Friday, August 12, 2005
If the Bible has taught us nothing else (and it hasn't). Well, I did get my tits out last night. I would also like to say that I don't think it was real absinthe, because I had four shots and should have been on the floor, but was merely meeeeedium drunk. Either that or I am a complete alcoholic. Penny and Tash also had their tits out so it was sort of a theme. I remember at one stage we were discussing this, and Ben Carbonaro wanted in on the mammary action, so he asked if I wanted to see his nipples. Of course I said yes.
But anyway. Yesterday I bought a great brooch. It says "Jesus" in gold cursive lettering studded with rhinestones. I wore it on my black dress, and Tash made a wonderful remark about my potential for some hot Christian loving that night. Disappointingly, there were no Christians at the launch. Perhaps they thought an opium den party was the devil's work. But anyway. I can't tell you how much I love my religious bling.
I was worried that I could be accused of empty hipster irony, but then I thought two things. First, Christians have always made analogies between the riches of the material world and their love of God. Indulgences. Jewelled chalices. Bishops' regalia. The gold leaf on Orthodox icons. Those glitzy illuminated Sacred Heart decorations you can buy from Catholic shops. Second, the delight I feel in this brooch is not ironic. It is well documented that I love bling. And given that I don't believe in God, you could call that devotion a quasi-religion.
I was so angry when I left the party that I marched straight to Double Happiness to see what the fuss was all about. Given that it was about 2am, there wasn't much fuss to be had. I sat by myself thinking alternately angry and depressive thoughts and sucking on a Tsingtao, until a French chick with purple dreadlocks tried to involve me in conversation. I thought it would be impolite to say, "Wow, you look like Jabba the Hutt's dancing girl who refused to put out ("Na, natoota!") and was fed to the Rancor."
In other news, my hand cream smells like Jeremy's perfume. I know men don't like their perfume to be called perfume, like it's emasculating or something, but that's what it is, so let's not pull punches. Anyway, it is freaking me out that my hands smell like Jeremy.
But anyway. Yesterday I bought a great brooch. It says "Jesus" in gold cursive lettering studded with rhinestones. I wore it on my black dress, and Tash made a wonderful remark about my potential for some hot Christian loving that night. Disappointingly, there were no Christians at the launch. Perhaps they thought an opium den party was the devil's work. But anyway. I can't tell you how much I love my religious bling.
I was worried that I could be accused of empty hipster irony, but then I thought two things. First, Christians have always made analogies between the riches of the material world and their love of God. Indulgences. Jewelled chalices. Bishops' regalia. The gold leaf on Orthodox icons. Those glitzy illuminated Sacred Heart decorations you can buy from Catholic shops. Second, the delight I feel in this brooch is not ironic. It is well documented that I love bling. And given that I don't believe in God, you could call that devotion a quasi-religion.
I was so angry when I left the party that I marched straight to Double Happiness to see what the fuss was all about. Given that it was about 2am, there wasn't much fuss to be had. I sat by myself thinking alternately angry and depressive thoughts and sucking on a Tsingtao, until a French chick with purple dreadlocks tried to involve me in conversation. I thought it would be impolite to say, "Wow, you look like Jabba the Hutt's dancing girl who refused to put out ("Na, natoota!") and was fed to the Rancor."
In other news, my hand cream smells like Jeremy's perfume. I know men don't like their perfume to be called perfume, like it's emasculating or something, but that's what it is, so let's not pull punches. Anyway, it is freaking me out that my hands smell like Jeremy.
