nailpolish, rap and tchaikovsky

Beirut, January 18, 2016

So, I'm in a good mood.

Here are a few thoughts that I thought I would write here seeing how I do not have an Instagram photo ready to spam with the usual random. There is already so much needless random online that I hardly think another blogpost could do any harm.

First things first. It's 00:43 and I'm waiting for my nail polish to dry. Yah, stupidest decision ever, was to paint my nails at quarter past midnight. I'm only getting them ready for the fantastic print fest that awaits them as I fight nightmares and those creatures that come in dreams, whose name I cannot think of. A renaissance painting comes to mind and a google search has proved moot. Succubus! No! Incubus.


(Forgive me, this is taking more time than I thought it would, the only results that show are the band, which reveals that my level of dependence on google is unfounded and questionable.)

Ah, here we go!

The Nightmare, John Henry Fuseli -- 1781 (aka the only thing I remember from those art history classes. But not even, because I couldn't even remember the name of either painting or artist or the date. I owe it all to the great Wikipedia.)

Yah, okay. Enough digressions.

So, fast-forward a few hours, post-nightmares, post-incubus fights, post ridiculous dreams where I buy a coat I already own and try on a dress over said coat, a wonderful set of dry albeit patterned nails will surely welcome my spirit into the morning, thus proving the initial theory that painting my nails at night was a stupid idea.

So in order to stay awake, I am listening to Tchaikovsky's concerto in D Major. Mum and I saw the Scottish National Orchestra perform this concerto at the beginning of December in Glasgow. When I say saw, I mean of course, that mum slept her way through half of the concert, as I bit my nails anxiously looking over and nudging her so she would wake up throughout. Hm, I don't actually bite my nails but I think that nails have won over the general interest of this post and will earn a rightful presence in the title of this very, very, useful post.

Perhaps instead of listening to classical music, what I should be listening to is rap. Though I cannot bring myself to do that anymore, ever since I tried to rap this brilliant song into life two days ago and found myself short of breath and really, really slow at enunciation. My heart aches as I watch my rap dreams wither and go, like dust in the wind.

Here is the brilliant song in question. Notice the emphasis on Abercrombie and Fitch. This surely must have been a subliminal ad for Abercrombie and Fitch. Oh Rich, you discreet thing, you. (Side note, this came out sixteen years, SIXTEEN YEARS ago. Sadly, Rich even passed away a few years back. So Rich, though you never knew me, nor I you, clearly, I honour your memory with your good song, Summer Girls, which I quite fancy at the moment.) (Not for its excellent rap, let's be clear. No, not for that.)

So, it's 1:12 now. Nail polish shows no sign of drying. Eyes are closing fast. Tchaikovsky hasn't finished playing yet.

It is strange to be writing random thoughts down here. It's like I'm secretly talking to myself and secretly finding myself hilarious and subsequently secretly laughing at my own jokes. It's all grand and oddly very satisfying.

So, this was random. I think you can tell.

Ah, I just remembered something else I wanted to reflect upon. The name Topaz Mortmain. I am not Topaz. I never could be Topaz. I suppose I was only ever fascinated by her love of nature, her hippiness, (which now reminds me of Miley Cyrus and her bizarre outfit that are more like nipple-hiding suspenders than actual outfits.)

No, I am not Topaz. I am not the beautiful one, with the stunning body. I am not the artist's muse. I am not the one who's confident striding naked across the lawn. Despite the fact that I enjoy striding (and lounging) fully clothed that is, on the lawn. I am not Topaz, so my name is all wrong. My identity on this website is all wrong. But I have to say that I have often entertained the idea of living in a world where clothes did not exist, where clothes had not been socially constructed yet, had not yet been deemed a necessity. Where sexuality was a lot more open and a lot less made to be sacred and taboo. But I don't live in that world.

But to go back to the castle, I am not Rose, either. I don't think I ever wanted marriage beyond anything else, as the answer, the resolution to the plot. No. I might have been Rose, briefly, in that rough period that spans the sixteen to the twenty candles. But time and life somehow change how books and fairytale stories promise too much and give too little. No, I think I am, otherwise I wish very much to be Cassandra. She whose entire existence depends more on her ability to produce creatively than on her ability to look pretty and please. She who falls in love with the one person who won't really love her. She who rationally realises that she cannot allow someone into her life if she is not sure of the way she feels about them. She who enjoys spending her time alone, writing. She who fancies castles, even the ones in ruins. Yip, I'm definitely Cassandra.

I think that my nail polish has nearly dried. Also, I need to pee. But here is Tchaikovsky.
(It rhymed!)
(I just realised that Tchaikovsky has "chai" in his name, and will now go sulk in the corner and die of envy. The more sensible thing to do would be to go to bed. I think I'll probably do that.)

**Update from the morning: Painted nail patterns galore!


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