Kryśztof olio

loves ice-cream sandwiches

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Living in a peekaboo universe that vanishes into Qantum abstraction when we aren’t looking at.

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Can’t even smash an avo. Devo.

Method

1. Place two pieces of bread in toaster, pull down knob to toast.

2. Cut open avocado with knife. Can’t be f’d, just squeeze and place uneven chunks on toast.

3. Serve with cracked pepper. If can’t find cracked pepper just serve without.

4. Eat quickly to avoid pitiful shame and embarrassment.

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Just a Total Mirror Universe Terran Emperess Fanboy

Okay, so what if an evil intergalactic despot from an alternate universe ends up being a pansexual, kick-ass, martial arts, crouching tigeress type leather catsuit onesie donning, tight pony-tail flouncing, camp whip-cracking, space bitch faring, the best thing about any Star Trek franchise ever. Give that woman her own show already, Michelle YEAH.

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‘twas a transmembrane tethering

So, what’s all this then you asked? Fractured and jaded and falling out of a much rumoured spiral downward, just an Aries on a Piscesn cusp’s casual musings on not perfecting all those beautiful little imperfections. Also, does my hard drive have a soul?

There’s also that (er, can’t find the italics button Mr Tumblr) book, Krzyśztof’s folio if you will, that I need to get around to finishing, that and the dishes, as this is just the hors-d'œuvre to the lamb roast, heavy petting to the Battle of Yavin, cinematic-orgasmic Destruction of the Death Star, if you get my imperial star destroyer not-so-subtle drift. It’s also a place to (mic) drop all that camp hilarity, shenanigans and subtext, here in the meanwhiles, *synaptic proteins failing*, I mean, Taoist-like, centered wisdom, like, don’t mix horizontal stripes with stripey patterned leggings. Breathe.

Oh, and body and work and food and money. Home, religion, family, art.

Just thought I’d get that in there, ‘cos, excuse me, it’s all about love, truth and my authentic self. And authenticity dear blog reader, not to be confused with inappropriately oversharey, narcissistic, sociopathological tendencies, is desperately needed in this fracking, upside downy, positive ion flow depleted kind of world.

Where lateral and literal violence disrupts healthy neurotransmitters, mindfulness meditation, dolphins nose-bouncing inflatable pink beach balls in an ozone-plentiful, Miami beach sun. First day on the job in your best beige ‘n blue Roger David two-piece suit, but still kinda rockin it vibe. But more on that later.

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Nothing to see here. No, really.

Now that I’ve got your attention and hopefully not that of the censorship police, I want to know what happened to all the hot blogs. No, I don’t mean the ones where you can see everyone’s bits, but where casual appreciation of the male, female and non-binary form was a transformative exploration of enthusiastic and personal postings, from one discursive hyper-context to the next. I mean, where do all the lonely hearts go, Blogspot *eyeroll*?

Case in point, I once had a hot blog called Superooter, which was, if I do say so myself, a very clever backronym for [A] superlative, ubiquitous periodical enlightening readership of originative thought estactically revered, now lost in a quantization error to the interweb graveyard along with Max Headroom and nomograms. Not actually here, here mind you, but in a multiverse hosted by a brave, shiny millennial start-up straight outta New York, queero to many young and blog-curious queer folk. No comprende Criśtiano? Cue censored shameless naked model shot. Hello censorship police.

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I borrowed bones, I borrowed skin / To save me from the hell I’m in, your fantasy / And every time I think of you / I see the dark, I hear the hooves.

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Personally, if I had to be strangulated by a telepathically prophetic, eight-limbed mollusc as part of a Mullholand Drive-type, kinky, electro-burlesque cabaret act, I’d rather be saved by hot Kareem. Now, as for that mega-meta, mind fuck of a season finale Brit Marling, shut the front door, um, er, I mean interdimensional portal.

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Brobdingnagian antipodean muscularity: levelling with Paris, circa 2006.

Once on holidays in gay Paree, I met an Argentinien rugby player cum model in a gym, sauna, disco, multi-purpose venue type situation. He clearly was focussed on his delts and the occasional deadlift, but everyone was focussed on his glutes, and when I say everyone, I mean me, and when I say glutes, I mean gluteus maximus, obviously.

Je crois que tu es treś beau homme, I managed to conjure up somewhere from the dark recesses of a bicameral mind, clearly confused multi-purpose, situationally speaking. I motioned to spot him, momentarily dazed by his Andrew Christian Massive Metallic Gladiator jockstrap riding over his rugby shorty-short shorts, to which he replied, stop staring at my ass. I then accidentally fell into it as he suddenly clean jerked backwards, in a dumbbell rear delt fly type gesture, giving me my first brief romantic interlude in my first time in the City of Lights. End scene.

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What’s all this then?

If you could peer far enough into the night sky, you’d see a star in any direction you looked. When would you sleep? Or are we already asleep? I already have stars in my eyes and a hydrogen gas giant in my chest.