Tuesday January 18, 2005 at 10:59 am

January 18, 2005 at 6:59 pm · Filed under Rigamarole

mirrored from madpimp.com | View my online portfolio

I need to tell you a story…

I’m lost again, inside my head. That voice is back, the voice I know is me, but is not me because it gives me thoughts unbidden that I don’t want to hear. ‘You hate yourself,’ it whispers, ‘you need to end yourself. You’re nothing, and you need to die.’ How tantalizing. Almost wistfully, I think about the full bottle of codeine on my desk at home.

“Is it ready yet?” I say, impatiently, the voice in my head beginning to nag harder.

He is cooking, and it will be a while yet. I hunger, salivate, for what is on that plate. There is nothing else.

I wait. The voice is still there, but is ebbing into a dull background static as I concentrate on the boiling liquid.

I sniffle. My nose is completely stuffed, and I remember the real reason for the codeine. The food is almost done and I can’t partake. Inhaling through my nose as hard as I can, I manage to loosen the thick mucus from one nostril. It feels chunky and tastes slightly bitter as it glides down the back of my throat.

He tells me it is done. I breathe.

I snort in freedom.

I snort in rebellion.

I snort in strength.

I snort in happiness.

I breathe in life.

I pause. I cannot breathe anymore… and yet I must, because I need more. Just a little bit more, I need to breathe. I need to live.

Slightly lightheaded from the deep inhalations, I lay down on the carpet and rest my head on striped pillows. I look at the clock. 1:09 AM. The smell of life trickles down my nasal passage, and the taste of rebellion prickles my tongue.

Time stops.

Time flies.

I’m being stretched, like a rubber band – or more like a piece of saltwater taffy on a rollercoaster ride. I am going to break, I am going to break, being stretched in this dark tunnel of no escape. And then I’m there.

I’ve arrived. Where am I? I am in a house with nothing. I am in a house with everything. The walls are thick, but they are completely made out of glass. I still cannot see through them.

Someone is talking, and I’m responding, but they are not responding to my response. I cannot speak. The darkness is coming closer, and is about to take me away.

Time stops.

Time flies.

I’m being stretched, like a rubber band – or more like a piece of saltwater taffy on a rollercoaster ride. I am going to break, I am going to break, being stretched in this dark tunnel of no escape. And then I’m there.

Where am I? I am in an amusement park full of beautiful lights. I am not a patron of this park, but rather a spiritual being that glides over and around the curves of the park, up and down over the roller coasters and Ferris wheels faster than the fastest speeding bullet.

Time stops.

Time flies.

I open my eyes and I see striped pillows. Someone has thrown a blanket over my limp body. I look at the clock. 1:23. It has been an eternity since I left. It has been 14 minutes since I left.

I open my eyes. My mind is clear, the voice is gone, and I know it will be for days. Months, if I get to breathe often. Years, if I can keep breathing always.

But no, I cannot continue like that. I’m breathing too much, too fast, too hard. I need to slow down. Stopping would mean death. I’ve stopped breathing.

Help me. I want to breathe again.

from one of my favorite comics, diesel sweeties

Love,
Kim
shitlinks:[x] [x] [camville] [camwhores]

Comments

Tuesday January 18, 2005 at 10:21 am

January 18, 2005 at 6:21 pm · Filed under Rigamarole

mirrored from madpimp.com | View my online portfolio
//Lots of misunderstandings on this story, edited story for more clarity//

//edit again: i decided to put my story back to the original because i feel that my art is tainted by editing for clarity//

I need to tell you a story…

I’m lost again, inside my head. That voice is back, the voice I know is me, but is not me because it gives me thoughts unbidden that I don’t want to hear. ‘You hate yourself,’ it whispers, ‘you need to end yourself. You’re nothing, and you need to die.’ How tantalizing. Almost wistfully, I think about the full bottle of codeine on my desk at home.

“Is it ready yet?” I say, impatiently, the voice in my head beginning to nag harder.

He is cooking, and it will be a while yet. I hunger, salivate, for what is on that plate. There is nothing else.

I wait. The voice is still there, but is ebbing into a dull background static as I concentrate on the boiling liquid.

I sniffle. My nose is completely stuffed, and I remember the real reason for the codeine. The food is almost done and I can’t partake. Inhaling through my nose as hard as I can, I manage to loosen the thick mucus from one nostril. It feels chunky and tastes slightly bitter as it glides down the back of my throat.

He tells me it is done. I breathe.

I breathe in freedom.

I breathe in rebellion.

I breathe in strength.

I breathe in happiness.

I breathe in life.

I pause. I cannot breathe anymore… and yet I must, because I need more. I am living my life through a straw. Just a little bit more, I need to breathe. I need to live.

Slightly lightheaded from the deep inhalations, I lay down on the carpet and rest my head on striped pillows. I look at the clock. 1:09 AM. The smell of life trickles down my nasal passage, and the taste of rebellion prickles my tongue.

Time stops.

Time flies.

I’m being stretched, like a rubber band – or more like a piece of saltwater taffy on a rollercoaster ride. I am going to break, I am going to break, being stretched in this dark tunnel of no escape. And then I’m there.

I’ve arrived. Where am I? I am in a house with nothing. I am in a house with everything. The walls are thick, but they are completely made out of glass. I still cannot see through them.

Someone is talking, and I’m responding, but they are not responding to my response. I cannot speak. The darkness is coming closer, and is about to take me away.

Time stops.

Time flies.

I’m being stretched, like a rubber band – or more like a piece of saltwater taffy on a rollercoaster ride. I am going to break, I am going to break, being stretched in this dark tunnel of no escape. And then I’m there.

Where am I? I am in an amusement park full of beautiful lights. I am not a patron of this park, but rather a spiritual being that glides over and around the curves of the park, up and down over the roller coasters and Ferris wheels faster than the fastest speeding bullet.

Time stops.

Time flies.

I open my eyes and I see striped pillows. Someone has thrown a blanket over my limp body. I look at the clock. 1:23. It has been an eternity since I left. It has been 14 minutes since I left.

I open my eyes. My mind is clear, the voice is gone, and I know it will be for days. Months, if I get to breathe often. Years, if I can keep breathing always.

But no, I cannot continue like that. I’m breathing too much, too fast, too hard. I need to slow down. Stopping would mean death. I’ve stopped breathing.

Help me. I want to breathe again.

from one of my favorite comics, diesel sweeties

Love,
Kim

shitlinks:[x] [x] [x] [x]

Comments (63)

Tuesday January 18, 2005 at 10:13 pm

January 18, 2005 at 6:13 am · Filed under Rigamarole

mirrored from madpimp.com

I need to tell you a story…

I’m lost again, inside my head. That voice is back, the voice I know is me, but is not me because it gives me thoughts unbidden that I don’t want to hear. ‘You hate yourself,’ it whispers, ‘you need to end yourself. You’re nothing, and you need to die.’ How tantalizing. Almost wistfully, I think about the full bottle of codeine on my desk at home.

“Is it ready yet?” I say, impatiently, the voice in my head beginning to nag harder.

He is cooking, and it will be a while yet. I hunger, salivate, for what is on that plate. There is nothing else.

I wait. The voice is still there, but is ebbing into a dull background static as I concentrate on the boiling liquid.

I sniffle. My nose is completely stuffed, and I remember the real reason for the codeine. The food is almost done and I can’t partake. Inhaling through my nose as hard as I can, I manage to loosen the thick mucus from one nostril. It feels chunky and tastes slightly bitter as it glides down the back of my throat.

He tells me it is done. I breathe.

I breathe in freedom.

I breathe in rebellion.

I breathe in strength.

I breathe in happiness.

I breathe in life.

I pause. I cannot breathe anymore… and yet I must, because I need more. Just a little bit more, I need to breathe. I need to live.

Slightly lightheaded from the deep inhalations, I lay down on the carpet and rest my head on striped pillows. I look at the clock. 1:09 AM. The smell of life trickles down my nasal passage, and the taste of rebellion prickles my tongue.

Time stops.

Time flies.

I’m being stretched, like a rubber band – or more like a piece of saltwater taffy on a rollercoaster ride. I am going to break, I am going to break, being stretched in this dark tunnel of no escape. And then I’m there.

I’ve arrived. Where am I? I am in a house with nothing. I am in a house with everything. The walls are thick, but they are completely made out of glass. I still cannot see through them.

Someone is talking, and I’m responding, but they are not responding to my response. I cannot speak. The darkness is coming closer, and is about to take me away.

Time stops.

Time flies.

I’m being stretched, like a rubber band – or more like a piece of saltwater taffy on a rollercoaster ride. I am going to break, I am going to break, being stretched in this dark tunnel of no escape. And then I’m there.

Where am I? I am in an amusement park full of beautiful lights. I am not a patron of this park, but rather a spiritual being that glides over and around the curves of the park, up and down over the roller coasters and Ferris wheels faster than the fastest speeding bullet.

Time stops.

Time flies.

I open my eyes and I see striped pillows. Someone has thrown a blanket over my limp body. I look at the clock. 1:23. It has been an eternity since I left. It has been 14 minutes since I left.

I open my eyes. My mind is clear, the voice is gone, and I know it will be for days. Months, if I get to breathe often. Years, if I can keep breathing always.

But no, I cannot continue like that. I’m breathing too much, too fast, too hard. I need to slow down. Stopping would mean death. I’ve stopped breathing.

Help me. I want to breathe again.

Love,
Kim
shitlinks:[x] [x] [x] [x]

Comments

Tuesday January 18, 2005 at 10:11 pm

January 18, 2005 at 6:11 am · Filed under Rigamarole

mirrored from madpimp.com

I need to tell you a story…

I’m lost again, inside my head. That voice is back, the voice I know is me, but is not me because it gives me thoughts unbidden that I don’t want to hear. ‘You hate yourself,’ it whispers, ‘you need to end yourself. You’re nothing, and you need to die.’ How tantalizing. Almost wistfully, I think about the full bottle of codeine on my desk at home.

“Is it ready yet?” I say, impatiently, the voice in my head beginning to nag harder.

He is cooking, and it will be a while yet. I hunger, salivate, for what is on that plate. There is nothing else.

I wait. The voice is still there, but is ebbing into a dull background static as I concentrate on the boiling liquid.

I sniffle. My nose is completely stuffed, and I remember the real reason for the codeine. The food is almost done and I can’t partake. Inhaling through my nose as hard as I can, I manage to loosen the thick mucus from one nostril. It feels chunky and tastes slightly bitter as it glides down the back of my throat.

He tells me it is done. I breathe.

I breathe in freedom.

I breathe in rebellion.

I breathe in strength.

I breathe in happiness.

I breathe in life.

I pause. I cannot breathe anymore… and yet I must, because I need more. Just a little bit more, I need to breathe. I need to live.

Slightly lightheaded from the deep inhalations, I lay down on the carpet and rest my head on striped pillows. I look at the clock. 1:09 AM. The smell of life trickles down my nasal passage, and the taste of rebellion prickles my tongue.

Time stops.

Time flies.

I’m being stretched, like a rubber band – or more like a piece of saltwater taffy on a rollercoaster ride. I am going to break, I am going to break, being stretched in this dark tunnel of no escape. And then I’m there.

I’ve arrived. Where am I? I am in a house with nothing. I am in a house with everything. The walls are thick, but they are completely made out of glass. I still cannot see through them.

Someone is talking, and I’m responding, but they are not responding to my response. I cannot speak. The darkness is coming closer, and is about to take me away.

Time stops.

Time flies.

I’m being stretched, like a rubber band – or more like a piece of saltwater taffy on a rollercoaster ride. I am going to break, I am going to break, being stretched in this dark tunnel of no escape. And then I’m there.

Where am I? I am in an amusement park full of beautiful lights. I am not a patron of this park, but rather a spiritual being that glides over and around the curves of the park, up and down over the roller coasters and Ferris wheels faster than the fastest speeding bullet.

Time stops.

Time flies.

I open my eyes and I see striped pillows. Someone has thrown a blanket over my limp body. I look at the clock. 1:23. It has been an eternity since I left. It has been 14 minutes since I left.

I open my eyes. My mind is clear, the voice is gone, and I know it will be for days. Months, if I get to breathe often. Years, if I can keep breathing always.

But no, I cannot continue like that. I’m breathing too much, too fast, too hard. I need to slow down. Stopping would mean death. I’ve stopped breathing.

Help me. I want to breathe again.

Love,
Kim
shitlinks:[x] [x] [x] [x]

Comments

Tuesday January 18, 2005 at 09:47 pm

January 18, 2005 at 5:47 am · Filed under Rigamarole

The Significance of K

an almost autobiography written in fictional form

about a life filled with hypocrisies and overindulgence

|– to the kiddies – drugs are bad, stay away from them! –|

I’m lost again, inside my head. That voice is back, the voice that I know is me, but is not me because it gives me thoughts unbidden that I don’t want to hear. ‘You hate yourself,’ it whispers, ‘you need to end yourself. You’re nothing, and you need to die.’ How tantalizing. Almost wistfully, I think about the full bottle of codeine on my desk at home.

“Is it ready yet?” I say, impatiently, the voice in my head beginning to nag harder.

He is cooking, and it will be a while yet. I hunger, salivate, for what is on that plate. There is nothing else.

I wait. The voice is still there, but is ebbing into a dull background static as I concentrate on the boiling liquid.

I sniffle. My nose is completely stuffed, and I remember the real reason for the codeine. The food is almost done and I can’t partake. Inhaling through my nose as hard as I can, I manage to loosen the thick mucus from one nostril. It feels chunky and tastes slightly bitter as it glides down the back of my throat.

He tells me it is done. I breathe.

I breathe in freedom.

I breathe in rebellion.

I breathe in strength.

I breathe in happiness.

I breathe in life.

I pause. I cannot breathe anymore… and yet I must, because I need more. Just a little bit more, I need to breathe. I need to live.

Slightly lightheaded from the deep inhalations, I lay down on his striped sheets and rest my head on his striped pillows. I look at the clock. 1:09 AM. The smell of life trickles down my nasal passage, and the taste of rebellion prickles my tongue.

Time stops.

Time flies.

I’m being stretched, like a rubber band – or more like a piece of saltwater taffy on a rollercoaster ride. I am going to break, I am going to break, being stretched in this dark tunnel of no escape. And then I’m there.

I’ve arrived. Where am I? I am in a house with nothing. I am in a house with everything. The walls are thick, but they are completely made out of glass. I still cannot see through them.

Someone is talking, and I’m responding, but they are not responding to my response. I cannot speak. The darkness is coming closer, and is about to take me away.

Time stops.

Time flies.

I’m being stretched, like a rubber band – or more like a piece of saltwater taffy on a rollercoaster ride. I am going to break, I am going to break, being stretched in this dark tunnel of no escape. And then I’m there.

Where am I? I am in an amusement park full of beautiful lights. I am not a patron of this park, but rather a spiritual being that glides over and around the curves of the park, up and down over the roller coasters and Ferris wheels faster than the fastest speeding bullet.

Time stops.

Time flies.

I open my eyes and I see striped pillowcases. Someone has thrown a blanket over my limp body. I look at the clock. 1:23. It has been an eternity since I left. It has been 14 minutes since I left.

I open my eyes. My mind is clear, the voice is gone, and I know it will be for days. Months, if I get to breathe often. Years, if I can keep breathing always.

But no, I cannot continue like that. I’m breathing too much, too fast, too hard. I need to slow down. Stopping would mean death. I’ve stopped breathing.

Help me. I want to breathe again.

Comments

Monday January 17, 2005 at 12:51 am

January 17, 2005 at 8:51 am · Filed under Rigamarole

mirrored from madpimp.com

//EDIT// Just finished my digital portfolio! Please visit!

Working with Women

Ok, so I’ve always been a total nerd and I haven’t had many jobs where I’ve had to work with other people. On top of that, most of my jobs have been tech jobs in which I have zero contact with women. –There are times when I am the only girl in the entire company.

I can only remember one other job before now in which I had to have a lot of contact with women. During the summer between senior year and college, because of some weird rebellion I had against my mom I worked at Forever 21, girly clothing store. That lasted a good two weeks. I came, I gave my two weeks, I left.

I cannot FUCKING stand working with women.

I recently began a job for a parking and transportation department. (Think parking permits and citations).

The setup at my new job is as follows: I work in the back with all the tech guys. The rest of the office is virtually all women.

|—WARNING ULTIMATE BITCH ZONE AHEAD—|

1. What the FUCK is up with the incessant bitching?!

OK, bitches! Listen up! We work in a workplace with CUBICLES — not walls. EVERYTHING you say carries over the cubicles and can be heard by everybody else in the whole office. That is why people reply to you from the other side of the office.

But WHY, WHYYY do you insist, when something even half interesting happens, to yell your story to the person in the cubicle next to you… and then, if the whole office hasn’t come over to bitch about it with you, you go to the NEXT cubicle to fucking tell the SAME exact story again?

The other day I was sitting there and I swear, I heard the same bitching (I COUNTED) 7 times! WHAT … THE … FUCK?

I thought I was going to gouge my eyes out. If I had testicles, I would have cut them off by the 4th incantation of the bitch attack.

2. It’s JUST PARKING. Stop taking this shit so seriously!

Seriously. Every day I work, at least once, there is a convergence of people in some place in the office [ALWAYS at least 5-1 women-men] where they’re arguing — like REALLY arguing, yelling, getting frustrated — over parking policies.

COME ON. What the fuck — OK, seriously, it’s not REALLY going to make a big difference if you change the fucking permit color, or make it so that certain people can only park in certain places. People will live on. FUCK.

STOP MAKING YOURSELF FEEL LIKE YOUR JOB IS IMPORTANT!

3. STFU!!

Finally, STOP using office hour time to fucking call your kids, all your fucking friends, and anyone who might remotely want to listen to you. Once again, I point out we work in a cubicle environment! It’s OK to talk on the phone once in a while, especially if it’s an emergency, but fucking SHIT. While I’m designing or programming I don’t want to FUCKING hear about what time you put your KIDS to bed or what you think that your friend SALLY should do with her FUCKING boyfriend.

….
Bitching in the workplace should be a punishable act.

Let’s have a vote:

Who thinks that people should be punished for excessive bitching in the workplace? Raise your hands high, people!

:raises hand:

On a brighter note, I went to the LA Auto Show today with some friends. The picture below sums up the day pretty much.

Incidentally, I gave her my card, told her she should become a model and that I would make her website. I hope she comes to my page. Really.

Love,
Kim
shitlinks:[x] [x] [x] [x]

Comments (50)

Sunday January 16, 2005 at 09:04 pm

January 16, 2005 at 5:04 am · Filed under Rigamarole

mirrored from madpimp.com

Gratuitous Photo Post

Been working on my digital portfolio. Hopefully it will be up and ready for all of you to enjoy in about a week or two. Then if you like my shit you can pay me to do your shit. Trade of money for services, if you will.

Yes. I am working on putting pictures on the internet so that I can trade money for services.

Love,
Kim
shitlinks:[x] [x] [x] [x]

Comments

Friday January 14, 2005 at 11:46 pm

January 14, 2005 at 7:46 am · Filed under Rigamarole

Been working on my digital portfolio. Hopefully it will be up and ready for all of you to enjoy in about a week or two. Then if you like my shit you can pay me to do your shit. Trade of money for services, if you will.

Yes. I am working on putting pictures on the internet so that I can trade money for services.

Comments (8)

Friday January 14, 2005 at 11:31 pm

January 14, 2005 at 7:31 am · Filed under Rigamarole

mirrored from madpimp.com

Issues of Image

Issues of Image

I told a friend today that I feel that I live in a facade, that I produce an image of myself for others to see… That I feel like I rarely show anyone my “real” side, my “dark” side, my “other” side. My friend told me that if you live in the facade long enough, you eventually become that facade.

Do you?

My Past

I’ve been thinking lately of what “image” is, and what it means to me. I come from a family that works in buisiness and was an integral part of the vietnamese buddhist community, so image has always been a big deal in my family. My mother, in particular, is a great perpetuator of the belief that “image” is the only way that one can get ahead in life. All throughout my youth I was dragged to one event or another, put in clothes that I didn’t want to wear, sitting stiffly in places I didn’t want to be, acting like a model child when all I really wanted to do was hang out with my friends.

Which leads me to…

Distance photo done with help by Lan.
And for anyone that might recognize it by the hair alone, yes I am dressed as Witch Hunter Robin

Everybody has an image, whether or not they are willing to accept it.

For some, image is a 24 hour upkeep. I know another person who believes image is so important that he thinks it doesn’t matter how you treat [a girl] while you’re in a relationship — as long as you give a good last impression at the end, she’ll always remember you as a good guy. His image is one of a successful man’s man, ladie’s man, man who has several women at once, good to his friends man. The epitomy of the image driven person.

For others, image comes unconsciously, like my best friend Kim. After knowing her since freshman year of highschool, I’ve come to realize she’s one of the only people that really doesn’t care about image at all. No really, at all. I totally respect her for that. But she, too, though unwilling, cannot get away from her own image. Hers [to me] is of someone with much brilliance that seems ‘boring’ (500) on the outside, but is actually an amazing person of amazing accomplishments once you get to know her. She also has a wry sense of humor.

What about me? What is the image that I portray? Is the image that I portray different than who I am? What is the image that I WANT to portray? What is the image that people see when they look at me?

Does this image define who I am?

I don’t know what I portray to other people. I don’t really even know who I am. I’m not even sure what I want to portray. I know am the person in your class whose phone always rings. I am the person that on any given day might be wearing a costume. I am the person who speaks too loudly and says the wrong things at the wrong time. I am the person whose laptop is constantly attached to her body.

A big part of me wants to tell you that I’m brilliant, in everything I try.

Really, I am.

A part of me wants to show you that I’m a ‘used to be geek turned cool but still geeky’.

A part of me wants to show you that I’m a deep introspective person.

Yet another part of me wants to show you that I’m a really good person.

An even bigger part of me wants to tell you that I’m fun to be around.

The biggest part of me wants to show you that I’ve made a difference in the world somehow.

What is it that you see?

What is it that you portray?

Additionally, I would like to personally thank everybody who put my paperdoll into your webpage. It’s become so many of you that I don’t have time to link you all now, but the notables are: Megan, Larry, Eric, Peter, Ivy, Darrell, Ferdinand, Jamie, Greg, Ferdinand, Cherry, Joy, Laura, David, Tony, Crystal, Brent, Rashmi, Brett, Micha, Tim, Nancy, and Anne. You guys (and anyone else I missed) make me feel like those hours not paying attention in class are worth it. I
Also, as a commemorative gesture, I will be adding unlockable levels to my paper doll that will be revealed at my 200,000th hit! The more you visit me, the sooner it will come!

Love,
Kim
shitlinks:[x] [x] [x] [x]

Comments (24)

Thursday January 13, 2005 at 11:10 pm

January 13, 2005 at 7:10 am · Filed under Rigamarole

mirrored from madpimp.com

Paperdolls and Raving

Paperdoll Contest

It seems that my paperdoll is getting a lot of people’s creative juices flowing, so here is a proposition to you awesome creative people: the top 3 will be featured on my site, and then there will be a 24 hour period for people to vote/comment. [According to sitemeter I average around 300+ visitors a day, so for some of you that might be some good advertisement for your site!] Whoever wins will receive additional featurage on the paperdoll site itself, and a free e-mail forwarder: YOU@MADPIMP.COM or a gmail account.

Rules: There are no rules. Use other pictures. Photoshop it. As long as it’s still the paperdoll. Straight hood, baby, just the way I like it.

My disclaimer ahead of time: Any inappropriate/insulting/offensive stuff will be allowed, however ALL pictures posted up are fully the work of the artists featured. I hold no responsibility for any edited photos or pictures that are posted on my site that have to do with this contest. Take it up with the artist if you got beef.

Email your entries to madpimp@gmail.com

What happened to raving?

Funny story, during the years when raving was still popular and the word candy didn’t really mean candy, and dropping something didn’t mean that you had to pick it up, I found this picture of myself and had a good chuckle.

What is “Raving” anyways? Urban Dictionary says: An organized underground party involving music and dancing. Raves typically involve one or more DJs playing electronic dance music such as techno, trance, breakbeat, jungle, and ambient.

I didn’t start going to raves until they were already dying. When people talked of the glory days. When people complained about the lameness of the parties and that PLUR [peace love unity respect] was a thing of the past.

I started tagging along with friends to raves when I first started college. Like many asian families, my parents never let me go out at night later than perhaps 10 or 11 pm… And even then, I had to have a solid alibi of where I was — “raving” or even “sleeping over at a friends” would not be enough.

For my first year of college, I was swept into a world of beautiful lightshows, new things, glowsticking, dancing [tutting mostly] and people who seemed too nice to be true.

Then it became a little old… but all my friends still went, so I tagged along. Soon, for me, it felt like it was the same thing over and over. This was for two reasons:

1. I rarely did any drugs or alcohol at these raves so there was very little intoxicated fun

2. I didn’t feel like I could dance anymore because I received some criticism about the motives behind my learning to dance.

3. I was at odds with the people I went with

The raving scene is dead, for me, but I’ve learned it’s not completely because of how good the party is, or how great the venue is, or how many people are there. Raves are good if you like the people you’re with, you enjoy the music, and you can dance in any way you want without feeling self conscious.

Just once more, I’d like to go to a rave (or rave party.. Spundae anyone) and:

1. Get REALLY fucked up

2. Dance my booty off

3. Be with people I can be myself with

Any takers?

Love,
Kim
shitlinks:[x] [x] [x] [x]

Comments