Dead @ MindSay 
death
VAMPIRE GIRLFRIENDS
ME AND THE HUBBY
DEAD LADIEZZ
EMILY'S A MAN EATER!!
BE DEAD
IM A FRANKENSTEIN GIRL, BABY!
-=kink
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Cleo?
This blog has identical triple digits!
Blog #222 - triple 2s. :D
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Today's only really had two notable events.
I've spent today with Shelly - I seem to be spending Tuesdays and Wednesdays with her a lot recently. Ash still has her Saturdays - and I haven't seen Adam for a while now. :(
Event one:
I asked Shelly to attempt the band career with me on GH: Greatest Hits.
I wanted to see if we could improve on the four star scores that Ash and I had gotten before - only to load it up and find that a lot of them had already been improved - by Adam and I one of the last times he was round. I'd totally forgotten this.
There was one song that seemed reasonable though - Psychobilly Freakout.
And after a few attempts - we got the 5 stars, and Shelly cried because I told her that both Adam and Ash hadn't been able to get the 5 stars with me, and she had done. Was funny in its own way.
Event two:
We were both sat on my bed, on the PC, I think we were doing our farms on FarmVille - when the door, which was already slightly ajar, opened a bit further.
Shelly turns to me and says: "Why has a black and white cat just walked past on your landing?"
I was really shocked, and after she described the way the cat had walked - I showed her the photo on my wall under my CD rack of deceased Cleo - and we instantly realised that Shelly had seen Cleo's ghost.
Shelly told me that she often sees ghosts, even of people and animals she'd never met before. This got really creepy - even more so when we looked in mam's room. Cleo had walked across the landing, past my room and into my mam's - at the end of the bed, the sheets were ruffled and rumpled, and there was a cat-shaped indent there, as if a cat had been laid there. So fucking creepy.
So I guess this has sort of solved the mystery of why my bedroom door has been opening by itself a lot recently...
WHAT ABOUT FARRAH FAWCETT???!!
she died on the same day as MJ. she didnt die of an overdose...she died of cancer..FUCKING CANCER!!! she had been battling it for THREE FUCKIN YEARS, but does anyone give a shit...APPARENTLY NOT.
it really pisses me off that people care more about some CIRCUS FREAK than a woman who bravely fought cancer for 3 whole years and finally lost the battle. it literally sickens me. now dont get me wrong, im not distraught about her death either. i mean, i didnt know either of them, how can i really feel the need to mourn, but some people DESERVE to have all of the media whirlwind surrounding their death...and some people dont. as far as im concerned Michael Jackson finally got what was coming to him, and Farrah Fawcett got screwed over.
so this is to Farrah Fawcett. She was a beautiful, talented woman whose strong will allowed her to persevere through YEARS of cancer treatments. RIP Farrah! YOU ARE MISSED.
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Dixie currently feels:
Tired
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Blog #10
Fun with fake blood...
Proper fucking knackered like.
I had my alarm set for half 10 - I needed to get up and wash my hair because it was all greasy Mary - but Shelly rang me at about half 9 and woke me up.
The alarm went off when she was still on the phone to me - GIRLS ALOUD AGAIN.
So I washed my hair - tidied up my room, took all my World Tour instruments downstairs and set up the Wii.
Then I hooked up my iPod docking station on top of the breadbin and started mixing up the fake blood.
I made a contraption from a roll of parcel tape, a cushion and a round tuppaware box - I filled it with blood and put the pig's heart inside.
Ashleigh came first - as I KNEW she would - Adam came shortly after, then Shelly - just as I had finally made the blood work.
I made the first batch REALLY wrong, so I wasted shitloads of the precious syrup and cornflour.
I still had plenty - and because Sammie didn't turn up... (Not talking to her now, this is the last time she fucking stands me up.) - I froze what we had left - so hopefully we can find another willing participant during the week to help us with the other gory part.
We practised the heart ripping scene for about 20 minutes - but when we actually tried it with the cushion - as I KNEW it would, all the blood seeped out - so we tried another angle - Adam to lay in the puddle - for me to stab through the tin foil lid and pull out the heart that way.
I thought I wouldn't be too repulsed by it - but I bloody was.
It was the squelch of the blood and random innard fluid that dripped down my fingers and the scent from it was fucking weird as well. And that's nothing compared to the texture of it.
We filmed some other indoors-y parts whilst Adam was washing his hair - I accidentally held the heart above his head, so it all dripped on his face and his fringe - but it actually made for a better effect.
To be truthful, I know these clips could have been better - but we'll have to see what it's like after editing.
Another gory part was when I was beating up Ashleigh with the cane - and then punching her in the stomach until she "vomited".
So, I mixed up some porridge oats, milk, flour, fake blood and carrots - it looked SO fucking horrible, I swear down. Ash said it actually didn't taste too bad - but the texture - apparently was unbearable.
The first take of the scene is hilarious - she spits it out, then you just see her shuddering, and she goes "....UURRGH..." proper loud. :)
We would have gotten more clips filmed - but mam and dad came home earlier than I thought.
We carried on even so - with rather random comments from mam provided.
Especially after the vomit scene and we were cleaning up inside - but we left the bowl and Ash's chair outside:
"WHO LEFT MY BOWL OUT HERE?!"
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Adam and I went halves on a meal deal from Riverside Pizza - so we got a 10" pizza, a half parmo, chips, donner meat, garlic sauce and salad - shared that out nicely between us.
Pretty lush too - Adam said he was full about half way through - and there was 1/4 of his half of the half parmo left - so I just stuck my fork in it and took it. :D
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We played a lot of World Tour today, but we actually didn't make any band videos - thanks to slagface Sammie not turning up.
Even so - Adam and I dared Ash to go on vocals and sing LA BAMBA.
Fucking piss, honestly. :)
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My mam is SO fucking weird.
Before they went out - she got in Ashleigh's wheelchair and started bowling herself all around the passage - SO random seeing her roll past the doorway.
Then I had a go. :D
I've been waiting to have a go for SO long.
Ash actually gave me permission this time - so I was bowling around in it for about 10 minutes. It's so funky. And so comfy too.
Of course, Adam felt he had to have a go as well - he was seeing how fast he could go from the front door to the kitchen. Lmfao, Ash is so sound.
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I'm tired right now, so I shall leave you with some video stills. :D
March 9th, 2009
Emily G. Fieldus
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Dear Mother and Father,
I want to apologize for taking you for granted. It seems like ever since I’ve entered this war, that I’ve been regretting every time for the days when I haven’t told you that I loved you. It’s amazing what a war like this can make you feel. I’m going to be honest in this letter. Nothing but completely honest.
Living in a trench is ten times worse than what others say it is. I’m constantly wet. Soaked. I can’t remember how it feels to be dry. It’s been that long, even though it feels like I waved good-bye to you and entered this endless battle only yesterday.
I’m sunken in up to my ankles in thick mud; which I have been trudging through just to reach the other end of this smelly trench. The smell is worse than anything else I have ever smelled. It makes me gag, but I can’t hide my nose because my hands are already holding onto my gun. It feels like they will not let go.
There is no escape from the swallowing embrace of the monster that is sprawled out along the ground, waiting to capture the most unaware of soldiers. I’ve seen my fellow men get snagged by their feet. Trapped within the arms of this unremorseful creature, they desperately extend their arms for help – screaming to be saved until their throat goes numb. All we can do, time after time, is stand – weapons in arms – frozen in fear as we watch them slowly, gradually, being pulled under. I have waited endlessly for them to surface. Nothing. Not even a man’s helmet. It never takes me long to realize that the lost and stolen ones will not return. The men continue to push me forward as I stand there silently, taking a small moment to mourn. They shove me in the back, ordering me to keep moving forward with their heavy, thundering voices.
You would think the mud would drown and cover everything it sees. But it doesn’t.
The vile, spat out remains of what the mud did not enjoy is all over the trench walls and floor. Nothing but unpleasant sights. Ones that remain within your mind forever.
Rats. Hundreds. Millions of them are gnawing at anything they can get at with their short, pointy claws and miniscule but dangerous jaws. They stare endlessly at me with their glowing, red eyes – and I know they are waiting for my downfall. From dawn until dusk, they are waiting for me. Waiting for me to hit the ground and lose; so they can feed their already-grotesque and enlarging bellies with my uniform fabric and freshly rotting flesh.
They have infested the trench. Nobody ever goes a minute without having a small pack of rats nibbling sharply at their awfully worn shoes and dead corpses that are spread out along the bottom of our hideout. It’s like these creatures were delivered by the devil, himself.
It takes a strong man to stare at these rats, and watch them eat away at a deceased corpse that once used to stand beside you in this fierce battle and not grimace in utter disgust. Or not furrow their eyebrows. Or even move a single muscle within their face. I am not one of these men. I can’t help but turn away; torn, shattered, and broken at the sight of these rats feeding off the dead flesh off a soldier’s bones. My memory will not be rid of the brave souls that gave it their all, even if they were yet to strike our enemy.
Lice have infested my hair and clothing. I always get an often urge to itch and scratch, but I can’t. I can’t lose my life to something as silly as wanting to cure the itch. Getting rid of these pests is impossible. Not even an iron and board can get rid of them. The infestation is immortal. They live within the stitches and fibers of my uniform, and my body heat keeps them alive. They bask within the strands of my hair, and feast on my cold scalp. These insects cause me to itch non-stop, but I am learning to resist these pressed urges and remain to keep my focus attached to this nightmare.
There is also a strange infection that has already grabbed many soldiers. They call it the ‘Trench Foot’. It’s the consequence to keeping our feet poorly kept; that is our fault. But we can’t help it. We are here for war, not to complain about such petty things. I have seen men get sent away due to this disease, and have the afflicted limb amputated. I have a strong feeling deep in my gut that I am this monster’s next target.
I have also watched soldiers grow insane due to the traumatisation of this war. Some call it ‘Shell Shock’. These warriors would scream in such agony, clutching their aching heads, pleading for everything to stop. The sights and the sounds. The piercing whistles of fired bullets, and the deafening explosions from the mines. The blood splattered sand our feet swiftly sweep across, and the dead bodies that lie there. Untouched and left behind for natural disasters to rid them of their current locations. I have watched these poor souls be driven away to asylums, knowing that they will never return to a relaxed state of mind ever again.
Men are slowly being reduced to young boys. Fear never releases our minds, and our nightmares as knee-high children are restored to life day by day. The overpowering scent of death is everywhere. Not a single soldier gets a break to ease our minds of this hell on earth. Relaxing doesn’t exist, and even though all may seem calm in the hours of night, our minds are still alert – attached to the victorious sounds of squealing bullets and the screams of death from our foes. My dirty and sweaty hands itch to pull the triggers of guns, and my blistered feet are eternally sore.
Nothing matters when you are in war. Nobody cares if you have a wife, or have children back at home. Nobody matters where you came from, how many languages you speak, or if you excel at arithmetic or have read several Shakespearean plays. Nobody cares if you are rich or poor, or how many friends you have lost in this feud. All that matters is where your aim is, where you’re stepping, and how long you can continue to stay alive.
But don’t worry. I’m okay.
I love you.
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