cath Kidson prints, shabby chic motifs and Laura Ashley flying all over my dreams, taunting me, enticing me. I really want a pretty girly room. This craving began way, way back when I was watching ‘It Started With a Kiss’ a Taiwanese Drama. Xiang Qin walked into this dream room that Mrs Jiang prepares for her and it’s a dream world of Chiffon and floral print. It hit me like a wall. Since when do I like this kind of stuff? My last room was blood red with kanji on the walls and a massive Shakugan no Shana wall scroll I’d bought from the London Expo.
I decorated it when I was 16 and at the height of my borderline weeaboo phase. I can’t be blamed. I was young. I was reckless. And I maintain it looked more distinctive than my new room. The last room bares the last remnants of this effort to capture the anime side of me. Like the dregs of tea in an abandoned cup, the gunk remains. I need to breathe some life into this room.
It has a lovely fireplace, high ceilings and crème wall paper which makes it a blank canvas. It shouldn’t be too expensive either.
What I know I want now is bedspreads like this...

I think this is adorable. It reminds me of a Doris Day film. I don’t know why.
I want one of these

I want some of these

I want to do the wall art myself so I guess I’ll decide that when I get there...
I hope this works.

Thursday, 22 March 2012


How fascinating the concept of beauty is. I noticed this as I perused through my sisters cast off ASOS magazine which I snatched up like a magpie as soon as she was done with it. In this magazine there were a lot of models all of whom were striking in there own way. A lot of whom were so striking that they couldn't be called pretty in the conventional sense of the word. These women had large dome like foreheads, large gaps in their teeth and sharp, prominent cheek bones.

Being the possessor of a rather large forehead, I was glad of this. I like these odd looking amazons with their stark, awkward grace. They show me that funny looking women can be muses in high fashion. The only down side to this that they are all very slim. I hate the term skinny like I hate the term fat. When someone calls me skinny it brings forth unwanted images like this....

Although to be fair Skeletor is quite ripped, who am I to insult his chisled masculinity?

Nevertheless I can sympathise with the frustration of women who find that the fashion world doesn't really offer them models who they can relate to shape wise. Most of the bodies that saunter down  the runway are of proportions I wouldn't dream of (mostly because my dreams are currently overrun with pastry). A friend and I was discussing the body shape of women, her being a size 18 and me a 8/10. What was interesting is that we were trying to come to terms with what 'normal' women were. Normal is a vague word, what quantifies normal. I suppose the average size of a female in this country would be the obvious answer. That's a size fourteen apparantly.

It would be nice to see rounder bums and softer lines in magazines and on the runway. Whose to say it wouldn't be a nice change. We should still have thin sexy ladies for other thin sexy ladies. We should just have rounder sexy ladies for the other rounder sexy ladies to look up to. There's a particularly repulsive person who seems to be against this.

Now, this is old news but this man upsets me even if his dresses are quite pretty. It's this type of person that makes us, both women and men hate ourselves. Sure, we should be strong enough to say  'screw you' and ignore the negative words of this one, essentially insignificant individual. However, this man has power and influence over models and designers alike. He gets in whatever way to decide what is beautiful and what is ugly.
If someone is a judge on Australia's Next Top Model, they are in a position of power and, no matter how harsh the reality of the fashion world actually is, their messages filter down into the rest of society. Women might feel they need to live up to certain standards.

I know women aren't stupid and they know it isn't their job to look a certain way or way less than a certain amount. But when we are constantly bombarded with images to the contrary, these messages seep in no matter how watertight we think our minds are. To have someone like this man, insulting these amazons so callously could leave the average woman feeling a bit angry.

There's a criticism and then there's just being a prick.

I know the difference, do you?


I’m watching the satisfactory denouement of Geordie Shore. It’s silly that it’s gets me thinking about all the endings and beginnings of the days that have passed and will pass. All of the people I’ve been attached to and grown apart from. It’s sad to think of all those friendships and bonds now haunting me like shadows, just memories in the back of my mind. It makes you wonder what the future will bring; romance; heartbreak; tears of laughter; tears of pain- a tattoo perhaps.

Isn’t it exciting? Now that it’s officially spring there are horny birds swirling in clouds above us, everything begins to bloom including our hopes for a great summer. I like spring better than the New Year. There is more of optimism now in spring than in the half assed, hung over promises we make to ourselves at the start of each year. I will lose weight; I will eat better; I will be a Pokémon master.

I don’t want to do that crap again. That was January. This is March; April; May...this is spring. My favourite part of spring, or one of them is being able to take walks through Greenwich Park in a light jacket. The sun sets later so even after a later shift at work it’s possible to enjoy a little bit of extra sunshine. Watching the sunset from that special bench in Greenwich Park is one of my favourite overly romantic pastimes, reading on this bench with a coffee is a great way to build up to it.

Spring is also great because it’s cheaper. The warmer it is, the more enjoyable being outside is and the more we can enjoy galleries and museums.

I’m going to try in the month of April to hit one gallery a week and two markets a month for fruit or cute quirky stuff. After all, London has loads of markets to offer and I’ve only explored Camden, Greenwich and Lewisham. I would love to revisit these markets but I have to try Deptford, Ridley, Roman Road, Brick Lane, Dagenham, East Street and so many more! I can’t wait.

But until then I’ll keep taking my walks, keep doing Zumba, and eating salmon and olive salads.

I hope my friend will join me on these escapades, spring is always more enjoyable when your friends are there to share it with you.

 Bring on the cherry blossoms!

Saturday, 10 March 2012



There is a song by a Korean girl group 2NE1 called ‘Ugly’. I am by no means fluent in Hangul, so as a k-pop enthusiast I was happy that the chorus is in English. Although, maybe if I didn’t know the meaning of the words I could hum along ignorant of the depressing message the lyrics convey.

I think I’m ugly

And nobody wants to love me

Just like her I want to be pretty

I want to be pretty

Don’t lie to my face

'Cause I know I’m ugly.

Sunny outlook isn’t it? But it did strike a chord with me the other day and got me thinking. Not because I’m convinced that I’m physically too repulsive to warrant affection but because sometimes I feel a bit gross. I used to feel gross a lot more often as an adolescent.

My secondary school days were unnecessarily dramatic, most of them drenched in the tears of ‘if only I was...’ Mostly I’d wish to be better looking, my grades were decent I was good at generic creative things and I had a few quirky freaks for friends. Overall I was okay. But that wasn’t good enough. I really wanted to be a sexy son of a-

I even now find it difficult to come to terms with the fact that I can’t stop a man in his tracks with a single glance. Dorky film references aside, I think everyone feels this way at some point. We’re all prone to a bout of ‘I’m a piggy’ or ‘I look like a donkey’ etc. Choose your farmyard best.

Women are usually associated with this sort of self loathing but I reckon that we overlook men feeling this way too.

What’s my point? I don’t really know. This is more of a brain fart than anything resembling coherence. It’s interesting trying to root where these problems come from. Of course there are the obvious ones, the media supermodels, actresses and FHM ladies. All of whom have beauty in a different genre. I can’t hate the FHM ladies though. Don’t hate, commiserate...yourself for not having the equipment to make a fortune from your breastesses.

I don’t want t o be a glamour model really. Not great with the centre of attention thing for more than half an hour at a time. I wouldn’t hurt to have a natural perfect pair, wouldn’t hurt a bit. But it’s easier as I get older to love the bits of me that are nice, like my shining personality. I can play the piano, make a mean curry sauce and say very rude things in Spanish!

Apart from stating the obvious that sometimes we hate ourselves. I have to say that it’s alright to be self indulgent, weak, and weepy about really stupid stuff sometimes. No point beating yourself up when you’re a hormonal wreck. Kicking when you’re down benefits no-one! So have your weak bitch moment and then get back on your feet a.s.a.p. Try your best not to drag your friends down with you though. As my friend Miss Emmy says...

‘If you don’t like yourself, do something about it. Don’t bother other people with your insecurities because after a while it gets boring.’

Or words to that affect. So if whatever bothers you isn’t a passing ‘WAAAH!’ moment it might be a problem worth addressing.

In the meantime grab a tub of Activia, a feel good song and dance it off. I don’t like Activia, my dad does. Grab a Peanut Butter Snickers- that’s better.

I don’t have a witty conclusion to this. I guess I’ll just meander through life occasionally wailing,

Just like her I want to be pretty

I want to be pretty!

Goodbye for now!