CUCCI COUTURE

4/20/12 03:33 am

Oh, I think you know what that means.

pray tell

11/18/09 01:00 am

( Why I hate )

pray tell

11/1/09 02:07 pm - Halloweenie

Guess who I was.

I put it all together myself. I'm wearing a flesh bodysuit in the 3rd photo to cover up my shoulder ink, but that proved to be blisteringly hot. That is a child's large leotard, haha. I hand-stitched the hood and just cut the fingertips off some opera gloves I had lying around. The shades are "fit-over-glasses" geriatric style. I bought the wig and cut it to the appropriate length. Everything else was my own. Needless to say, I was quite please with my creation. We went to a gay bar. I'm sure the Lady would have approved...

Current Music: Motley Crue - Looks That Kill

9/24/09 07:16 pm - hey, guys?

is this a joke? i can't tell. i laughed and laughed, then got confused once i got to the comments. i'm also stoned. plz help.

love,
shan-pain

9/23/09 04:37 pm - Peace Sells, But Who's Dying?

ME, THAT'S WHO.

Sometimes I feel like certain trends surface just to fuck with me personally. Is anyone else supremely annoyed by the sudden preponderance of peace symbols littering the hip & famous? When did this shit make a comeback? It's fucking everywhere! Look, I realize we've been involved in a crazy war for some time now, and our new president has made serious waves in the political climate, but peace signs? Really? When students wanted to protest the Vietnam war, they often would wear black armbands. I mean, at least that LOOKS cool. Peace symbols are so 1996. And no matter how great an outfit is, this shit just murders it. Whenever I see someone sporting a peace sign, it's like they become Medusa and I instantly turn to stone. I know I'm an overly negative asshole, but if you're going to wear a symbol, at least make it interesting and/or confrontational. The peace symbol is just... so distractingly trite. It's like, "Hey, here's my outfit, oh and peeeeace." Urgh!

ARGHHHH!!1#@&#)&*^#^@!]=&#$%@^*

I suppose I ought to be grateful that the smiley face hasn't resurfaced, but... well... I'm not. This shit gives me flashbacks of junior high. I had a peace sign/yin-yang COMBO NECKLACE. I KNOW. But my defense is that I was 12, confused and yet very fashionable in a stifling Catholic school. There is no excuse for this hipification. NONE. Unless you took too many windowpanes and still think it's 1967. There's a guy who collects bottles and urinates at the bus stop who fits that description. He's the hippest cat on the block.

S

Tags: rant

pray tell

8/22/09 08:41 am - Murderer of the Moment

“Jenkins and 28-year-old Jasmine Fiore lived together in Los Angeles after being married in Las Vegas in April 2009. Fiore was a swimsuit model. Jenkins is a businessman who was recently featured as a contestant on the VH-1 reality program “Megan Wants a Millionaire.”

“On Thursday, Aug. 13, 2009, Jenkins is accused of checking into the L’Auberge Del Mar hotel in San Diego with Fiore. The defendant is accused of leaving the hotel the following morning. Fiore was not seen alive again,” said an official account of the murder.

“Jenkins is accused of murdering Fiore, putting her body in a suitcase, and dumping her in a dumpster in Buena Park.

“At 7:10 a.m. on Saturday, Aug. 15, 2009, officers from the Buena Park Police Department responded to a call regarding a body in a dumpster in a residential area. The officers found a large blood-stained grey suitcase containing the body of a Caucasian female,” said the district attorney’s office.

“The victim had been badly beaten, all of her fingers had been cut off, and all of her teeth had been forcibly removed."

pray tell

8/21/09 04:31 pm - The Secret To Feminine Happiness Through Humanism

I just got back from the gynecologist. The heat is thick, soft and balmy. Incredibly impervious to whatever uterine pain I really ought to be feeling, I walked to the park immediately after leaving the hospital and laid in the rose garden across the street. Lying on my back in the spongy supple grass, my vision containing only a vista of sky and my horizon an explosion of roses thrusting defiantly from the ground, in full bloom and so ripe, petals curling at the edges, open and pleading to the sky. They're a representation of the most obscene aspect of desire, lips and petals peeling back, supple and exposed and yearning... yet so primitively innocent and without our shame...

Georgia O'Keefe paintings emblazon the walls of the gynecologist's office. How apt, I thought cynically as I fidgeted and thought about the last time I had my uterus plundered and scraped. This time was different. I'm grateful for the insurance plan the hospital so benevolently offered to me. Now I no longer have to fear another pregnancy for the next 5 years. I showed up with my ID and a ball of lint in the pocket of my sweat-laden black jean miniskirt. The rewards one can obtain for simply being impoverished and doing a little research excite me terribly.

I lazily opened my eyes and blinked hard against the hazy white light. This is my version of holiness. God has nothing to do with this. I wiped the beads of sweat off my brow and silently thanked the rose garden for being within such proximity to my hovel. My cave in the middle of Portland's Skid Row. Walking home and passing by the usual bums and drunkards and sleepy gulls peppering the landscape, I happened upon a group of 3 girls clustered directly in front of my living room windows with 5 biracial toddlers in tow, quacking and screeching and fuckin' this and fuckin' that, suckin' hard on Marlboro Reds, each finger garnished with garishly painted fake nails...

Still reeling from the unexpected pleasure of my IUD insertion and the languid stroll thereafter, I was appalled by the sight of one gawky mother of 2 or 3 or 4 flamboyantly clutching brightly colored toys in her heavily manicured claws, fake nails the color of 1987, a crude dash of painstrokes against the backdrop of dismal grey pavement. Seeing her there, lanky, gaunt and blued with tattoos of crooked gang-style initials snaking down one browned and flabby arm, greasy bleached-out and fried hair hastily yanked back in a taut ponytail, cheap glasses and dated ill-fitting shorts and all radiant with ignorant defiance, I felt overcome with disgust. Is this truly what it means to be a whore? In the original sense, that is--receiving compensation for the products of one's sexual dalliances...
But to be enslaved to one's uterus, casually and indifferently squeezing out children sired by multiple careless men, only to end up standing on the sidewalk before someone else's apartment, shouting vapidly to other female-shaped social receptacles about cops and assholes and how this time, he really done her wrong. I distantly felt it was my duty to approach these squawking, bloated and angry women and politely tell them to leave. But the task of educating them on why it's just not okay to loiter in front of someone else's home seemed futile. I don't wish to make enemies. There is just no saving some. And why should I start? It's useless to want to save the world. I hate the very idea. Other humans make me squirm and flinch in discomfort, not to mention that I cannot relate to most of them. I cannot feel compassion for the hopelessly nescient.

I am calm and nearly punch-drunk. To stand takes tremendous effort. But I am happy. I am so fucking happy. To have accomplished my duty as a childree citizen is one more way to distance myself from surrounding wreckage. But I like to watch. I put the haggard and loutish in elegant frames and quietly paint the ugliness over and over. Absorbing what I loathe elicits a sort of rugged holiness. Is this serenity? Could the answer really be so simple?

Seek comfort in such a possibility.

Current Music: Leftöver Crack - Super Tuesday | Powered by Last.fm

pray tell

6/2/09 11:18 am - Death From Uphill 2009

Because I am too lazy to C/P the entire text, check out my latest blog entry. That makes the second person I've known who has strangled someone. Warning: Gruesome descriptions of the girl's murder lie in the links ahead. This happened about a week ago two streets up from where I just moved. Apparently he was raped by a Mrs. Robinson-type when he was young. POOR LITTLE MISOGYNIST. The case is going to trial by jury, which will be an absolute circus, I'm sure...

5/9/09 06:05 pm - It's just a sweet, sweet fantasy, baby!

So, my boyfriend's a DJ. Most DJs--at least, from my experience--don't tend to take requests, ever. Some girl actually handed him this note at his last show:

Tags: lol, memories

Current Music: Depeche Mode - Enjoy The Silence

pray tell

5/6/09 02:25 pm - FASHION FAIL REPORT 666

Hot damn. Each decade has its fair share of fashion fail, but I really feel like the past few years have been the most downright shameful of the 00s. I recently joined Lookbook.nu and have thus been exposed to a much more accurate portrait of the true worldwide fashion failure. Addiction to this website quickly consumed me--I have discovered many brilliant styles, but unfortunately, mostly... not.

I have always supported the inevitable 80s flashback (to an extent) and will admit that I sighed with relief when the Victorian club harlot trend died around 2002 (so I no longer felt that the fashion industry existed solely to fuck with me personally), but to bastardize Clarissa Darling’s—or worse, Ferguson’s—steez is truly reprehensible. In the following very lengthy rant, I have portrayed the 13--yes, 13, because I couldn't settle on 10--worst current trends of the common populace:

( Onward and... downward! )

Current Music: Hall & Oates - Wait For Me

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