In the most Biblical sense, I am beyond repentance.

The notion of a universality of human experience is a confidence trick and the notion of a universality of female experience is a clever confidence trick. - Angela Carter

This weekend, this drag queen who is also a shaman wanted to go to a party with me. But he/she was extremely chaotic, so I actually never went. Also, him/her saying that he/she could heal me (of what??) by reconnecting my energies, or some weird shit, reminded me of the spiritual phase my mum went through when I was 6. She sent my bro and me to all sorts of workshops lead by people in ugly clothes and even uglier shoes. The only thing I liked about it were the crystals lying around. I tried to steal as many as possible.
The bottom line is that I like drag queens very much, shamans too (I met another one this weekend and he was perfectly lovely), but people who think I need to be healed.. not so much. Go heal yourself first.

Supercrip

Hello, lovely person who reads this.

I wanted to use this blog to write about happy, sparkly stuff. Like fabulous drag queens:

My life has a lot of glittery bits in it. Certainly a lot of makeup.
However, this is also my life:

- I have been stuck in lifts for 5 times in my life.
- Most of the time I have to plan an extra 30 minutes to get somewhere/get home, because the ramps of the buses don't work, or there are baby buggies blocking the disabled space, or people's luggage is blocking that space. illegal? you bet, but if I'd sue them all, I'd do nothing else.
- This weekend it took me 1 hour to get to a gig in a pub which said it as 'accessible' on the homepage, however, while the main pub was, the gig itself was on the 2nd floor and the spiral stairs horribly narrow. I had to go back home. Exception? No, this is not. This is my life.

Stuff like this happens to me every bloody week, several times. It's exhausting. I am generally a positive, happy person. But there are moments when I feel just scared and weak. Luckily, I have many fantastic friends and a great family who allows me to be weak and tired. However, I am scared to show this side to people who don't know me well.
If someone I don't know well asks me to come to a party/club/bar that I know will be horribly inaccessible, I often say I have something else to do than to say the real reason. Out of fear that they will be uncomfortable and embarrassed about it, and it IS an uncomfortable issue that I just don't have the strenght to discuss with people, all the time.
I guess this might make me look unapproachable. Like I'm not interested in other people. But I am just terrified that don't have my safety net here in London. And I don't want to come across as complicated, or as a buzzkill. Because I am not. People seem to like me best when I am laughing and spinning around in circles to Lady Gaga songs. Well, that is when I like myself best too. But I feel a lot of pressure to be like that all the fucking time (from myself, but also from other people. Disability and performance. please write a book about this, Judith Butler, or I will.) And I just can't.

I am shit scared that I don't find a flat or a job when I finish uni. How many of you guys live/work in wheelchair accessible places? Exactly.
Because of all of this, I became terribly whiny and paranoid lately. But I don't want to be like that. I feel that there are enough images of miserable, bitter disabled people with ugly clothes out there. And I am cheerful, strong and my clothes are fabulous. And my handbags. Don't forget the handbags.
I know that I am really blessed in lots of ways. I have the most fabulous, intelligent, fun friends who would go through fire and water for me. As I would for them. I have a wonderful family who were always proud of me and made me feel I can be whatever I want to be. My life is bloody crazy and unpredictable, and I don't think it would be like that if I wasn't exactly the way I am. Just look at some pictures:

So if I have been whiny, paranoid, or acted as if I don't like you: I didn't mean to. I do like you (well, most people). I didn't mean to let out my frustration on you. I am sorry. I just want to dance with you.
Cause when you step into the disco
leave your problems at the front door
you know, the world don't have to end
long as the DJ records spin.

A quick update in bright lipstick

It's London Fashion Week at the moment. And it's happening next to my uni. I love it so much. Lots of ladies in high heels with bright lipstick. And tall, leggy, androgynous creatures. People watching has reached a whole new level.
My friend Sarah came to visit this week. We had a lovely time, lots of cookies and cupcakes. The highlight was our afternoon tea at Bea's of Bloomsbury.

yum??

 

I had a really good night out on Friday. I went with my friend Ricardo who likes to straddle me. (Weird, my life?). After that, I stayed in the rest of the weekend, ate lots of spinach and watched all 7 episodes of Downton Abbey.. Which I keep misspelling "Downtown Abbey". Oh well, bear with me.

When I am fully grown up I want to be a mix between Dame Vivienne Westwood and Dame Maggie Smith.

I go ahead and smile..

I might know less about dating than 14 year-old fashion bloggers. I certainly know less about dating than mums. However, I have learned a lot during the last month.
If it makes you feel constantly anxious and insecure, something might be wrong. If you stop blogging about things that make you happy because you don't tend to be very happy anymore, something is fishy. If you break out in tears over your soy latte in Costa Coffee because your iPod plays "Total Eclipse Of The Heart", something definitely completely went awry, as much as you secretly love Bonnie Tyler. Wasn't that dating thing supposed to be fun?? Personally, I'd much rather be alone than someone else's vanity booster. If neither you nor the person you are dating bother to make each other smile, let it be.
Luckily I got amazing friends. When I have nervous breakdowns at Costa Coffee (once and never again) they send me virtual chocolate unicorns. They draw up with me flirty notes for hot waiters at Indian restaurants. They play hide and seek with me inside my drawers. And they might even offer to write drunken, silly emails to that guy. Which I totally accepted refused. End of story. I need to colour my hair now. See you next week, goodbye.

Roy playing hide and seek inside my drawers. If that doesn't make you laugh, what will?

Sexy pears!

Happy New Year, Lovelies!!
How are we? Did you make any resolutions? I never do. I usually re-evaluate myself or my life on my birthday, that feels much more personal. But of course we are all a work in progress, and I recently discovered some things I am good at and some I am bad at:

 good:

• eating cookies
• singstar (although I have to admit that my chances of winning massively increase if the other person decides to rap every single song.  Even Spice Girls and David Bowie.)

bad:

• catching trains. 
• concentrating on essay deadlines. I get distracted far too easily by cute guys who make me laugh. Luckily there aren't any in London (that is, if you don't leave your room until you finished two 4000-word essays)

I've also come to appreciate over the Christmas break several things we have in Switzerland that London doesn't have. Even pavements is one of those things. Taps that let you choose your exact water temperature is another. But nevermind, life is good and I'll blog regularly again now that I'm back in London.
What makes me happy is that I tackled one of my essays. It was about pears and sex or something. Now, on to the next one about umbrellas and zoos. I feel positively modernist. Also, positively tired.

Happy 2011, Babychams!

Maybe I'll throw in a unicorn, just for the fun of it.

Do you have those days when you feel as if you didn't really exist because your phone seems sort of dead and the best social interaction you have is ordering coffee at Starbucks?
Monday was such a day for me. I had to work on a boring spreadsheet all day. I was terrified because the feedback for my essay was waiting at uni for me. My first King's essay, oh excuse me, "Critical Commentary". What the eff is a "Critical Commentary" anyway, and if you don't know what it is, how are you supposed to write one? Maximum anxiety level. When I got home I ended up watching tons of Nigella , and it made me feel even worse. I want her hair. I want her cooking skills. In order to have at least something in common with her (the hips), I ate all of the chocolates in my advent calendar.Children, do not try this at home, it sucks and you'll have no chocolate until Christmas.
At this point you are probably asking yourself, and rightly so, why I am writing this. Didn't I promise some weeks ago I'll write only happy things? Also, you only came here because of the competition, and now I am going on about eating chocolate instead of giving you some (chocolate). TTSSSSSSK. WELL... If you never lose, how you gonna know when you won?
If it's never dark, how you gonna know the sun when it shines...  These are the words of a gorgeous young popstar wise old man.
And they do not only make an awesome song, they are true as well. Apparently, karma wanted to make things up to me, and I got all sorts of sweet messages and texts the next day, even from people I had no idea they had an idea that I exist.
I also met up with Rachel, I really nice girl from my course who shared a peanut butter cupcake with me. That made me really happy.

Rachel kindly explained the British marking system to me, because even though I had collected my essay, I had no clue what my mark meant. As it turned out, the essay went down rather well, which astonished both me and my tutor (I wish I was exaggerating here, but I am not. He was even more surprised at my grade than I was). I feel really relieved, because I was worried I would do much worse here at Uni than back home in Switzerland.. But it turns out I can keep doing what I enjoy doing, so it's all good, kids. The topics for my two forthcoming essays were approved this week as well, and in case you are a nerdy person like me who is interested in English Lit essays, they are:

- Mary Poppins, Myths and London (or something like that - but I AM WRITING ABOUT MARY POPPINS. YAY. AND LONDON. MAYBE I'LL THROW IN A UNICORN JUST FOR THE FUN OF IT).
- Queerness in Katherine Mansfield's short stories.

The latter, no doubt, will add to the "queer" impression some of the people here seem to have of me. Several times I was asked in either a pushy or nervous tone whether "all that stuff on my facebook" is true.

How can this be my son??










Oh wait, but that wasn't what you ACTUALLY wanted to know,right? No, I am not married to Isa. But she's all sorts of awesome. If that didn't answer your question: The last person I had (have?) a bit of a crush on has better makeup skills than I have, And you know, my makeup skills are even more accomplished than my profound knowledge about the members of take that. So what does that make me? I think it makes me really  cool, HA. And if you don't think so, why not go and read another blog instead? Joy the baker is really good!

So, what I meant to say with all this rambling gibbberish is: Everyone has horrible days. It happens. Don't watch Nigella. Just read a good book and go to bed. What's good about horrible days is that they are usually followed by awesome days.
I would like to make your day more awesome, especially after  you went through all the trouble reading my rambling gibberish. The first person who can spot me in this video will get a Christmas surprise. By post. Just comment here, you don't need a blogger account to do it. Because if you never win, how you gonna know when you won?
MERRY CHRISTMAS.

How my faith in humanity has been restored by Ricky, the taxi driver

I usually don't mind London buses.. I guess the tube would be faster, but it's about 90% inacessible for me, so I don't really bother with the remaining 10%. But this Tuesday, I had absurd bad luck with the buses..In the morning I had an appointment at the hairdressers and was 20 minutes late because of the ramp of the bus not working - the bus driver tried 2 or 3 times, but then just drove off.
After I had my hair done (I quite like it, though it's more reddish than orange, again - I wonder if I will ever achieve really orange hair - it's one of my life goals) I had a seminar at the Museum of London. And again, the ramp of the bus (a different route and everything) didn't bloody work. But then something AMAZING happened. There was a black cab behind the bus, and the taxi driver got out of the cab and asked me where I wanted to go - and then he offered to take me to the Museum, for free. Just because I had the same haircolour as his daughter - apparently she's 13 and had it dyed because she's really into Florence and the Machine. How adorable is that? Honestly, being a redhead rules. You get free taxi rides and get on time to classes and everything.

Also, I need to show you some of the ridiculously gorgeous people I went to see Patrick Wolf with this week:
Roy and me in Cardiff (yes he is wearing blue lipstick, which somehow makes his eyes sparkle. He even wore the blue lipstick when we went out for pizza the night before, because he is super cool like that):

Aaaand Elissa and me in London. We also went with Jenny and Finn, but they are not pictured, because that would be too many pretty people in one blog entry. You'd just ignore the writing and stare at the pictures.I can't let that happen. I know Elissa from Creative Writing Society at Uni. She's totally cool and awesome, and her prettiness makes people give us free carrot sticks:

You might have noticed that Roy is featured in pretty much every blog. That is because he is crucial to my happiness.
That's all.