Heaven help me before I truly turn into a child of routine.

No, in point of fact I'm not too worried. Every time my habits gets too regular, I do something to sabotage it. Even unconsciously. I don't think my body had obeyed the same clock more than four or five months in a row, by way of example.

This week, however, seems to want to consist of a series of stolen moments focused on the entry of a too-long delayed fanfic chapter (ask me if I'm doing anything useful!) interspersed with periods of work, festooed with snatches of reading. At the moment, having finished the wonderful tale of the redoutable Scaramouche (Authorage eludes me at the moment), I oscillate between Micel Focault's Civilization and Madness and Pauline R�age's sequel to The Story of O.

Want to turn the upstairs room into a sort of semi-online boutique for drag kings and queens. I shall call it 'Sequins and Mascara'. There will be books and boas, picture books dedicated to nothing but strikingly colored photos of unusual models, hats, handbags, and shoes. And there will be the latter three in abundance. I saw these darling purses festooned with silk flowers at a flea market that would be perfect for my stock. LOTS of size 16 heels. Wigs and facial hair. The Autobiography of Diana Vreeland. And movie starring Divine, Judy Garland, Ava Gardner, Anne Baxter, Ethel Merman, Ethel Waters, Lena Horne, Dorothy Danderage or Grace Kelly. To name a few.

I have a tote bag from nice price books with bolsheviks on it. This pleases me greatly. If nothing else, bolsheviks make exellent acessories.

<<agé chose>>

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