Helix and tragus

It’s been a long time since my last piercing, and I’m all healed and great. Thus it’s time for a new round of cleaning and moaning about not being able to sleep on my favourite side. At least both holes are on the same side this time around. I learn from my mistakes, you see. 

Picture will be added when i get one worth showing. 

How does confession work? 

I’m not Catholic. 

Can only Catholics go to confession? 

Do you have to confess, or can you just have a cathartic talk with a person you will never see again? 

I seriously want to know, so please reply if you’ve got something for me. 



Dress rehearsal 

Waiting for my entrance. 

Tomorrow is opening night, and The Producers are going to wreak havoc three nights at the local theatre. 

Love, Shirley Markowitz

A day in my life

Today I’m having a long day. First, I’m going to work for eight hours, and then it’s off to the theatre for rehearsals.


Sitting at my desk, doing this and that, writing, talking on the phone. 

View from my desk. And my fibonacci spiral.


Lunch! Absolutely necessary at this point. 


Meeting. It’s cold and I’m hugging my cup of coffee. When in not writing, talking or taking a photo of it. 

My coffee


I’ve just order my sushi dinner and am on the bus travelling downtown. 

Waiting for the bus

The wheels on the bus go round and round

The hospital


Dinner time!


Queuing for mic


New, wet shoes


Ready for action


Food, water, new costume


Patiently waiting for my great entrance


15 minutes break!

Makeup between scenes

An empty stage

Newly sharpened pencil, ready for audition scene!


Relaxing between scenes


Off with the makeup!


Breathing fresh air again!


Hitting the shower


Feeding Little Black Missy twice.


Don’t let the bed bugs bite!


Sometimes I wonder if I would pursue a career as an actor if I could live again and make other choices. And I suspect the answer is “maybe”

Sensible laws of Camelot

Listen carefully, legislatures of northern Europe. Camelot knew how to manage weather and seasons. It’s glorious. 

I’m a horrible writer

Or I write horrible stories. Is there a difference?  I think there is.

It’s interesting. I’m usually writing stuff I come up with myself. I don’t ever run my prompts by anyone, and thus I write what’s in my brain. I’ve never said my brain was brilliant. It has some dark nooks and  crannies, and I love to explore feelings. If that is what makes my stories horrible, so be it. I’m far more worried if I’m a crappy writer as well. 


How come I feel like I’m a floating island? 

When I’m anchored, I’m just like the solid land. You can’t see difference in the grass growing on me or on the neighbour. 

But then my anchors are cut, and I start to drift. 

Maybe we all are islands? 

«What It’s Like Inside Our Minds»



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