So fuckit, I'll stop stalling with the new entry and just come clear with you.
I am happy. I am happy and that makes it hard to write those angsty rants you like me for. I am fucking blissed out right now, and my happiness is contained in my bedroom, surrounded by sunlight and violins:
- should I make apologies for not being a trashy feisty piss-artist raping London up the arse? Fuck that. One can always be sure that Ms Misery is always lurking in the close proximity, ready to jump on you in a dark alley and bottle your guts into a bloody pulp; but for now I'm wearing a badge specially for her: "bitch if you can read it you're standing too close", and she's keeping her distance. I'm happy, and sod the rest for a while.
The kittens have been housed in a beautiful garden flat with sweet new people to own. The cat stayed with me and she's got my heart gripped firmly in her little black velvety claw. I give her chin rubs and neutering surgeries, and she brings me baby mice at 6am. In any case, both parties involved are happy with this rather sick love affair.
What else? So I'm a fully-fledged 27-year-old at last.
Heartfelt thankyou to all the sweetiepies on this site who sent me birthday presents. Some of you never even gave me a chance to thank, like the mysterious creature who presented me with "Open Up And Bleed" (but I'm telepathically snogging your face off as we speak). My lover came up with ultimate present, though - an oil painting on burnt wood by a very talented little creature who used to be a Suicide Girl here, Ms Nicoz Balboa:
Is it like tewtally splendid or what??? 
And so now I've started the year in which I'd always been planning to die. Hm. As far as I recall, I could hardly ever imagine myself at 27. It seemed to me a terrible time when you sign your life up to a shitty job, marriage, sprogs, and lose your freedom entirely for some highly-regarded grown-up values that head you straight to the grave like a rat on speed. I imagined that at 27 you encounter the last hole in the wall to escape from the rubbish bin, a rusty door with a flickering neon sign that reads Forever 27 Club, where you have a stiff one with the likes of Janis, Jimi, Jim, Kurt (and a few less famous names which we won't mention due to obscurity and lack of space). Anyhow, I'll make sure to schedule in another SG photoshoot before the year expires, just in case my old deathwish comes true...
But what if regardless of it all I still feel too pure and wholesome to kick the bucket within 12 months?!
Most humans seem to make a decision to age at around 25. Quit sleazy drugged up flirts, shake some hands and wipe the make-up right off. If you can carry on past 25 and not jack it in you will probably turn out ok. I can certainly feel the doom looming. I ain't blonde anymore, though there is more blue and green in my hair than on an average clown.
Speaking of clowns, I've been working on a Serial Killer Series with superstar Albertine. Recently the first image was published in a glossy art and literature magazine (and in true style of the Brit tabloid rags, I am the page 3 pin-up):
John Wayne Gacy was the first sick bastard to whom we shot this tribute. No Tears For The Clown was one of the slogans on the t-shirts that the vendors dished out to the cheering crowd on Gacy's execution day (special prize if you can get me one), so I faux-carved the letters into the bare chest of Pogo the Clown.
This full-page print is so extravagantly lush and vibrant that it instantly became my most prized modelling tearsheet to date. Buy it and frame it, yo.
Shall I pad out this unexciting entry with more product endorsements? A sweet boy I know merged a plectrum and a razorblade into a masterful piece of wearable metallurgy (jewelry, if you prefer).
The Dead Savants even promised to make a limited edition package a la Manko, so please tell them I said hi on myspaz, and also tell them you love me and that they should include a mini photo-set of Manko to go with the glorious silver plectrum razor pendant in the limited edition box.
What else was I gonna say?...
(herro old age, my ancient brain is fried)
Wait.
It'll come to me...
I know!
I wonder what does a girl do in Mexico City on The Day Of The Dead?
Purrrrr. xx