Monday, June 26, 2006

Hitler: Authoritarian & Artist?

Imagine if he was admitted to art school...what could have been...

At the age of twelve, Adolf Hitler decided on a career. “How it happened, I myself do not know, the one day it became clear to me that I would become a painter, an artist.” His father, Alois, was astonished; he had taken it for granted that his son would follow him into the civil service. “Painter? Artist?” When that had no effect, he tried brutal rejection. “Artist, no, never as long as I live.” But neither the father’s pleas nor his threats could shake the boy. ‘I wanted to become a painter and no power in the world could make me a civil servant.’ Although Alois gave him a sound thrashing every day, in the end, the disagreement hardly mattered. Alois died a few years later and Hitler’s sympathetic mother, Klara, allowed her son to decide his ill-fated future for himself.

Hitler’s interest in painting was deep and sincere. At school he loved to sketch, a subject in which he earned good grades, and in later years relatives and friends recalled how insistent he was that he would some day be not just a painter but a famous one. In the autumn of 1905, Hitler dropped out of school and went to Munich for several months to study drawing at a private art academy. His mother arranged for him to spend the following May in Vienna to see the paintings in the great Habsburg collections. That experience left him more determined than ever in his choice of a career.

Early in September of 1907, the eighteen-year old Hitler arrived in Vienna to take the examination for entrance into the General School of Painting at the Academy of Fine Arts. He completed in the provincial Austrian towns of Fischlam, Lambach, Leondig, Linz, and Steyr the only structured education he was to receive. One of his teachers was later to describe him as “distinctly talented, if in a rather narrow sense, but he lacked self-discipline, being generally obstinate, high-handed, intransigent, and fiery-tempered,” and he had, according to his own testimony, set his heart upon becoming an artist. His father was dead, his mother in Linz was mortally ill. Hitler was on his own.

The Academy examination was in two parts, and one hundred and sixteen candidates presented themselves. The first part required applicants to perform exercises based upon such subjects as Cain and Abel, the Prodigal Son, Winter, Shipwreck, Joy, and Moonlight. Thirty-three aspiring artists failed this part of the examination; Hitler, however, was admitted to the second phase, the presentation of “sample paintings,” original work that could be evaluated by examiners. Here Hitler did not meet the standards set, and an entry beside his name read, “Test drawing unsatisfactory.” Upon being told that his talents might lie in the field of architecture, Hitler attempted to gain entrance to the Academy of Fine Arts’ Architectural School. He returned to Linz since he did not possess the necessary credentials for admission. Hitler’s mother died in December, and by the following February, he was again in Vienna, where he took painting lessons and prepared again to secure entrance to the Academy. The 1908 examination, however, was a disaster. He failed the first part – the section he had successfully completed in 1907 – and the words “Not admitted to the test” beside his name were both brutal and definitive.

The two rejections tormented him throughout his life. The experience taught him a lesson he would never forgo and instilled in him a resentment he never overcame. He despised authorities and experts, had only contempt for rules and established institutions, and scornfully brushed aside advice and views differing from his own. He withdrew into himself, took solace from the example of the unappreciated artist he saw in the young Richard Wagner and learned to hate. “I owe it to that period that I grew hard and am still capable of being hard.” And “hard” is the word he always used once in power to justify what he himself acknowledged were acts of heartless brutality. He persevered in his resolve to be a painter. And revealed itself that cast of mind which led on to his later successes and defeats. For him, will, destiny, and dreams were reality.

In painting – as in everything he took up- Hitler was an autodidact. He had an ounce of talent – at least in sketching buildings – but what technique he learned he picked up on his own. Like most amateurs, he began painting simple landscapes. With neither innate originality nor professional training, he went on to imitate the watercolors and prints of the south German school and the postcard scenes – the everyday urban views – that were popular at the time. Cityscapes also coincided with his interest in architecture while other subjects suggested nostalgia for the simple, pastoral life. Such works, handled realistically, required some of the skill necessary for a Romantic dreamscape, a portrait or a genre scene with people. Moreover, he had to paint the sort of thing that an unknown and untalented amateur might be able to sell, namely inexpensive reproductions of familiar places.

In his early years, Hitler looked for inspiration to the works of Carl Schütz, a late 18th century watercolorist, and Rudolf von Alt, the 19th century Central European watercolorist. Both of these artists specialized in near-photographic reproduction of street scenes and nostalgic views of old Vienna. Such straightforward realism, architectural subject matter, meticulous attention to detail and conventionality of treatment suited Hitler’s interest and ability. With craftsman-like precision he did his best to emulate these works down to the last decorative feature. Some of these paintings can be matched to Schütz’s and Alt’s originals, demonstrating Hitler’s respectable effort at duplication. Others lacked such a pedigree, however, and were evidently reproductions of prints, picture postcards and photographs of well-known sites. Subjects ranged from concrete, realistic scenes of urban settings – in particular churches and great public buildings of Vienna – to soft, dreamy country landscapes. The style was always simple and naturalistic. Fascination with detail, especially architectural, spoke through everything. Equally striking is that his was a world largely devoid of people. Although in his life he enjoyed drawing caricatures of faces, like many other topographical artists, he was hopeless at painting figures, and in most watercolors avoided them entirely.

Hitler apparently did not go outdoors with easel and paints but worked in a corner of the reading room at the men’s hostel where he lived. He did one painting a day, almost invariably Viennese scenes. In the morning he sketched it out and after lunch he colored it. Most often it was the Charles Church that he drew or scenes from old Vienna and the Vienna Naschmarkt, recreating saleable subjects a dozen times. Years later, Hitler estimated that he had painted between 700 and 800 pictures during the Vienna years. Some scenes he painted so often, he later told friends he was able to do them from memory.

The subject and style of Hitler’s paintings catered to an unsophisticated clientele who could not afford anything better. Since he rarely got more than three or four krone ($10-12) for a picture, Hitler’s earnings were for a long time meager. He sometimes bartered a painting for a meal. He even falsely claims that he was reduced to drawing posters and advertising graphics for shoe polish, tobacco, wash soap, cosmetics, shoes, women’s underwear, and antiperspirant powder. Most, if not all, of the drawings on which the stories are based are bogus, either forgeries or inventions of detractors. In testimony to the Vienna police in 1936, Otto Kallir, a Vienna art dealer, declared that posters brought to his attention were fabrications.

Despite his earlier failures, Hitler made a third attempt to gain entry to the Academy of Fine Arts. In August 1910, he called on a curator of the Court Museum, Professor Ritschel, and showed him a substantial portfolio of drawings and watercolors of buildings of old Vienna, all with his usual attention to detail. “His work had an architectural quality and were done with such painstaking care that they almost gave the impression of being a photograph,” one of Ritschel’s assistants later recorded. Hitler presumably hoped that on the basis of these he would be reconsidered for admission to the Academy. For whatever reason nothing came of the venture and there could now be no prospect of ever receiving professional training in Vienna. This may have strengthened a determination to leave. Karl Honisch, an occupant of the same homeless shelter who came to know Hitler briefly, commented years later, “I believe that Hitler was the only one among us with a definite long-term plan in mind. He had often told us of his future intentions. He wanted to live in Munich so that he could attend the art academy there and improve his artistic abilities.” In May of 1913, he left Vienna for the Bavarian capital. With him must have gone his early sketchbook of some forty small watercolors as well as a few other paintings – works that were found in the Berlin bunker at the end of his life.

On arriving in Munich, Hitler gave his occupation to the police authorities as Kunstmaler, or artistic painter, and went on as before, painting the same sort of subjects in the same naturalistic style. At first, the impoverished Hitler found it difficult to get established, yet a short time later his career began to improve.

As he made the rounds with his paintings, he found an increasing number of ready customers. Some considered his works attractive; some felt sorry for the strange young man; some bought them for both reasons. “I liked the picture,” one purchaser recalled, “The young artist aroused my pity, so I bought it.” A baker said, “I just wanted to help the young man. He always looked so hungry.” For some, the watercolors had a genuine appeal; having bought one, they ordered more. Gradually, he found a steady outlet for his works.

Hitler painted popular scenes – the Asam House and St. John’s Church, the Hofbräuhaus, the opera house, and similar sites. Commercially, he was prospering. In the beginning, he had asked five marks a painting but in the course of 1914 was sometimes charging as much as twenty ($80). Even if he sold only ten a month, he was earning at least as much as the average worker. Hence, since he lived humbly and paid only twenty marks a month for rent, he achieved a measure of financial security. Beyond that, however, his career was going nowhere. There is no evidence that he took any concrete step to gain entry into an art academy. Hope of ever becoming the great painter of his dreams must have come to seem impossibly remote and at one point he altered his residence registration with the police as “writer.” He was merely painting to live rather than living to paint.

He greeted the outbreak of war in 1914 with a sense of exhilaration. Hitler immediately volunteered for military service and arrived at the front on October 29, to find his unit engaged in the first battle of Ypres, in the course of which most of the regiment was wiped out. However, a few weeks later, at Wychaete, a village in Flanders, he began painting, and a watercolor of a battlefield scene survives.

Sometime after that, his regiment moved to winter quarters near the village of Messines, and there he turned out a number of works. In all, at least a dozen watercolors, nine pencil sketches and five pen-and-ink drawings are known to have come through the war, including a few sketches done in the summer of 1915 of men in his unit. One of these men, Karl Lippert, recalled: “On calm days at the front at Fromelles or Fournes, Hitler spent his time drawing and reading. He sketched almost every man on the regimental staff, some in caricatures.” There is no way of knowing whether Hitler viewed his wartime works as a continuation of his career or a diversion from the war. Yet there can be no doubt that his pleasure in art was unabated. On the two occasions when given leave, he headed straight for Berlin to visit galleries.

In the course of his career as a watercolorist, Hitler had gradually achieved a modest competence at his craft, yet his was a technical ability that any reasonably skilled art student could learn. What was remarkable was that he was self-taught. His style was rooted in the naturalistic German tradition – concrete and identifiable subjects, clean lines and attention to detail. His handling of material was at times heavy-handed and clumsy, at other times technically competent and visually attractive. His repertory was narrow. In his early youth he mostly painted simple, even primitive, landscapes, as is evident in his watercolor sketchbook.

Afterwards his subject was almost exclusively the exterior of buildings. Paintings of interiors and still lifes were extremely rare. His strength was the craftsman-like precision that he learned to instill in his treatment of architectural subjects. Through his repeated portraiture of well-known Vienna and Munich buildings he developed the near-professional eye of an architect. Yet he did not begin to find an interpretive technique of his own and neither embellished nor altered what he copied. As a result, he rarely gave his scenes life or feeling. Nor did he even begin to deal with the problem of light and shadow.

With little or no imagination, much less daring, he produced only timid works. Their most marked failing lay in figures; those inserted, they looked like mannequins and cast a mood of artificiality and crudity over the whole work. The impression left by his watercolors is one of a static and emotionally empty depiction of scenes aspiring to photographic-like quality. However, what is intriguing is that a number of paintings demonstrate a respectable mastery of the medium. Works such as Weissenkirchen in the Wachau of 1910, Old Vienna Courtyard near St. Ulrich’s Church of 1911-12, The Main River Gate of 1913, along with two unfinished wartime works – Haubourdin and The Seminar Church in Hauboudin – manifest a remarkable technical leap. Possibly when he did not try to imitate and worked from nature, he developed a certain innate skill.

Yet even with training it seems unlikely that Hitler would ever have been more than a skilled Sunday afternoon amateur painter. As an artist he was impotent, unable to do what he later did in politics and architecture – create a world instead of merely copying one. The possibility of probing the paintings for insight into Hitler’s character is diminished by the fact that most of them are formulaic works. However, the fact that they are copies of a certain type reveal a basic conventionality of outlook, a longing for a world of order, a narrow idea of beauty and an interest in buildings rather than people. Otherwise there is no overt ideology in his works. They are of interest solely because of who painted them.

Snyder's Treasures: Original Adolf Hitler Artworks
Hitler Historical Museum: Hitler's Art & National Socialist Era Art
Paintings of Adolf Hitler

Cited Sources: Spotts, Frederic. Hitler and the Power of Aesthetics. London: Hutchinson. 2002

Massive Attack - Mezzanine
Wax Poetic Ft. Norah Jones - Angels
Beck - Broken Drum (Boards of Canada Remix)
PJ Harvey - The Slow Drug

at 11:05 PM 12 comments

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Arnoob Screws Me Over

I was sitting with my younger brother, who was three at the time, in the back seat as my father drove toward the airport with my mother beside him. My brother – let’s call him Pipsqueak for now – was getting cranky so I decided to draw a face on my index finger, make my voice high and squeaky, and introduce Arnoob, Pipsqueak’s new playmate en route to Kuwait’s airport.

Pipsqueak was ecstatic with Arnoob. He chatted and laughed with him until we arrived to the parking lot, where I attempted to rub off Arnoob’s minimal face off my finger, “Khalas, Arnoob is gone.” As soon as I said that, Pipsqueak turned to my mother and cried, “Erzulie took Arnoob! I WANT ARNOOOB!”

Of course, my mother turned to me, “Erzulie! Where is Arnoob! Pipsqueak was so happy and quiet with him!”
So I drew Arnoob’s damned face again and assumed my mousy tone – which attracted much attention regardless of how much I lowered my voice - to please the now giggling Pipsqueak.

PS Pipsqueak is turning nine in a few months. Whenever I talk to him on the phone, I am continually surprised by his ever-changing vocabulary. The last time we spoke, I asked him about school and if he was having fun. His response? “Ee 7ada wanasa.”

Pet Shop Boys - Flamboyant (Michael Mayer Kompakt Mix)
Pet Shop Boys Ft. Elton John - In Private (Stuart Crichton Club Mix)
Pet Shop Boys - Fugitive (Richard X Extended Mix)
Sean Lennon - Photosynthesis
Depeche Mode - Dangerous (Sensual Mix)

at 10:57 AM 18 comments

Saturday, June 17, 2006


I adore the two independent movie theaters in my city. I recently saw the Indian movie Water, written, produced, and directed by Deepa Mehta and starring the beautiful Lisa Ray, the gorgeous John Abraham, the amazing Seema Biswas, and the adorable, incredibly talented actress Sarala.

Synopsis: "Water is the final film in Deepa Mehta’s trilogy on the elements, following Fire (1996) and Earth (1998).In pre-independent India, set against the backdrop of Mahatma Gandhi's rise to power, eight-year old child-bride Chuyia hears of her husband's death. Her father, following custom, exiles her to a widow's ashram where she is meant to live out her days.

Chuyia's feisty presence starts to affect the lives of the other residents, in particular 20-year-old Kalyani (Lisa Ray) 35-year-old Shakuntala (Seema Biswas) and an 80-year-old whose days are waning. Encouraged by Chuyia, Kalyani (who serves as the ashram's breadwinner) breaks tradition and falls for young upper-class Gandhian idealist Narayan (John Abraham), forcing the widows to question their future and faith. Even Chuyia is caught in the wind of change."

I cannot explain this movie. It is so powerful, so heart-wrenching. It is not your typical dancing-in-the-rain-good-cop-bad-cop Indian movie. Not at all. To be honest, I think this is one of the most amazing pieces I have seen. The acting was stupendous. The music (produced by the legendary A.R. Rehman) is pure magic.

My experience? Well, I confidently strode in the theater alone, popcorn and drink at hand. I was so transfixed by the events that I deserted my snacks and sat in my seat, knees up, sniffling and wiping my tears away. I felt weird crying alone but I seriously could not help it. Towards the end, I had tears all the way down to the sides of my neck.

This is such a touching movie. It defines being “A Must See.”

On a lighter note, I saw The Omen. If you are looking for a quick but completely unmemorable fright flick, this will do. Seamus Davey played the six year old Damien. He was a little creepy, but in a I-want-to-kick-you-so-bad kind of way. Throughout the movie, he has this weird smirk that supposed to be scary but you cannot help but giggle. Although it was not terrifying, I did jerk around in my seat a lot.

As always, I had my knees up. In one scene, I jumped in my seat and my knee hit my friend in the head. In another, I shot both legs up in the air. Yes, I am a bit “active” in scary movies. I also pinch, squeeze, and tug whoever is sitting next to me. I wonder how it will work out when I go to the theater with my future hubby. I can see the headline now, “Frantic Moviegoer Claws Husband to Death at a Horror Film.”

Lovage - Sex (I'm a)
Ghostland Observatory - Sad Sad City
Thom Yorke - Black Swan
Gershon Kingsely - Hey Hey

at 10:39 AM 3 comments

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Failed Flirt & Other Juicy Bits...

I stopped by my favorite sandwich joint today to pick up my usual lunch, a tuna sandwich without cucumbers, between classes. I walked in and there he was; a cross between Denzel Washington and a Greek god leaning on the cashier. I slowly floated to his smiling, beaming face.

“Hi, can I get your order?”
I was at a loss for words, “Yeah…erm…I’ll just get a tuna sandwich without tuna.”
He laughed.
I blushed and corrected my order.
I left the place with my cucumber-free tuna sandwich and butterflies.

World Cup Juice:

Simao Sabrosa (Portugal) - I think he's very handsome. And the baby is squishable!

Cristinao Ronaldo (Portugal) - Madry ya3ny shagool...Hiffttt...

Luca Toni (Italy) - Shay ma 7a9al...I will always be loyal to be second home, the land of beauty and beautiful things ;P

Dedicated to Italia and hot sweetness:

Def Leppard - Pour Some Sugar On Me

at 5:27 AM 16 comments

Thursday, June 08, 2006

My Angel Cake

Her flowery, tiffany nightgown is concealed under a pale pink robe. She glides on the kitchen floor, her slippers patting the bare, marble floor, her blunt, dark hennaed hair tucked behind her flushed ears.

“Yuma, can I lick the batter?” I ask, following her gauzy trail as she moves from the cabinets to the doughy mixture. “Erzulie, it will upset your tummy. I do not know why you kids like that raw taste.”

I stand above the sweet combination of flour, eggs, vanilla, nuts, and butter. I carefully slide my finger on the higher side of the plastic mixing bowl, snagging an unsatisfying taste of the flour that threw itself away from the rest of the tanned mush.

“Wait Erzulie, let me pour it into the cake pan first.” She hoists the bottom of the bowl on her pink palm and quickly guides the contents into the metal container with swift, professional strokes, “There, you can have the rest.”

All that is left in the ivory vessel are thin streaks of tawny remnants of the recipe’s uncooked paste. Once again, I sail my index finger inside, slurping away with delight. I finally place the bowl in the sink and watch the murky water rise toward the brim. But wait! There was one edible strand left! I beat the rising pond and grab the last swipe of dough as my mother laughs at my wacky obsession with the batter. And it would not be long before I am lurking around the kitchen, sniffing the delicious air, waiting for the feast to begin.

Grant Green - A Day in the Life
REM - The Great Beyond
Edgar Allen Floe - The Torch

For Mamy: Fairuz - Mosh o9a Hay

*Note: I downloaded a bunch of files from 6arab & I want them on my iPod as opposed to stuffed in the "3araby" folder on my desktop. The problem is that I do not know how to convert them. Does anyone know what software I should buy/download in a oh-so-legal-way so I can bop along with samrat A9eel on my way to class? Merci awi ;)

at 4:02 AM 13 comments

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Phone Tag

I have been tagged by Kuwaiti Demon, the source of rare, precious photographs of Old Kuwait and other graphic gimmicks.

I am not obsessed with hounding the up-and-coming new phone. The only thing I care about is a colorful background and that the damn thing does not break if I chuck it on the floor or if it falls out of my back pocket and onto the pavement as it did last week while I was zooming down the main avenue on my bicycle.

While I was packing my two suitcases this Christmas for my return to the US, I discovered that I lost my cell phone. The only thing I regret is the collection of saved names and numbers.

My sister gave me this phone before I went abroad. She told me that it was brand new but our nephew, being a dancing addict to ringing tones, had dipped the gadget in a cool, mango dessert and thus, the earpiece was shot to shit.

At first, I struggled with the new tool. I could barely hear the other person talking on the other end of the line. I continued to say, “Can you speak up a bit? I can’t hear you.” After I ended that final ear draining conversation, I decided to do something about it before I develop ear cancer. I took the phone apart and studied the ear piece’s holes. And whaddya know! I found the dried up crust of the mango dessert blocking the place where the sound comes out! I happily poked the holes with a toothpick and now my phone is muffle-free.

Description of the mango dessert survivor:

1- Front: I took a picture of a picture. Whenever I go back home, I tumble down in my jet-lagged state to our library and “borrow” some of my family’s aged photographs from the long, spiraled photo albums with the thick covers that feature Western couples frolicking on lush fields.
This photograph is of my mother and her father, my grandfather may he rest in peace. Looking at my mother’s poofy hair, I would say it was taken in the mid-to-late 80’s. I love her smile. It’s so peaceful and calm. My grandfather was probably in his late 60’s or early 70’s during that time, but he looked like a movie star with his elegant, baby blue robe and crisp pajamas. I felt bad about placing that strip on their beautiful eyes, so I made it pink rather than black. Also, I do not want my mom to freak out if she comes across this post, “Erzulie! Haw sh7a6a!”

2- Back: Not much here but you can sort of see how careless I am with my phone. I am obsessed with “3ilch Mai” (Arabic gum) and there’s still a hardened piece of it stuck to the bottom right of my phone. I plan to scrape it off but I think it gives my phone character. I have a camera but I don’t use it. I took a picture of myself with it, trying to appear serious and glamorous at the same time. I ended up looking like an angry alien. My head was enormous, as if I was looking at the bottom of a tablespoon.

Juanes - La Camisa Negra
Gotan Project - Differente
Gotan Project - Domingo
Common - 6th Sense
Sly & the Family Stone - If You Want Me To Stay

at 12:00 AM 4 comments

Sunday, June 04, 2006

How To Spot a Male, Kuwaiti Student*

1- The Hair: Black and overgrown, some Kuwaitis tend to attempt a pseudo-Afro during their college years. Their hair is not naturally spiraled, but its thickness and bushiness molds into a lazy, massive cloud crowning their tanned faces and pricy, opaque sunglasses.

2- The Walk: More like a swagger, some of these rosary-bead-tossing students amble around campus ever so slowly, whether with fellow Kuwaitis or alone. When alone, however, they are found clutching their cell phones to their head as if balancing on the ear piece. The cell phone, a somewhat of an almighty, elitist shield, is a must have accessory that exhibits the users’ importance and grandiosity.

3- The Talk: A bunch of these shaggy boys can be heard across campus. Their boisterous laughter and overlapping, clamorous conversations differentiate the large, gruff-voiced crowd from the quieter two and threesomes strolling by them, amused at their enthusiastic foreign tongue. Many Kuwaiti students are oblivious to the fact that some people actually understand them. I have heard countless chit-chats between pubescent men that range from risqué encounters with “Melissa & Maria” to delightful hints about “Coors & Busch.”

4- The Ass: Apart from the obligatory pot belly, a few Kuwaiti male students are more inclined to sport wide, large posterior ends as opposed to narrow, perky ones. Although not considered an asset, they draw attention whenever their overstuffed messenger bags or low slung, battered backpacks bounce on their bulky bottoms and round, fleshy, curly-haired thighs.

5- Armani Exchange: Although I favor this brand, my male counterparts seem worship it. I suppose it is safe to say that it is their official uniform.

6- Cheesecake: “Ha Cheesecake?” Correct me if I am wrong, but I do believe that other restaurants exist. Yes, I agree, they do offer many cuisines and their food is indeed very tasty and convenient. But what happened to adventures and food explorations? Why does it always come down to the safer, lamer Cheesecake? I think if the owners of this business knew how many Kuwaitis trek to Cheesecake’s premises, we would end up in the Guinness Book of World Records as their best customers.

Crash Test Dummies - Mmm, Mmm, Mmm, Mmm
Hootie & the Blowfish - Let Her Cry
Santana Ft. Wyclef Jean - Maria Maria
Marky Mark & the Funky Bunch - Good Vibrations

* Note: To my fellow male Kuwaiti students in US of A: Please do not take this post personally. I am merely taking light yet sarcastic jabs at you. I did not mention your good company, witty humor, and your wonderfully familiar blend of subtle cigarette fumes and exquisite designer cologne. Good luck with your studies and viva AX. Cheers :P~

at 12:49 AM 30 comments

Friday, June 02, 2006

To My Love

Note: I promised myself to never share any information regarding my personal life, because I would like to keep it, well, personal. However, I think this is the one and only intimate shout out I will write on this blog of mine.

Do you know how many times I think about you? Whenever I’m feeling down and under, I think about the moment where we will meet again. There has never been one time where you upset me. My mother often tells me to stop seeing you. But you see, I am quite addicted to you, although we meet once in a blue moon i.e. during my Christmas breaks. I thrive on your original and genuine being. You never change, and that’s what I love about you.

Many people think that you’re too old; they don’t understand my involvement with you. I love how you feel, your smooth, soft touch and fulfilling sweetness. I look back at certain times where I almost missed you, where I almost passed you by without even touching you. I wish I can have you all to myself. But I know you’re a firm believer in “no strings attached” relationships, that you prosper on “sharing the love,” so to speak. And I understand that. Your altruism is contagious. I wish I can serve and please people as much as you do.


٭I didn’t use my real name here but I’m sure you know this is directed to you, my one and only love.

Kool & The Gang - Jungle Boogie
Kool & The Gang - Let The Music Take Your Mind
Neil Diamond - Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon
A.R. Rehman - Aayo Re Sakii (Wait for the ad to play first...)

at 10:22 PM 11 comments