Kratos, the god of war

Body filled with orbs of blood
Possessed with powers green and blue
Pride dragged through the mud
Hate and lust are strong and true

Love is smeared across your face
Your hands can not grip tight enough
Coldest stone cannot meet your gaze
Hate and lust are raw and rough

Rage can fuel a pair of blades
Gorgon eyes and phoenix feather
As memories of mercy fades
Hate and lust are merged together

Sex and the City

People ask me if I'll go and see the new Sex and the City movie. Since SatC has been annoying me for a good six years already I don't think that another hour and a half of it would be fatal but still that's not a risk I'm willing to take. It might somehow convert me from the perfectly normal woman I am today to some sex crazed liberty embracing whore who never works but still magically always has a new pair of awful shoes or an equally horrible belt or some other craptastic accessory. None of them have any videos or CD's in their homes, not one of them has a favorite band or a favorite book, they're all optionally starving themselves of any kind of popular cultur.
I'm nothing like Charlotte who seems to believe that women are born to be married and men are born to marry them and that pre marital reproduction goes hand in hand with selling your soul to the Devil, and I'm nothing like Carrie since I don't alter between being a needy lap dog and being a completely shut down sulky little ice bitch, nor do I have the worst sense of fashion in existence. I'm nothing like Miranda either, simply because I don't share her insanely bad taste in men. I mean Steve, Skipper and that anal-guy from the park? Yeah, I'd hit those guys too... with a shovel. And lastly I am nothing like Samantha because I'm not attracted to every single being that has a penis and I lack the vast array of buttons she sports for anyone to push, regardless of looks, life or preferences. I need a personality to go with my sexual attraction, not just a lump of flesh.

So no, I won't be going to see the new Sex and the City movie anytime soon.

Shadow of the Colossus

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Truthfully

Melinda calls up the love of her life. He loves her too
loves, loves, loves, damnit! 
so that’s not entirely a clumsy drunken thing to do. But Melinda makes it special, the way she makes every single bat of an eye a drug-liberal little miracle. She’s drunk but in a way she’s beautiful, even in the midst of making a spectacle of herself. When the last digit has been slowly and gently fingerfucked, like all the precious previous, she puts her feet up and leans
leans with her entire being, not just knees and boobs
 into the conversation. His voice is a cliché riddled clusterfuck of glowing hazel eyes, a dominant forehead and sweet sugary lips that’s only slightly chapped and even though she hates unconditioned lips she can’t prevent her mind from swooning and puckering up for that celestial, sligthly greywhite, wisp of his kiss.
He kisses her gently, cupping her chin and gently steadying her head and she would do nothing but relish it and maybe even melt a little if she could just
for one cocksucking minute 
disregard the fact that this is not how it’s supposed to be. There’s no such thing as being of the ‘wrong sex’ so why is she so persistent? Yes, he lives far away and the path that leads to him is littered with physical obstacles; seas, oceans, tears, ex-girlfriends, toilet seats left up for the last unforgiven time, but what do those things matter when he’s the third
meeeh, maybe fourth 
best thing that has ever happened to her? Then there are mental obstacles… Oh ho, the mental obstacles…
This is a request. 
She wishes to learn to relax. To chill and play it unsafe and let herself be swept away on this wave of undying, unconditional, unreal love that relentlessly carries her into his embrace. And she wishes that for one damn second of her life she wasn’t so fucking uncool.

Snow globe

Legal white powder dissolved in water, leaving close to transparent residue of bliss at the bottom of the bottle. I just gulp without thinking, refusing to deny myself the simple pleasure of intaking a drug I’ve become addicted to. Why bother about having to quit when there’s plenty at the moment? Tiny white crumbs twirling around in the water, inviting me to, if not dance, then at least take a little skip. Do a little jig. Rest my head. I’m not in too deep.
On another note, I never liked Vince Neil. He’s fat, whiny and untalented. Though God damnit how I cried when I read about his daughter in Mötley Crüe: The Dirt. My huge, swollen, gold sparkling heart aches and bleeds even for the people I can hardly stand.