Monthly Archives: June 2011

A Week in Pictures

What a downer week.
Stomach is wrecked; (–) is crabby (I think he might be getting a tooth);…  : ( Then I find out the mothership (aka the United States) is on the verge of some serious financial crap…

Just draw and it’ll be okay…

I said... do you understand the words that are comin' out of my mouth?! A sketch of W.

Jesus Gets a Haircut

Opium - Dedicated to the father of art nouveau..... yeah, I got sick of drawing the hair and stopped, lazy lazy...

Drawing with W...

Have a good weekend y’all.

Why I’d Rather…

Stab myself in the glans with a unicorn horn
Neck for twenty minutes with a syphillitic sea cucumber
Eat a spicy turd omelette. (Yeah, that’s what I’d rather do…)

Than spend another summer in Munich.
A Rant.

Is anyone else ready to call Munich on his bullshit?
Honestly, every year, I think: This is the worst summer of all time. And every summer, Munich ups the ante. It’s become obvious that our misery is a fucking JOKE to him. Munich in the summer is every guy who’s ever let me down and every girl who’s ever rejected me sexually.

I bitched so much last fall about the past summer’s horridness and the upcoming summer’s inevitable crappiness that our new roommate Fail began to bob his head in disbelief. He had just moved to Munich from Bremen and he couldn’t see what the big deal was:

-But Germans in the north are always saying what beautiful weather Bavarians have down here….
-Well, Germans in the north are friggin’ idiots.

Come on, I asked him, you want to trust northern Germans on something like this? They mope around, watching their potato fields get ruined by rain and plotting war. They are husks of men, beaten down by their circumstances…

Fail didn’t seem convinced. He seemed under the impression I was about to indulge myself in another one of my toxic rants based on absolutely nothing but my feminine emotion, half-baked conjecture, and knee-jerk radicalisms.


Take a moment and look into your hearts now, dear readers. Does that sound like something this moof would ever, ever do? …Yeah, that’s what I thought.

So I decided to set Fail straight. We would settle this matter using not my dead on hunches >:P but the scientific method. To aid our quest, we found a website where you could conveniently enter any two cities in the world and compare their meteorological data. So that’s exactly what we did; and this little jewel of Bavaria, this little dollpalace of a city where exPrussians believe us to be frolicking in the sun all summer long revealed himself to have more summer rainfall than any of the following cities:

Frankfurt (aka the armpit of Germany)
London (!)

But it gets better!

Veritably drunk now on these findings, we went all over the world in an orgy of city comparing. Munich also had more summer rainfall than any of these cities:

Portland, OR
Kyoto, Japan (which actually has a summer rainy season >:P)
I could go on, but why rub salt in the wound? Still…

You want to know what city gets more summer rain than we do?
You can’t wait to know?!? Ok, ok, here it is, folks!


Kuala fucking Lumpur.

Yup. A sub-tropical (or is that even tropical??) city gets more rain than we do.
And that’s about it.

You know, one of the main reasons I decided never to move back to Portland OR is that I hate the rain! I hate being wet; I hate having wet shoes; the thought of wet socks makes me positively aggressive. In Portland, it rains steadily from October until May and I fled, happy to come to Munich, a temperate city.
And it’s perfect here!
A nice mild fall….
Snowy, not too cold winter…
Gentle, meek spring…

And a steady rainfall from June to September.

Das Sigh.


I am actually entering Illustration Friday for this next week!

Summer night somewhere else.

Usually, I can’t draw on a prompt, but this one, Midsummer’s Night, inspired me to try out the new set of colored paper I got about a month ago and haven’t touched since.

Getting the paper at all was an attempt to branch out a bit. Use some new materials. Last weekend, Paintblotch showed me an art book she had recently purchased–it featured, amongst many talented artists, the work of an Audrey Kawasaki. If you don’t know her, her stuff is really very beautiful–very art nouveau, and yeah, I’m one of those in the dying breed, the lovers of kitsch who sometimes still like to see something recognizably beautiful when they look at art >:P– Since most of her pieces are some combination of an attractive young woman with flowers or a jugendstill-y pattern, I felt right at home.

Her style is reminiscent of Mucha, another artist I personally find inspiring–and most of her works are painted onto a piece of wood (so there is already a background color of light brown.) Suddenly, I wanted to try out using that sketch pad of colored papers I’d been avoiding all along…

I did one drawing and it was pretty good–then I went ahead and fucked it up by listening to the little Abe Lincoln that whispered in my ear: Add colors. So I started over… the second one was going well again… then Abe started his damn whispering. Just a little blue. To offset the creaminess….Abe, shut the fuck up! I hissed at him, but he was so damn persistent that finally I just did it… I figured I’d try to take a tip from Miss Kawasaki and remember that less is more… but it is a little difficult to get used to, drawing with a background color… especially this pastel paper is so delicate–erasing can happen only gently and infrequently. The process reminded me of someone writing here on my blog that they thought of drawing almost as carving something out of the white-space of the paper… I definitely felt something like that when adding the high-lights… More than when I use white paper, the process feels like sculpting… or like hewing. Yes, even carving.

Anyway! Hope you’re enjoying the last days of June, moofs! =)


I spent the Saturday at Paintblotch’s this last weekend.
It felt good. Like old times.
Sitting around, drinking coffee, talking about random estrogen infused topics and drawing. The Lord of Poop was sweetly gurgling in the background, to the lullaby renditions of Weezer…

Tell me who’s that funky dude?/Starin’ back at me…
Cause everything that I want, is denied me/Everything that I need, is taken away from me/and who do I have to blame? Nobody but meee…….

We were supposed to do a collaborative piece on this ridiculously huge piece of paper she happened to have, but it ended up being me going to town on it by myself. (My excuse is she looked busy with her own drawing.)

Anyway, this is it.

Run - 2 m x 1 m, ink and evil color!! Click to make it big and fully appreciate the weirdness of this pic!!

It’s called ‘Run’, and it represents another step towards me
finally filling that canvas W gave me, in an effort to encourage out a painting. (I’m too scared though. It sits here behind me, big and white and ominous and I can just see myself fucking it up.)

Check out the kangaroo rat on the left bottom of the picture though… I think that might be the cutest thing I’ve ever drawn in my life… :D

In the meantime, everything’s going groovy. (–) is starting to respond to us. Especially in the mornings, he’s chirping up a storm — my book now has a cover. Both of my babies are doing wonderfully and I’m so happy, I can barely breathe.

Isn’t this the part of the trailer where everything gets taken away from the protagonist, when he ‘thought he had it all’? Sometimes, I think–God, am I going to find out next week that I have cancer? ::laughs nervously:: It’s sick, huh, when it feels wrong to be completely happy, but damn, I do feel like I’ve used up all my luck and then some. Then again, if bad things happen to good people all the time, good things can happen to not-so-great people just as easily, right?  And I’ve always been a lucky son of a bitch ^-^b

Still, I am definitely looking both ways when I cross the street for the rest of this 2011. Just in case whoever or whatever force taking this cosmic snooze wakes up…

Let the Right One In

You guys see this vampire movie, Let the Right One In? Probably not, but if you get the chance, check it out. I’m not really into the whole vampire craze, but this movie had an impressive, northern lights creepiness about it… Anyway, this drawing somehow reminded me of the movie, probably because it had a young, pale, Nordic protagonist boy rocking a prince Valiant shag….

Let the Right One In or Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man

I stayed up way too late last night, practicing drawing hair and shadows, but I think I needed it. A break of sorts. Yesterday was a day of guilt >:P Yes, (–) and I were butting heads all day, but I’m sorry to say, two and half months old or not, he was being a little dickhead.

We’d been having problems on and off this afternoon, but he closed my gate, as we say in Hungarian, on the way to getting lost to Anti-Slam (who the hell gets lost to a place they’ve been at like four times??)–I was pissed at myself–the air was Munich-muggy; I had to pee, I was thirstier than an Albanian donkey and Uncle Fail’s directions to the cafe were being drowned out by baby wailings. A baby who had been eating non-stop all day, mind you. Who’d been being held all day and wheeled about in his pram in the beautiful sunshine. Not a hungry baby. Not a neglected baby.

At a certain corner, I could not take it longer–

(–), shut the fuck up so I can hear him!, I growled into the carriage menacingly; a woman next to me on the corner gave me a look like… God. You Animal.

Look lady, I thought defensively, you haven’t been terrorized by this little meatloaf since six this morning! But I did feel guilty. (–) looked up at me with his big moist aluminum colored eyes, but don’t think he was scared of me or anything. He let out another hearty scream, pushing my irritation level to shit yeah and just as I was about to bust a headline and a few important veins, Uncle Fail showed up and saved Christmas. I think he saw that I was about to do some Very Bad Things, so he held (–) all through the anti-slam…

It wasn’t good, but I’m comforted by knowing I’m not the only bad parent out there >:P Thanks Hazel for sending this gem! It really cracked me up.

In other news, I’m finishing up my book’s cover today. =) Yup, I’m gonna have  an ‘advanced reader copy’ soon…. EEE! I have to make a few changes to the cover–including use a different image than I had originally picked, because that image had (completely gratuitously, I’ll admit) a bared breast on it and my publisher was like… some librarians will be reluctant to accept such a book….
(Does this mean my book will be in libraries???!!!???)

J: Oh, I don’t remember a boob on your cover. …there’s a boob? Is the girl’s shirt off, or something?
Me: No… I just… for some reason, drew it with her boob hanging out. For no reason.

Ahaha. So yeah, I’ll be getting a rated-PG cover, but that’s totally cool.

My mom: I’m glad SOMEBODY’S stopping you from getting pornography into libraries…. just kidding!

I couldn’t help but laugh. Yup, it’s a never-ending crusade, this one of mine against all decency and good taste, but what did Truman Capote say? ‘Good taste is the death of art.’ Here, here!

Anyway, I’m trying to pick my battles. Have a great Friday and weekend, moofs! ^-^b


A Superlong Essay. Of sorts.

An infant boy in North America heard the words no boy ever wants to hear whispered over his head at his own circumcision:

Oh shit.

In a case that has now become extremely influential in how we study and look at gender, the unfortunate parents of Joan/John were simply advised to raise their even more unfortunate son as a girl after a horribly botched circumcision. It’s all coo’, the doctors may have told them. After all, what is gender? A mere construct of society. We’re not BORN girls or boys… we only know we’re girls because we’re put into pink dresses or know we’re boys because we’re told to be tough. Give anyone the right hormones and the right colors from an early enough age and they’ll be any gender you want them to be.


30 some odd years, countless heartache and one suicide later, it seemed that with Joan/John at least, this wasn’t the case. And some people picked up their heads and said… wait a minute. Wait one hot damn minute. Maybe…. this is crazy guys… but maybe… sex…. might not be an artificial social construct after all…

In 2011, it turns another circle. A couple in Canada are now supposedly raising a ‘genderless’ child. What does that mean, you’re asking? That the kid is a hermaphrodite? No, the baby was born with a definitive sex, but  they believe that the gender of their child is ‘private’, that nobody has the right to know what you have between your legs unless you feel like telling them, and since society is what determines our gender, other than the family members and the few people they have chosen to tell, the baby’s gender will remain amorphous until… well, I don’t know until when. Until the child can choose it hirself.

As one of the most gender flexible-tolerant people I know, all I can say to that is:

What. The. Crap. is WRONG with people?

Puttin’ the Cart Before the Horse

Think back to the Beaver Cleaver era. Of TV dinners and Little League games and vacuuming with your pearls on. Seemed like back then all anyone wanted to be was ‘normal’. Parents might have thought: Please, let my John not be gay, please let my Marsha not be a stinky hippie. Now it seems like a lot of ‘progressive’ parents are falling right to the other end of the spectrum. Please let my Jeysihn (pronounced Jason) not be straight; please let my Isabellynna Evangelinica Twilight not want to play with a Barbie doll. It seems like in the rush to not be the stodgy, intolerant parent who fucks up their kids by not accepting them for who they are, parents are trying to make their kids as weird as possible. ‘My 7eys92 (pronounced Kevin) likes to stick his penis in a jar of peanut butter while he wears his sister’s scrunchy around his balls, but I don’t want him to think I don’t accept him, so I’ve just bought another restaurant-sized tub of Jiffy from Costco.’

Jesus. Everyone wants their kid to be yoonique.

Take this Canadian family– no, no, having two genders was good enough for the human race for the last fifty gazillion years, but not for their kid. Kids shouldn’t be hemmed in at birth by such rigid standards! They should be given choices! Obviously, these people have never been tour guides. If they had been, they would know the golden rule: NEVER GIVE PEOPLE CHOICES. It just dragon kicks everything in the face.

Let me explain:

All I Need to Know About Parenting, I Learned From Being a Tour Guide

Being a tour guide is kind of like being a parent. You realize quickly that if you give people options, you’re fucked. Here’s how to lose a lot of people on your tour:

-Uh, so… the bus USUALLY gets here around 4:30, but actually, it doesn’t leave most of the time until 4:35, so you can be here five minutes later, but it’s best if you’re five minutes early, but I can wait for you if the nice bus driver is here today; so if you want to be on time, make sure you take the trail that runs by the snack bar, unless you’re really a fast walker, then you can cut through the secret trail behind the ice cream stand, unless it’s closed, then take the trail down by the waterfall, but only if you walk really fast, so maybe it’s best if you go by the snack bar after all, unless you do really think you can walk fast…

Yep. 50 % of Chatty McTourguide’s group is now lost and being raped by Austrians in the mountains. Game over.

To avoid that, here’s what I say:
The bus if here at 4:30. If you’re not here by 4:30, you will be left behind.
The trail to get to the bus is the one behind the snack bar. If you take any other trail, you will be sexually assaulted by Bavarian bears. See you all at 4:30 sharp. ^-^b

Nobody can teach you how to be a good tour guide. Just like nobody can teach you how to be a good parent. You just gotta go out there, do your job, see what works and what doesn’t–but you can have fun or just as easily stress you and the customers the holy fuck out. I worked with another guide once: She was a great guide, and funny, but from the first half hour, a veritable ball of nerves. Why? Because she kept giving her customers all these OPTIONS. Which confused them–so they kept coming back and asking her the same a-hole questions over and over and over. (And getting lost and not showing up on time and da da da.) I think she figured she was doing them a great service by giving them all these choices, but she was stressed as hell–they could tell–and I wanted so much to tell her. Stop. You are making your job WAY too hard. People who go on a tour do so for a reason: They crave to be told what to do. And I remember thinking then that this was just like with little kids. Little kids also crave to be told what to do. They need that. They have all the time in the world to learn that the world is screwed up, adults are fallible, nothing makes sense, and that wars and politics are just deadlier extensions of games based on rules hardly more substantial than what they play in kindergarten. But try explaining that to a six year old and you’ve really got a problem on your hands. Just like you’ve got a problem if you try to outline the delicate subtleties of Bavarian bus-timing to your customers on your tour.

I say, when you go on a vacation by yourself, you can do whatever you like. When you’re on a tour though, you have to do what mean mommy says. By extension, when you’re an adult, you can have any kind of ideas about what it means to be a boy, girl, male, female, queer, dyke, translesbotron–but when you’re a kid, you should initially be given only two. You’re a girl. Or you’re a boy. (To be continued.) Otherwise, you’re looking at a world of pain; from and for yourself and everybody else.

Before you try to wrap your head around 2 + 2 = 5, it might be helpful to be taught that 2 + 2 usually equals 4.

Get Out of Gender Jail Free

But that’s brainwashing my kids! That’s forcing my world view on them!

To people who think it is constructive to teach little kids from an early age that they can be everything and anything they want to be. I’d like to say: You’re big fat liars. You can’t make societal norms and gender go away. It’s the socio-biological equivalent of insisting Santa exists. Because we are animals and animals all have a sex. Like you. Look between your legs. Unless you’re a very very small sector of society, you either have a dick or a vag. Now, if you are older and you are not happy with what you’ve got, you can put on alternative clothes, use makeup, eat hormones, or deal with it in whatever way you have to. But on the base, biological level, you remain what you were born.  Even if I, moof, with my short hair and rather blocky body, were to wear a tux… I have breasts. I have a woman-ass. Others can see that without me wearing pink. True androgyny (true confusion) is elusive and pretty much non-existent. A man can have a woman’s beautiful face, but still have no breasts/adam’s apple. A woman can have a broad shoulders or a flat ass, but still have breasts. Clothes, hair and makeup can mask these things to a certain degree, but unless you have done a serious operation and are taking vigorous hormones, you can’t fool people beyond a double take. i.e., Clothes and hairstyle make a statement about how we feel about our gender, but they cannot define our gender–that is plainly visible for anyone to see.

So the idea that you can ‘hide’ your gender from somebody or that it should be  private is incomprehensible to me. You don’t hide your eye-color or your height or your face from people. These things are superficial, so why couldn’t anybody see them? They are not the definition of you. Just like your dick or your pussy or your facial hair is not the definition of you. Your gender is how YOU feel about who you are vis a vis malefemale in your soul, and that has nothing to do with dolls or fire-trucks.  It can be as simple or as complex as you want it to be. It can be something you think about all the time. It can be something you never gave a second thought to in your life, no more than you questioned your height. It’s individual, which is not the same as personal, private, or secret. And it doesn’t change just because you wear a pink dress or tell people clearly: Yes, this is my son.

There’s no such thing as iGender.

Did Steve Jobs Make Gender Up?

If I want my kid to fly to the moon, telling him gravity doesn’t exist will get him fuck-nowhere. But teaching him about the limitations imposed by gravity, of physics and of aerodynamics, when he is old enough to understand such concepts, might. If I want my kid to be open-minded, teaching him that he has no physical/social limits will only warp his sense of reality. Because that’s not how it works. Instead, why not teach kids once they’re mature enough to get it: Hey. This is how you were born. You cannot change that. This is how people will see you and expect you to act. You cannot change that either. But there is the way you can see yourself and even reflect that onto other people. There is the freedom of the mind, as a wise friend of mine said to me once. However.

The freedom of the mind does not manifest on the playground with other six year olds. Nor does it express itself on your dentist’s fill-out form. These are not the venues for complex, subtle ideas about genders–they are the places where ‘check M or F’ should suffice.  It’s crude, sure–to paraphrase Churchill, like democracy, it kind of sucks–but it’s still the best we’ve got.

And who knows? In this day, when everyone wants their kid to be so different–some kids (a lot even, I would argue) still probably want to be like everyone else. Whatever that is. And I’d argue that if people have the freedom to be different, they should also have the freedom to be the same. Ordinary even. There is nothing wrong in wanting to be an ordinary little girl who likes pink and lipstick. Freedom isn’t about being totally unclassifiable; that’s just vulgar freakishness for freakishness’ sake.

I say it’s about feeling comfortable with yourself, no matter who you are; a freak of nature; a weekend wacko or totally ordinary.

So here’s the card,  moofies. Take it.
Get out of jail free.

More Joan/John case.
More ‘Storm’, genderless baby.
More prettiness of Gackt.

An Exhibit Is Born!

Uncle Fail holding (--) at 2 months old. charcoal + oil pastel + ???

I was at W’s yesterday for a session. W painted me for a change, so I was allowed to more or less sit around the whole time and not be stuck in a pose. Only once in a while would he ask me to do something specific– my favorite instruction being:

Now put your head back. Yes. More. Yes, that is it.
Now close your eyes and you are making the expression that is….


Speaking of bliss, W is going to have an exhibition on July 9th, here in Munich. (!!) –too bad I have to be at a certain someone’s silly birthday party on the ninth. Oh well, I will attend the closing night party. The exhibit will show his selected paintings from the last two or three years–in all their bizarre, unsafe (haha) and unique glory. If anyone wants to come support a deserving Munich artist with me, drop a line!

Venus de Milo 2011

"I'm just a holy fool and baby he's so cruel, but I'm still in love with Judas, baby! Ho-o-o-o-o, I'm in love with Ju-da-as... Ju-da-as!!!!!"

Finally sat down and listened to the new Lady Gaga album…


I love her music; it’s sexy and fucky, making it the perfect soundtrack for an androgynous draw-o-thon.  With her help, I’ve reached the last page of my Moleskine– unbelievably. This is the very last drawing– Venus de Milo, or my interpretation anyway of what her face and body would look like.–

The aim of the notebook was to try to branch out with some other medias, incorporate limited color and force myself to clean up some sloppy technical habits I’ve ignored over the years… Heh, who knows if it worked, but it was fun. Maybe that was another hidden aspect of the notebook project–to make drawing fun again, as I had become very secretive and sensitive over the past few years, when drawing a pic (for me anyway) is supposed to be about the fun of fantasizing of a perfect world (one 30 cm by 25 cm drawing at a time). And if it doesn’t end up being perfect –so be it!

In the meantime, if you haven’t listened to the new Gaga album yet, I recommend you go out and do it–if you like unpretentious dance music, that is. I was not a teen in the 80s, so I can’t say, but listening to her album is what I can imagine people felt like when they listened to one of Madonna’s albums in the 80s, before she got all esoteric on our collective Ass. The Lady (talking about Gaga now) is a talented song-writer, nobody can argue with that; I like a song with a good hook that gets stuck in my head–I like a song that screams ‘sing me in the shower and ruin this Sound-Bridge’  (hahahaha, no Fail, I’m not looking at you)–and a pop star who still makes songs about dancing, picking up hot boys (and girls) and the clothes she wants to wear (not getting all navel-gaze-y about the mass retardation of the media and the music industry in general.)

Speaking of the mass retardation of the music industry… So, in my graphic novel, I probably quote from about 25 songs (::laughs::) and my publisher was like… sorry, but you’re going to have to take all those lyrics out. We can’t afford to buy the rights to these songs… and I was like… oh. You have to buy the rights? But I very clearly SAY that I am quoting a song… I’m not trying to steal the lyrics in any way… I have a song-o-graphy at the end of the book and everything…

Doesn’t matter. Apparently, any time you quote lyrics from a song in your work of fiction (even if it is only one line), you are now bound by law to buy the rights to the song. Depending on how much you quote (and how often the quoted line(s) appears in the actual song), you’re looking at potentially thousands of dollars for ONE song. So say you want your character to sing “Annie, are you ok?” in the shower in one scene… be prepared to sell your first born, because that line only appears about a kajillion times in MJs ‘Smooth Criminal’, making it fuckdiculously expensive.

And because I quote from not one but close to 30 songs… buying the rights is simply not happening. Now, I am a bit torn as to what to do. On the one hand, since the book is about teens, I find those songs pretty important to the feel/sound of the entire thing… I could keep them in a way by just saying their names and the band name (song names apparently can’t be copyrighted, so you’re allowed to use them in fiction–probably how Nick Hornby got away with mentioning all those songs in his novel ‘High Fidelity’…)… but I figure… if I keep them, without the lyrics… perhaps it would be better to just take them out all together– (then the work won’t be stuck in our time, our time, our time… though I did try, for the most part, to select songs from bands that are not one hit wonders and will be known/remembered even by someone reading the book say ten years from now…)

Or, as J suggested, I could come up with parody lyrics.. >:P Sigh… but as I am not a song-writer, I doubt I could make up anything as good as the real songs… Oh curses on the fucking music industry and their money grabbing ways! Most ridiculous was while I was searching for these informations on various forums and MBs, I came across a place where they asked posters if they thought quoting lyrics in fiction without buying rights should be allowed or not. Though the majority said yes, it should be allowed… I was shocked that it was not such an overwhelming majority. Maybe 60/40. The argument of the 40 percent was, for the most part: Of course people can’t quote songs in fiction without buying the rights… that’s plagiarism.’ I didn’t want to create a stupid user account for this site just so I could go on that board and write: ‘No, that’s not plagiarism. That’s retarded. PLAGIARISM is when you pretend to have made something up yourself. Like the following:

Jim: With the lights out, it’s less dangerous… here we are now… entertain us!
Bob: Wow! What a groovy number you are singing, my fine fellow! May I ask you by what name it goes?
Jim: Oh, this little tune I just made up? I call it “Smells Like Teen Spirit’”. Do you like it?
Bob: Like it?! I adore it!

THAT would be plagiarism. Somehow, I doubt that is how anybody uses songs in their fiction, as the whole point of evoking a song is to draw on your audience’s collective memory of that tune… (Oh yeah… Nirvana… I remember listening to that song… and it made me feel like… blank…) What would be the point of pretending that the song exists only in the vacuum  of your fiction?

::sigh:: Imbeciles.

Well anyway. I’ve gotta find a new jar to jizz in, because I think the jar labeled ‘the music industry is a stinky barrel of severed money-grubbing penises’ is already chock full….

Goodnight, moofs. =)


It’s summer, moofies! Time to grab your favorite boy for a fine round of dresseling golf.

Yep, we’re in the Urban dictionary. All four of us:

muh-rayA Merey can have the first impression of a bitch, but once you get to know her, she’ll be an amazing friend.
This is probably because she tends to move around a lot so tries not to get too close to people too quickly.
Because of moving around she has probably seen many of the sights of the world and because she probably has old money, she has high expectations of life and probably aims to be in the performing arts (dancing, singing, acting) and is probably very good at it.
what a bitch!” “Oh no, she’s a Merey!!
handsome pretty man
A very sexy male who is asian. He wears glasses and probably is going to grow up to be a pharmacist.College student who likes tall white girls.Very short but is a cutie.

Jackie: “OMG Jun’s coming.”
David: “I know you want him. Get ‘eemmm”
Jackie: “I think I will ;] I can’t resist a Jun.”

And the best definition goes to Dr. Fail:

to dressel someone means you have sex with him/her and he/she is just a fuck. you don’t give a shit whats the persons name or what he/she ist doing. The sex is rough so he/she can not take action the next days, this person needs to recover. mostly you make sex with this person and you show her/him something new. You brake their mental walls down. Mostly just using the partner as a thing.
i dresseled her last night, now she knows how to deepthroat, she did not show up in office today. so i did realy dressel her.