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Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
when i start drinking i know that i have to start writing
after a few beers in, before the woman of my life Whitney
(i call her that, not Jack or Jim,
what, boys call feminise their guitars -
i have Whitney - auburn skinned and easy, as in
fluid - so before Whitney enters my dietary requirements
i have to write something - that thingy mag-jig
when someone is in a critical condition - in a life or
death scenario - that's me also - although i'm there
not between life and death, but within lost onomatopoeia(s)
of knock knock who's there jokes - but the dissatisfaction
with things - i need to encrypt - reinvent Persian
poetics - keep my mouth shut - see into the yet to come
sunrise - so few poets can actually make you feel
what they feel, poetry is plagued with prompting too
many others - why is poetry the most accessible art-form
and the least satisfying? i gather because it's mostly
unread, and easily prompting others to write it -
the other Pandora - let's just call her a faking Libra -
only in poetry does production of it outweigh
the profits reaped from it - people read little poetry
but write a lot of poetry - because it's the cheap-***
art - esp. in the pixel age of Beelzebub eye's
somehow all those shrapnel windows coordinating a
one-on-one vision - poetry is cheap, hence so many
adherents to practice it - yet so few to perfect it,
or if not perfecting it, at least adventurous and
gambling alike to hold fast to it's tornado essence -
the line: make it personal, but not too personal -
it's as if you had a life outside of poetry... you don't,
stark naked in Eden - and nowhere else, soon and if
applauded for such gesture you'll find less and less
people wanting to attach to you for your "private" life
exposures - if shame can be a Pakistani infused novel
by Salman Rushdie, then it can't be a western poem,
because fate of such weaving is de facto lost, forever,
people basically like their perversity than expressing
a curbing of such self-prompt-inquisitions for strangers' eyes
to scrutinise - indeed quite the reflection of an Englishman
and his house the castle. but the reason poetry has no
status in Western society unlike in Ancient Persia is because
it was killed off - it has no social respect because of
political rhetoric, it has no professional respect because
we have prosaic fudge-packaging writers with their
extensive lullabies of mundane talk and the odd dialogue:
the psychologists that don't listen - and the people
who say they appreciate poetry... but only if they write it -
for the majority of concerns, the Divine Comedy (e.g.)
has more footnotes than any critical work academia -
and i don't mean footnotes as such, but ~footnotes,
more poems... what poetry has come in terms of output
is like a newspaper - quasi-poetry (even with technique,
or none, apparently frailty makes something written
poetic, i call it butterflies in budgie cages - as insects
they heap up the behaviour of banging against the iron bars -
pretence flight - to keep beauty is to keep it sadistically -
and to release it with prior wants to contain it ends up
a masochism - against Nietzsche and partisan with Kant -
let's equate beauty with something that doesn't interest us -
let's poker that expression, what is beautiful is what doesn't
interest us - it's the porcelain effect - the fragility already
presupposed an advent of mortality -
grammar will never abide by the rules of arithmetic -
i will write my german with english grammar -
and i will write Latin according to the reverse principle
of compounding nouns (genus alba) - i.e.
white race - (genus ater) - dismal race - and no other.
- i write this just before Whitney comes along -
what a bridge, aged 40 and always there when the night comes,
we have three children, the first born Amitriptyline (now aged
25 of some unknown unit of measurement, dog years, or x7
to ours), and the twins Naproxen and Paracetamol -
with them i have been synthesising sleep for the past 9 years -
as any chemist would avoiding going cuckoo -
Amtriptyline was born anaemic - with Whitney stepped in
and sorted the matter out - a chemist will never go
with the doctor's orders - no chance in life - chemistry
is abstract medicine - any idiot can prescribe pills and don
the title general practitioner with a wage over £100,000 -
but it takes self-reliance to invert the note: WARNING.
DO NOT DRINK ALCOHOL WHILE TAKING THIS
MEDICINE. ha ha... fat chance of that not happening -
i'd be bonkers if i didn't, Whitney will tell you - o.k.,
the excesses of somnia (that variant of sanity, in- and
mm, you know what) are sometimes pointless -
but at least my brain becomes a rechargeable battery sequence.
alternative provocation - Charon's holiday -
i always wondered why the Greeks placed payment
for Charon on the eyes of those about to be cremated -
(liken Hindu, now very morbid - in what element would
man find no animal or insect incubated to survive -
in earth the worms and the moles, in air the birds and
moths - in water the fish and ***** and oysters -
but in fire? a godly endurance - and unto it i too would
like to return to) - two coins places on the eyes -
as if to remind the dead that the veil of materialism will be
lifted when Charon takes his wage from their eyes,
unveils himself first, then Styx and the future of what
greed and excess materialised - such a funeral would be
befitting in our age - as today, five pounds withdrawn from
the bank account, £0.43 in my wallet - a can of beer
at £1.10 - Shanghai math? perhaps, that's about to be implemented -
abstract Chinese v. Johnny ate 10 doughnuts and
how much time to burn the calories off? (latter being English
method of teaching - chemistry, abstract medicine, surgeons
excluded, they're not ascribed the title Dr. anyway,
as you'd expect, pristine butchers' association) - anyway...
i was two pence short of five-fifty, and as i outstretched my
hand with a 20 pence coin, 2x 10 pence coins, a 5 pence coin
and 3x 1 pence coins i dawned on me - the five quid banknote
was already on the counter - my eyes eyed the look in
the cashier's hesitation - the almost neurotic look of despair,
i was short by 2 pence - they weren't there, but
i just imagined that two Greek eyes were staring from my
hand - (i will not put overweight atypical of poetic strain
on the Cartesian equilibrium on the side of i am "Charon,
but it's only a sly-millimetre off from acting, so i guess
it ought to be included) - two 1 pence coins in my hand
missing - the over-suggestive microscopic panic of
the cashier - the opposite zenith of today's parabolic materialism,
for indeed we live in materialism's parabola -
the nadir comes with pennies on the street (thank you
Frank Sinatra) - how could even the most insignificant unit
of the monetary system be nothing more than a pebble?
if i were people, id pay respect to the smallest unit and pick them
up - otherwise money will become altogether useless -
if it isn't already - it's a great way to pass obscure laws
as in throwing a cigarette **** on a street and getting fined
£1000 for it... or how many killed off alliances akin
to family and tribalism - but seeing pennies on the street
is not a good sign - an astounding metaphor - a penny on
a street - i promise i'll not do a Simon & Garfunkel on you -
wormholes of ancient Greek perception lying on
cement, readied to be picked up - the resurrected Greeks
pre-dating Christianity coming back - their eyes
lying on the street - O the woe of our kindred having written
the New Testament - that we must return and see
the world once again for what it is, and for what it will
never be - in such an age, when in ours the old were still
mentally resourceful and not extinguished in soul and thought -
even in body - to this frightening sight -
we paid a penny for each eye when prior we were given
2 pound coins to cross the Styx - now Charon allows
us a penny's worth of glimpse into this world - for he has
no eyes of his own - a penny per eye into the great
seafarer of time's eyes.
JJ Hutton Feb 2011
J.L. had one of those mysterious gland problems.
Some villain gland that made him fatter and fatter;
he was always quick to point it out.

Harvey James invited J.L. over last Tuesday,
during that awful snow that shut down Beecher St.
Anyways, J.L. was supposed to arrive at 6,
however he never had plans and prematurely
arrived at 4:30.

Harvey was occupied with some blonde girl,
who was of a fine leather-tan.
From what Harvey could gather she liked
vampires, pop punk, and sweet tea.
Aside from that her body was okay,
her laugh tolerable, and her eyes were different colors.
The left a sea green, the right a murky grey,
but during a drought Harvey seemed to
settle on whatever vulture was around.

So, J.L. Kreeve knocked on the door.
He heard a bit of a ruckus,
the kind that comes out of computer speakers
when there is nowhere to go.

J.L. tried the door and to his luck it was open.
His entrance was well-timed,
as she let out a final wail,
Harvey gritted his teeth, began panting,
and their bodies collapsed on the sofa.
J.L.'s eyes went wide with
her tan structure.
Her **** seemed to be swinging
like plush dice in a teenager's first car.

"J.L. what the ****, man?"

J.L. continued to stare, stare, stare--
"J.L.," Harvey said firmer, "WHAT the ****?"

"Oh, my forgive me. Forgive me. I'll just step back outside."
And he walked out smiling.

"Sorry about that Whitney."

"Oh no big. It's been worse before. This one time I..."

Harvey tuned out. He hated her. And hated himself
for doing such a *****. He got up, nodding out
of habit and saying things like "oh yes" and "wow" and "I gotcha",-
to which she replied,

"You are like a great listener."

Harvey opened the door since they both were dressed.
J.L. apologized again.
Harvey poured a glass of white wine.
He wasn't much of a fan,
but it was alcohol.
He was trying to lay off the hard stuff
since he had one of those "near-death experiences".

When he came back in,
J.L. was grinning like he was the
smartest ******* on the face of the planet,
and Whitney was letting out little giggles.
Harvey thought perhaps they were having a worthwhile conversation.
He was mistaken.
They were talking about variations of sweet tea
at one of those chain drive-ins.
"Just talking about it is giving me this crazyass craving,"
said Whitney with dumb dimples and blank eyes.

"hahahaha, oh me too," said the 300-pound Clark Gable,
"want to go get some?"

"Oh why the heck not? Harvey, do you want to-?"

"Nah, I got some writing and other **** to do.
You two have fun."

They climbed into J.L.'s car.
Whitney made a comment about all the
sticks of deodorant lying about,
J.L. explained it away perfectly lackluster.

The snow was coming down good at this point.
And they got stuck before they even made it
to their treasure.

They sat in the car.
J.L. only had one CD.
It was some George Michael
disc, he had bummed off his
mother a few weeks ago.
Whitney said something like I'm cold.
J.L. said something like I could warm you up.
She smiled stupidly, unsure what that meant.
J.L. took a gamble and reached for
her right breast.

"Oh, no thanks. Just wanted the tea."

"Oh, right. Yeah. Of course," J.L. let out a deep exhale,
his fingers fidgeted,
he cleared his throat,
and with a weak cordial
smile asked,
"Do you mind getting out to push?"
© 2011 by J.J. Hutton
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
it's the 50th anniversary edition of william burrough's naked lunch, with the original cover, looking at all the annexes is like watching modern history with Russian annexing Crimea, anyway...

indeed the nature of addiction, i chose mine to
cure my insomnia - i *chose
mine -
the less nasty less mythical name for it is indeed
metabolism - any hard-craft alcoholic walks into
a bar - drunk ******* and egoistically gluttonous
idiots come out like giraffes - vomiting into
the gutters, more Marilyn Monroe moments
showing off knickers even without the metro gust -
you drink enough and watch people drinking
for the psychoactive ingredient for dis-inhibiting
effects (buttered up talk, smooth there, quasi
Don Juan wannabes) - as Burroughs said: PLAN
YOUR ADDICTION - become addicted if some other
weakness is beating you - amtitriptyline doesn't
work without alcohol to what's desired as the lullaby
effect prior to K.O. - don't measure up to a veteran,
he'll beat you with experience, given it works -
i can imagine why hallucinogenics aren't metabolically
affecting - too much implants concerning the
world beyond, and god, and the secret of the universe -
you can't get addicted to these things - because there's
the bad trip, and you're off the hook - no more spiritual
trips looking for answers - repetition of the everyday
kills it off like flicking off a light switch - but, years
after the Beat movement, the Beats really did underestimate
the addiction of marijuana - they thought it was
the ****** drunk... oddly enough marijuana is linked to
alcohol and ****** addiction, it too is metabolic -
i'm not a medical expert... but i have heard of stoners
and their munchies - anything relating to food,
to metabolism is included, marijuana is the middle-guy
between the standards and Disney -
you heard of being monged, right? marijuana is as addictive
as alcohol - originally a giggly drug, a conversation
starter - marijuana - ends up being
an Jason Segel and Ed Helms film Jeff, who lives at Home,
it's this uncontrollable effect that proper intentions of
marijuana have: supreme thoughtlessness - or
the present vogue concerning "mindfulness" -
Jeff basically overthought himself on the high - he didn't
detach himself from thinking, now he's paying the price -
he's making completely random associations -
and why do stoners always waste their time in front
of t.v. or television - marijuana is a purely auditory drug -
******* to the park, pretend to be a fake Buddha imitation
and create the void in yourself to make your mind
the M25 at 3 a.m. - but this innocence with the Beat
movement associating itself with marijuana is partly
why it was legalised - the government wants rejects and,
to be frank? retards - that's why they legalised it -
they knew with the munchies jokes that marijuana had
the same metabolic addiction components as alcohol and
***** - you're metabolic dude! once addiction sets in
you're no longer in control of brain-freeze - you didn't
think it up on the psychoactive Everest - when the nice
sensation was still there, marijuana realised you zombie much
later - all the in-jokes of stoner culture suddenly passed you,
simulation dementia ensued - i'm way past the psychoactive
asset of alcohol, no slurred speech, no nothing -
but i retain the psychoactive point of metabolising excess
alcohol: if i didn't, i would sleep! i wouldn't sleep!
don't get me wrong, i get the point that i can't really
experience the negatives of reaching the psychoactive purpose
of alcohol and ***** in a street or join the football hooligans -
and surgeons drink to calm the nerves and calm the hand -
but alcohol is more cool headed and less phantasmagorical
than ***** addiction, for one thing your palette improves -
you find the most boring tasks liberating -
but the nights are the real nights, esp. if slumped on the sofa
watching t.v., unless you don't have a backlog of un-watched
Versailles or Billions episodes, you really need to go for
a 4 mile walk and breath the air - then half-sleep for
about an 2 hours (because you have limited money and
sometimes you pass a day without Auburn Whitney) -
you become rigorous - the prime solipsism - no time for
girlfriends, doesn't matter, my genitals weren't mutilated
as a child, no one forced a ****-*******-marriage-ring
on my finger - i can actually enjoy addiction - i end up
eating one meal a day - of course my face looks candyfloss
puffed up - but my soul is partly helium pubescent -
alcohol addiction is not ***** addiction even both
are primes of metabolism takeovers - no hung-overs too,
no blackouts - no fake "i can't remember" stories
when something ****** up happened - and certainly no
innocent look at the fact that marijuana is also a metabolic
addiction - unless of course you limit psychic ingestion
(excluding music, music is great to arrive at thoughtlessness),
but as most stoners (the next alcoholics) prove,
garbage the mind with American Dad and then get hungry -
binge eat - the stomach can drag the brain right down
into the acid pit and fry it - zombies galore - you won't be
able to catch yourself stopping thinking, the stomach
will do that for you, and you'll enter the zombie apocalypse:
just like my neighbour - there's a rat-like ritual involved,
for example, most people get sleepy from marijuana -
so it's not an addiction standing at a bus stop
pretending to be waiting for a bus and smoking?
that's addiction - the metabolic Gargantua has already caught-up,
addiction is primarily a solitary affair - it just depends
what you do with it... i'd be ashamed with my alcoholism
if i didn't write poems - the counter-effect is that i feel
some sort of social-inclusion when the day finishes -
i feed the cats, write invoices for my father (40% of
18 - 35 year olds live with their parents, because all
the foreigners bought all the houses intended as: buy to let -
is my money going down my drain, or is this
a post-Freud Oedipus stigmata killing familial relations
altogether?), cook, clean the house once a week,
cut the cats' nail and brush them - and to counter
what i don't do? can you imagine listening to a symphony
with only violins playing? not so genius hearing that
sort of Hollywood story with only cameo characters speaking.
WHITNEY HOUSTON LYRICS
"I Will Always Love You"

If I should stay
I would only be in your way
So I'll go but I know
I'll think of you every step of the way

And I... will always love you, ooh
Will always love you
You
My darling, you...
Mmm-mm

Bittersweet memories –
That is all I'm taking with me.
So good-bye.
Please don't cry:
We both know I'm not what you, you need

And I... will always love you
I... will always love you
You, ooh

[Instrumental / Sax solo]

I hope life treats you kind
And I hope you have all you've dreamed of
And I wish you joy and happiness
But above all this I wish you love

And I... will always love you
I will always love you
I will always love you
I will always love you

I will always love you
I, I will always love you.

You.
Darling, I love you.
I'll always...
I'll always love you.
Ooh
Ooh
Julie Grenness Oct 2016
Whitney went fishing in the pond,
She wasn't alone too long,
But...she got mixed up with ****,
She should have bought a gun,
Definitely O'Deed the wrong one,
Not her idea of fun,
Whitney wasn't on her own too long,
Now we can't hear her songs,
She should have bought a gun,
Definitely O'deed the wrong one.......
Feedback welcome.
Mysterious Angel

©10 June 2015 Roger Turner & Whitney Rix Victory II



I'm in love with her, but I can't even say her name,

I'm in love with her, but I don't even know her game.

So in love and I always feel, I feel just the same,

I'm in love with her, but I can't even say her name.

Mysterious Angel, my mysterious angel,

So are you the angel, who's come down here to save me?

Mysterious Angel, my mysterious angel,

So are you the angel, the one who's gonna save me?



No, I can't tell her because she might let it all end,

Oh no now, I can't tell her, she might want to be friends,

Part of me's broken, she's the only one who can mend,

No, no, I just can't tell her, can't tell her in case it might end.



Mysterious Angel, my mysterious angel,

So are you the angel, who's come down here to save me?

Mysterious Angel, my mysterious angel,

So are you the angel, the one who's gonna save me?



I can't even tell you just how I fell so in love,

And I think she's an angel from the stars up above,

I don't know how, I don't know how, I fell so in love,

To me she is an angel, she's an angel of love.



I can't tell her, can't tell her, no, in case it might end,

I can't tell her, can't tell her, she might want to be friends,

Part of me's broken, she's the only one who can mend,

No, no, I just can't tell her, can't tell her in case it might end.
Kunbi  Dec 2020
WHISKEY & WHITNEY
Kunbi Dec 2020
I sat on top of the world; everyone knew my name
Now I try to find my way back, all I know is shame

My cars; crashed into parties, everyone wanted to be in my fancy wear
Why didn’t I look up investing and insuring; now I don’t mind if its rag, please just give me something to wear

My name was held in high esteem, white line called to me from Whitney’s rear
She never came back for me, but watched as I derail

Day and Night, I looked up to Whiskey, it became my religion
Now at the altar in search of salvation from the true religion

                           ♚
                   Kunbi Dia
“I spent a lot of money on *****, birds and fast cars. The rest I just squandered. ” George best
judy smith Jul 2016
The 9.6 million followers who tune in to watch Miranda Kerr having her hair done on Instagram — for this is how models spend most of their time — were treated to a rather more interesting sight last Thursday: a black and white photograph of a whacking great diamond ring.

Across it was the caption “Marry me!” and a twee animation of the tech mogul Evan Spiegel on bended knee. Underneath Kerr had typed “I said yes!!!” and an explosion of heart emojis.

A spokesman for Spiegel, founder of the Snapchat mobile app, who is 26 to Kerr’s 33 and worth $US 2.1 billion to her $US 42.5 million , revealed “they are very happy”.

At first, the marriage seems an unlikely combination: a man so bright he founded Snapchat while still at Stanford University, becoming one of the world’s youngest self-made billionaires by 22, and a Victoria’s Secret model who was previously married to the Pirates of the Caribbean star Orlando Bloom (she allegedly had a fling with pop brat Justin Bieber, leading Bloom to punch Beebs in a posh Ibiza restaurant).

Perhaps the union indicates that there is more to Kerr than we thought. More likely, it reveals something about Spiegel — and the way the social status of “geeks” has changed.

Since Steve Jobs made computers cool and Millennials started living online, nerds are king. Even coding is **** enough for the model Karlie Kloss, singer will.i.am and actor Ashton Kutcher to learn it. Silicon Valley has become the new Hollywood, as moguls and social media barons take over from film stars and sportsmen not just on rich lists, but as alpha men.

Being a co-founder of a company is this decade’s equivalent to being a rock star or a chef. And, if their attractiveness to models and actresses proves anything, then being a Twag — tech wife or girlfriend — is a “thing”. Sources tell me Twags are also known as “founder-hounders” because they like to date the creators of start-up companies.

Actress Talulah Riley was an early adopter. She started dating the PayPal founder Elon Musk in 2008. Riley, then fresh from starring in the St Trinian’s film, met Musk in London’s Whisky Mist nightclub after he had delivered a lecture at the Royal Aeronautical Society. I interviewed her shortly afterwards and she told me they had spent the evening talking about “quantum physics”. A month later they were engaged. Their on-again-off-again marriage lasted six years before she filed for divorce again in March. Currently Musk, worth an estimated $US 12.7 billion and focused on Tesla cars, is said to be “spending a lot of time” with Johnny Depp’s estranged wife, Amber Heard.

Model Lily Cole dated the Twitter founder Jack Dorsey in 2013. Later she had a son with Kwame Ferreira, founder of the digital innovation agency Kwamecorp. Actress Emma Watson is going out with William Knight, an “adventurer” who has an incredibly boringly sounding job as a senior manager at Medallia, a software company. Allison Williams, Marnie in the HBO television show Girls, is married to Ricky Van Veen, co-founder of College Humor website.

Could it be that these women are onto something? Dating a bro certainly has its appeal. They are innovative: how else would they invent apps that deliver cheese toasties or match singles based on their haircuts? They are risk-takers who must be charismatic enough to inspire investors and attract crowd-funding. They may not be gym-fit, but they are mathletes who can do your tax bill. They are animal lovers: every start-up is dog friendly. And they are fun: who would not want to date somebody with a ball pool in their office?

There is a saying about dating in Silicon Valley: the odds are good but the goods are odd. Nerds are notorious for peculiar chat-up lines and normcore clothes. Still, if geeks can be awkward, that is part of their charm. Keira Knightley, complaining that Silicon Valley was all men in hoodies and Crocs, described how one gave her his card, saying she should get in touch if she wanted to see a spaceship.

One Vogue writer recalled a Silicon Valley man messaging her via a dating app, in which he noted: “In 50 per cent of your photos you’re holding an iPhone. It may interest you to find out that I invented the iPhone. More accurately I was an engineer on the original iPhone . . .”

Most promisingly, some guys are astoundingly rich. It is suggested Kerr’s engagement ring is a 2.5-carat diamond worth around dollars 55,000. She has already moved into Spiegel’s dollars 12m LA pad. Between his money and her Victoria’s Secrets bridesmaids, no wonder sources claim they are planning an “extravagant wedding”.

It might rival even the Napster founder Sean Parker’s $US10m performance-art bash. He married songwriter Alexandra Lenas in a canopy among Big Sur’s redwoods decorated to look like an enchanted forest. Some 350 guests wore Tolkienesque costumes created by The Lord of the Rings costume designer Ngila Dickson. They sat on white fur rugs and were given bunnies to pet. Presumably rabbit babysitters were on hand when the disco started.

If such fantasies inspire you to become a Twag, the great news is you do not have to be a supermodel to be in with a chance. Such is the dearth of single women in Silicon Valley that one dating site, Dating Ring, crowdfunded a plane to fly single women to Palo Alto from New York.

Be warned, though: guys are single because they are married to the job.

No wonder most meet their partners at college or work — the Facebook chief executive Mark Zuckerberg met his wife, Priscilla Chan, at Harvard.

The Instagram co-founder Kevin Systrom met girlfriend Nicole Schuetz at Stanford. Melinda met Bill Gates when, in 1987, they sat next to each other at an Expo trade-fair dinner. “He was funnier than I expected him to be,” she said.

Kerr began dating Spiegel in 2014 after meeting him at a Louis Vuitton dinner in New York. You can bet he was networking. Shortly after Louis Vuitton showcased their cruise collection in a Snapchat story. Last season Snapchat went on to become the biggest new name at NY fashion week.

If you want to meet tech guys, you might catch them at Silicon Valley parties, which is how the Uber chief executive Travis Kalanick met his partner, Gabi Holzwarth, a violinist hired to play. Or they might be schmoozing clients downtown in a swanky Noe Valley club in San Francisco or a boring Union Square hotel in New York. In London you find them around Old Street, aka Silicon Roundabout, in bars, at hackathons, or start-up meet-ups. In the day they are coding at Google Campus or practising their pitching in a co-working space.

Some tech boys date the old-fashioned way: on Tinder. Airbnb founder Brian Chesky met his girlfriend of three years, Elissa Patel, through the app. When I interviewed Instagram co-founder Systrom he admitted that when he had been single he had signed up.

Dating agency Linx — presumably a play on operating system Linux — is dedicated to making Silicon Valley matches. Amy Andersen set it up in 2003 after moving to Palo Alto and being “flabbergasted” by the number of eligible men. She claims her clients are “extremely dynamic and successful individuals’’: tech founders, tech chief executives, financier founding partners of large institutions and “tons of entrepreneurs”.

Andersen says tech guys make “fabulous partners”. Romantic and chivalrous, they write love letters, plan dates, “even proposing on Snapchat!” If you want to marry a tech billionaire, she says, “you need to bring your A game.” Her clients look “for women who are equally, if not more, dynamic and interesting than he is!”

There are drawbacks to dating tech guys. Before Google buys your amore’s business, he will be living on *** Noodles waiting for the next round of funding — and workaholics are dull.

Kerr says Spiegel is “25, but he acts like he’s 50. He’s not out partying. He goes to work in Venice [Beach], he comes home. We don’t go out. We’d rather be at home and have dinner, go to bed early.” Which might suit Kerr, but is not my idea of a fun.

You had also better be prepared to share your life. When Priscilla Chan miscarried three times, Mark Zuckerberg wrote about it on Facebook, while Chesky used a romantic trip with his girlfriend to promote Airbnb - uploading a picture of her in bed, with a note saying “f* hotels”. Besides all of which is the notorious issue of Silicon Valley sexism.

It has a chief exec-bro culture that puts pick-up artist/comedian Dapper Laughs to shame. Ninety per cent of women working in the Valley say they have witnessed sexist behaviour, 60 per cent have experienced unwanted ****** advances at work, two thirds of them from their boss. Whitney Wolfe, a co-founder of Tinder, took Justin Mateen to court for ****** harassment. Her lawsuit against the company alleged that Mateen, her former partner, sent text messages calling her a “*****”.

Spiegel has tech bro form. He apologised after emails from his days at Stanford emerged: missives about stripper poles, getting black-out drunk, shooting lasers at “fat chicks”, and promising to “roll a blunt for whoever sees the most **** tonight (Sunday)”. After one fraternity Hawaiian luau party, he signed off emails “f*
bitchesgetleid”.

No wonder some women are not inspired to become Twags. Especially when you could be a tech billionaire yourself. Would you not rather be Sheryl Sandberg, chief operating officer of Facebook, than married to the boss?Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses
Fidel  Nov 2018
Lake Whitney
Fidel Nov 2018
The world is so small babe,
I’m running through my life
All this cardio killing my vibe
I was high but now I’m low,
You’ve gone too far away from me,
All this distance, these miles I can’t take it no more,
Let’s go on a trip, I’ll buy you a flight to Tokyo, we’ll hit the dojo, I’ll show you my mojo,
We’ll walk around Yoyogi, I’ll show you all the arigato I learned just to impress you fondly,
I’ll rent the most expensive hotel room to make some love,
We’ll use it,
Trash
And break it,
I don’t care about money, besides, having you is priceless.
I’ll love you to Mars and Jupiter,
I’ll name some planets maybe make some up to pretend I’m a genius,
I’m definitely not the greatest,
But fake it til you make it, apply that to us, pretend you love me and I’ll kiss you softly.
My life has been broken, ripped and thrown, away in the trash but you pieced it with some voodoo,
Now let me pay back the favor back and say I love you,
Forever and ever I’ll text you at night,
I might miss a day but maybe I’m lost within my words all because you left me speechless,
Your body sculpted by Michelangelo,
Your smile painted by Picasso,
But don’t be mistaken you can do much better I’m just fighting to convince you I’m the one.
But even after all this time,
I regret not holding you, not kissing you not loving you,
I had you within my reach
Now I’m left apart from love and hope
But every text is like a take back, I scroll through our pictures and wonder, why we didn’t take more,
Maybe skinny dipping or giggling,
Don’t care never did, just need you back,
I’ll fly you back to, where paradise is set,
We’ll stop by LA, I’ll meet your friends I’ll buy some clothes to reach your level, maybe will even break a sweat ‘cause after all you are my: deepest love my queen so beautiful.
I’ll fly you to Texas, I’ll meet your family, introduce me as the super tall, ******, don’t care what you say ‘cause just driving you around is my pleasure and dreams I had of.
Don’t be mistaken, I loved swimming, within our convos, but maybe now we can settle down and agree that down down very deep down, I love you and maybe you love me,
Or maybe not I’m prolly just tripping, not in space but within your beauty, I want you, be mine,
Forever high,
On the clouds I’ll lie, I’ll lie lie lie, and I’ll say whatever childish line, comes out of my mouth, don’t be surprised if, I just freeze and stare, because every glance you ever gave, just now assure me you could be mine, but baby I’m sorry poor choice on my part,
Just let me make it up to you, I’ll take you to Lake Whitney, we’ll chill and read,
“I got this poetry book here,”
And I’ll pretend to know every line,
Understand every word,
Whatever it takes for you to be mine.
We Were Over When we Started

©21 June 2015 Roger Turner & whitney Rix Victory II



You know, I should have seen it from the start,

Because we were over when we started,

Oh baby, That was plain for all to see,

And the only one who didn't see it,

From what I now know, was the lovestruck me.

I don't know why I could never see it.

Guess it was the fear of my breaking heart.

You know we were over when we started.

And baby, the signs were there to show me,

To say that we would never ever last.

Oh baby, why was I too blind to see,

While, you only talked about your past,

I always talked about our future,

Joke's on me, we'll never have that future.

You know we were over when we started,

And now I am more than broken hearted.



Oh baby, that forest I couldn't see.

The trees were just too thick I couldn't see.

Hidden in the woods, thorns my heart to *****,

What I'd one day find would make me sick,

The breakup I was never ready for,

I wasn't ready to fall anymore.

You know we were over when we started,

And now I am more than broken hearted.



Everyone around me told me to leave,

I should be aware for I would soon grieve,

The love that I held locked in my heart,

In yours, it just wasn't there from the start.

Any compromise was missing you see,

There was no chance love was our destiny.

You know we were over when we started,

And now I am more than broken hearted.



It was always your way or not at all,

As your harsh, heated words I now recall,

So now, I've learned to look around me,

And learned not to fall so hard and fast

I've learned to take my time and maybe,

The next time I'll find something that will last.

You know we were over when we started,

And now I am more than broken hearted.



I guess that we were no good together,

And through my tears, I seem to know that now,

You taught me what to look for I gather,

So, you could stand up, take a final bow.

And nevermind I'm drowning in my tears,

Only memories remain from our years.

You know we were over when we started,

And now I am more than broken hearted.



You know we were over when we started,

And now I am more than broken hearted.

I'm a better person now forever,

Even though you broke, tore apart my heart,

I'll admit we were no good together

Blind me, I should have seen it from the start.

You know we were over when we started,

And now I am more than broken hearted.
Patricia  Feb 2018
1.
Patricia Feb 2018
1.
Dear Whitney,


I was a thought in my mother's imagination when you were in your prime and now that I'm in mine I need you back more than I need mine. You would've known what to say when that man entered my sacred space. Can you believe they haven't figure it out yet?

Whitney you danced for you and no one else. No one could love you like you did, not even your devoted fans. You let no one call you broke and call you a crack fiend. Instead you powdered your face and continued on with your day. But baby yours isn't translucent.

Sister Houston you died when we needed you most. It was you who could lift every voice with just yours and sing for all the colors in the wind. You left me all alone before I got a chance to fall in love with your overbearing spirit. There was no room left in my body for God after I filled myself with hate.

Whitney I never learned how to love. I tried listening to the legacy you left on my iPhone and reading articles on how to be better. I been screaming for somebody's love for so **** long that I'll dance for anybody. In this story, I've become you Whitney. This is The Bodyguard now and ol' boy from Field of Dreams is coming for me. To you my love, if you build it I will always love you.

And lastly Whit, what's the afterlife really like? Is worth it? You know, leaving me behind?
Abel Araya May 2013
I was born little, and I grew up a little.
In a small house in Boston,
where I grew up with a mouth full of Skittles
in a town where it was so simple to get lost in.

9 New Whitney Street, constructed of brick and knee scrapes.
We grew and we learned how to say hello to each other without ever actually speaking.
We played hide-and-seek with our knee high socks,
because we found pleasure by slipping and falling to our favorite hiding spots.

It was an average life.
We danced through the streets to our favorite parks,
Each containing a strong color that we would each label through our child-like dialogue
Red park—Monkey bars & pull up contests
Yellow park—Tire swings & puke-infested children slides
Green Park—Two hour kickball series & poison ivy ankle blisters.

When they'd come home from work,
my mom would always come to my room to check that I was there,
and not out collecting memories in these colorful parks.
My dad would slam his face onto our couch pillow,
his frail body parallel to the sofa,
With an unopened Heineken in his palm and his eyes glared on Larry King.

They said hello to each other without ever opening to their mouths.
And on nights, when it would drop below freezing,
my mother would wrap the plants she made earlier that day into blankets,
and drag the tall ones inside.

On those freezing nights, my father would wrap the pipes with tape,
and allow them to drip throughout the night,
it was an average life.
Nothing more or less special than the families we were surrounded by.

— The End —