Meowmensteen (mjɑʊ·men·stɪən) n. A cream filled, non-vegan pastry with excessive amount of gluten, and an unregulated amount of sugar. Not FDA approved. Consult your doctor (and spiritual leader) before consuming. May cause existential indigestion.
Добро пожаловать в кириллицу. Я не знаю вашего языка, но я могу использовать перевод Google. Переводы не идеальны, но я все же думаю, что интересно подружиться с людьми, которые не говорят на моем языке. Кроме того, похоже, что кириллический LiveJournal более активен в эти дни, чем английская версия.
I live a pretty simple, modest life. I post about baking, motherhood, bicycling, music, bird poop, city living, random stuff that happens, or what ever else I feel like writing. Feel free to add me to your friend's list, I'll probably add you back when I notice.
This is an accurate drawing of me, done by me on MS paint. I'm really awesome:
I've recently gotten into photography, and often take pretty pictures of my city:
Years later, looking into the night sky, counting her children. Poor ruined mother. She sat in the rain, the hail, the heat. She turned her back on the houses behind us and stared up at the soothing night. Behind her, the damp, scabbed walls, the rotten wood, the wet air, the leaking, bursting ceilings. Decomposing wallpaper, pools of stagnant water, rats on the scent of baby milk. Colonies of flies in the wet, crumbling walls. Typhoid and other death in every breath, on every surface. Banisters that shook when held, floors that creaked and groaned, timber that cried for sparks. There was no rest, nowhere she could lie down and forget. Shouts and fights, rage and coughing, coughing -- death creeping nearer. And the rooms behind the steps got smaller and darker and more evil. We fell further and further. The walls crumbled and closed in on us. Her children died and joined the stars. Rooms with no windows, floors that bred cockroaches. We cried at the smell of other people's lousy food. We cried at the pain that burned through our sores. We cried for arms to gather and hold us. We cried for heat and for socks, for milk, and light, for an end to the itches that stopped us from sleeping. We cried at the lice that shone and curled and mocked us. We cried for our mother to come and save us. Poor Mother. Finally, finally, we crept down to our last room, a basement, as low as we could go, a hole that yawned and swallowed us. We lay down and slept in the sewer slugs and worms. Mother sat on the crumbling steps, she turned her back on the sweating, appalling facts of her life and looked up through the acid smoke at the stars that twinkled over Dublin.
--Roddy Doyle A Star Called Henry
I like trains, and the things people paint on them.