But never mind semantics now. I’m beyond that. Just look!

Oh it’s craziness incarnate. Did you ever see a more incompatible pairing as that pattern and me? It’s never going to work. I don’t have the time. I don’t have the skill. That, that *thing* is going to be my undoing. My unravelling. I don’t mind a bit of colourwork. Remember my houndstooth check? The pattern I eventually convinced myself didn’t look too alarmingly like a tessellation of swastikas? Well, that, you see, that, that was tricky, a little attention required, but eventually it assimilated into my brain. It’s just a four row repeat, see. Two rows with mainly the background colour, two with mainly the contrast colour. Knit it for an inch and you’re not really thinking anymore. Okay, so I did louse it up on a hot train diverted one afternoon from London Bridge via Elephant and Castle and had to spend an evening ripping the wrong part back while trying to like Dollshouse (Whedon not Ibsen – which probably serves as a three word review).

But what future me and this thing? This new/shiny? This distraction-havoc wreaked on my brain by the seductive power of Vogue Knitting? Oh the strange lands you encounter if you let Ravelry be your guide. Ravelry is like facebook but with the addition of knitting – and the subtraction of anything that isn’t knitting. (Well there is crochet but, obviously, no one cares.)

See this pattern? See it. I cannot follow a pattern chart like that while watching Lost (three word review: Marry me, Sayid. Yes, not really a review, but I swear that’s all I think of when I’m watching. But if I was knitting this dress I wouldn’t be able to let my brain cloud over with only that lustful thought, which, in truth, isn’t really about marriage so much as how surely, *surely* no one character would get tied up quite that much in a TV show unless the actor had gotten it specifically written into his contract. (And if Sayid married me I think we would have a similar kind of contract.)) But, anyway, that pattern chart will make me cry and rip back over and over and make my fingers bleed (or at least hurt (at least a bit.))

So what am I going to have to do to get this dress, this potential hours of work, while I probably listen to all the classic-books-on-CD I have left (Crime and Punishment is one of them, which I have been studiously not getting my hopes up about seeing as how I do actually know it is not as filthy as the title would suggest to a sick puppy like me, but I am way more entranced my the idea of since reading about Dostoyevsky being faux executed – which I won’t go into here as I am way off topic (shut up, there so is a topic – anyway that’s what brackets are for) but you can google it.)

But, yes, that pattern chart of headachey-magnitude is just the start. This pattern is beginning to look as hopelessly appealing as that guy at the party who turned up late and drunk from another party and is not chatting me up, even, so much as explaining about how there is this other woman he’s quite seriously involved with but they’re split up right now so it’s okay and I’m not even listening because he is so staggeringly pretty (or I am so staggeringly drunk) that it has made me deaf to anything that is a perfectly sensible no-type reason. ‘Cause, you know, I accept you’re probably not going to read this pattern in much detail unless you knit and have also been over come by dress-lust, but what cracked up shit is this? Shaping done by changing the needle size rather than increasing the number of stiches. That is surely some kind of insane moon-knitting. What-what?

But I mean, for serious, four different needles sizes? But I hate to knit sample swatches. And isn’t that just what I am going to have to do right here. And not even starting on the fact that I hate it when I have to go buy another pair of needles (sometimes I pick out a pattern just because I have that size needles) but this damn *thing* here is going to involve masses of prep work. (Ew! Prep work! Not want!) Knitting sample swatches in the different needle gauges and measuring and calculating (because I trust that L/XL size absolutely not at all – especially if that model is wearing just one size below and her body and my body couldn’t be more dissimilar objects than they are and still exist in the same universe.

But despite all this: I still want. I’m protesting here like Canute, just to prove to you that I couldn’t turn back this tide if I wanted to. Me, you know, I might know long words but underneath all the polysybality I am single-sybbed id-girl. Following my Pie-id Piper to the ends of the earth.

Oh look, though, I’ve bought some wool in satisfyingly retro colours. Maybe I’ll make a sample swatch whilst watching Crank (three word review: Memento for Dummies).

Related Posts:

• No related posts…

I love clothes. I love fashion. I have an interest in the way I cover my body. I have ideas about what I think looks nice. It’s not very deep, and it’s not very unusual. It brings me pleasure more than it brings me frustration, but that’s because I channel it mostly into making clothes rather than buying them.

I have written long and hard about how annoying I find it that, as a woman, who likes to sometimes tie up men and hit them with stuff for fun (sex-fun) that the fashion choices of the dominatrix are limited to the horrendous end of horrible. Latex or PVC and any colour so long as you can imagine it as the main schema for the new flag of a fascist state.

The traditional sartorial stylings (well, I say stylings…) of the dominant woman are firmly defined by the kinds of dominant women who are performing that role for money rather than love-honey, and so they are dressing how straight men want them to dress, and the way straight men want women to dress isn’t known for it’s taste and subtlety. As you will know if you (a) have eyes and (b) live in any kind of culture.

Course, there’s nothing wrong with dressing like a whore per se, unless you catch a cold and give it to me, but there’s everything wrong with expecting me to dress a certain way just because of something else to do with me that is nothing to do with that.

But, actually, that’s not really my problem with mainstream fashion. I am a fat person. Or, in truth, I am a fat person in transition. I have (very, extremely) mixed feelings about this, but I have made my way in the last six months from the ghetto where fat people live to the run-down part of town where people who are normal but, you know, fat-normal live. I can access fashion now, but in a somewhat limited way. Still no Top Shop for me.

Not to mention the fact that the gateway to fashion is fashion magazines. Aka gloss-coated evil. I love clothes enough to lust after glossy magazines and yet my feminist sensibilities won’t let me even slide a finger down their enslickened covers.

And I’ve not even talked about sweat shops, environmental concerns, the various pissy factors which mean I hate, hate, hate to buy clothes retail at all if I can help it.

So, while, I love fashion, fashion – or at least, the fashion industry – just doesn’t love me back. And as with all unrequited love, the temptation is to hang on and hang on for the love object to come to its senses and realize it cannot exist without the wonderful glory that is me. Me! Think you can live without me, do you fashion industry? Well, we’ll see. I’ll be over here. Waiting. Waiting…. Oh, you appear to be doing just fine. I might feel the desperate urge to convince myself that the dream is real. That fashion loves me, really – if only it knew. But that’s shooting for the moon. The only real, sensible option for me – in this kind of situation – is to run away.

Quit that shit for a new path. Understand that even if fashion did come to its senses and declare its undying love, that love would still be tainted by all the years it considered itself indifferent to my obvious charms.

So although I am slow and clumsy, my day is saved by making my own clothes. Or, possibly more precisely, by the notion of making my own clothes.

After recently finding myself in the vintage section of eBay browsing on the keyword tweed and wondering where I was going with this Margaret Rutherford inspired daydreaming, I realized exactly what I needed. A suit. A straight skirt and something structured on top. A pattern. A houndstooth check. Two shades of purple. My life, if I owned this outfit, would be complete. I would wear it with a fancy blouse with a huge pussy cat bow, or a stripy shirt and a shiny, man’s tie. In my head I’m already living the kind of high-powered dynamic life that someone who wore a suit of dreams like this would surely live.

All clothes are a drag disguise that promise new adventures. And even if those adventures never really come, I don’t want to be denied the anticipation of any of them.

And where would I find something like this? Why nowhere but on the end of my knitting needles. (Yeah – I know it’s really not the time of year for something like this – but Fairisle takes me forever!) This is why I make stuff. Sometimes the image in my head – the way of covering my body that I am looking for – is so specific I will never find it. Even without the (mostly ignorable) specifications of my sexuality and the (rather more impactful) machinations of the fashion industry.

I like the internet because it gives me a space to write my own blog and define my own little spot of culture – where my choices are right for me. Even if the impact of what I say is small to negligible. And I like making clothes because I get to opt out of having to have things made for me by  a cruel churning capitalist wheel that heartlessly, facelessly decides what I want based on economic prudence and flawed research. That offers me products that don’t work for me and then makes me think that I am the problem. My body is the wrong size, not the clothes. My tastes are wrong if I don’t like the colours in the shops. This is fashion. If I don’t like it I am unfashionable.

And sometimes when I make things, I make things wrong, but I always know that’s because I made a mistake and I’m fine with that because no one is trying to convince me that actually sweaters with 3 arms that I can’t fit some parts of my body into are the correct thing and if I want different it’s my body that needs to be ripped and reworked.

Making my own means making clothes the right shape for my body rather than trying to make my body the right shape for the clothes.

Related Posts:

• No related posts…

On the table is her row counter. A little plastic device that counts upwards each time it is manually dialed a click further on. She explains that she doesn’t thread it on the end of her needle, as is the traditional practice, because that would unbalance their gossamer weight. So instead of being able to flick her finger each time she needs to keep track of another line of complexity completed, she has to pause, pick it up, dial it on, and return to her superfine work.

Knitting is made of numbers. It is made of discrete stitches. Digital. Patterns ask for the counting of stitches, of rows, of sets of rows. I don’t own a stitch counter. I don’t knit to my knitting group neighbour’s level of complexity, but I sometimes need to count, and when I do, I let the numbers dance in my head. I keep an idea of where I am in abstract patterns, thoughts like mathematical landscapes.

The piece I’m working now asks for measured decreases. Stitches to be lost in marked out places every three rows. And this to be done nine times. Three sets of three sets of three. On a pattern of knit 2, purl 1, that is itself, an endless repeat of tiny groups of three. Thrice times three makes me think of paganism. Makes me think of being 17 and thinking The Mists of Avalon was the greatest book in the world.

I cannot read while knitting. That’s not my personal failing. No one can. It frustrates me. I miss reading when I fall into a frenzy of making. I like to consume as I create. The hive mind of my knitting group suggested audio books. And I found myself the owner of an orange tin containing 45 CDs worth of Penguin Classics.

I made all those thrice times thrice times threes while listening to Frankenstein fall into his own orgy of creation. And discovered that, gosh, Frankenstein is so whiny. My ex boyfriend told me once that Frankenstein is all about repressed homosexuality. Frankenstein makes the masculine monster to satisfy his desires then flails with remorse for the rest of the book.

When Frankenstein is over I put down my knitting and email my ex boyfriend: Woah, so much whiny emo manpain. Dr Frankenstein is whiny about being repressed of the gay and the monster is whiny about not being able to get a girlfriend.

My smart-mouth ex boyfriend replies that Mary Shelley hung out with poets, so probably experienced a lot of male whininess.

I reply saying, surely not Byron? I don’t like to think of him as whiny…

We carry on like that all day. Little messages back and forth. Discrete. Digital.

Later, I wonder if we email each other too much. We are no longer lovers. Perhaps this is not right. I close my email client without counting the number I’ve sent that day. His name is in the to field – but I still don’t know who he is now, to me.

Last week I took my knitting to the cinema and saw Twilight. In the dark I clicked my needles, grateful for the mis en scene of continual white overcast skies that gave me light to see my work.

Knitting through Twilight made me feel like some kind of Stepford Goth – steeped in an alternative yet conservative take on womanhood. The film seemed to be about how all female sexuality really comes down to wanting a man to desire you – and only you – for nothing more than the fact you exist. And for that desire to be continually repressed in case he just starts killing you.

And I do find that kind of attractive. But only in a way that freaks me out, utterly.

I was knitting the black plastic dominatrix dress. Now stalled, sadly, because if I have to cut up another bin bag, I will probably, instead, just start cutting myself. And then I truly would be a Stepford Goth. First in line for an angsty vampire boyfriend. But perhaps my life is complicated enough. At least until I invest in a stitch counter.

**

More BitchCraft

Related Posts:

• No related posts…

I’m obsessive. I like to knit a lot. I go through cycles. I binge knit when I do. The knitting group I go to looks at the skirt I’m making on skinny little needles and asks how long it will take me. When I say, a few weeks, I am lying. I want the skirt now. There’s a place I want to wear it. I will have it done. I will get obsessive about it.

But then I will finish. I will endure the process of making up. Which I hate. Making up (which involves a light delicate touch rather than the strangely satisfying plod of just knitting around and around and around) is my least favourite part of any knitting project. But then, when it is made, and I have covered myself in it, seconds of orgasmic elation…and then: it’s over.

I knit exclusively for myself. Sometimes (rarely) people ask me to knit something for them. I always make some excuse. It’s all for me. So every bit of clickery holds in it a fantasy. This thing I am creating. And every garment holds a promise of a better me. Crafting something for yourself is very like buying something for yourself in that way. I think the thrill of making is very like the thrill of shopping – just spun out long and low.

Pure materialism in the creation of material. Oh, when I own this thing, everything will be better. I will be faster and stronger and delightfully pretty. I will have an army of lovers and a new kitchen. Somehow crafting something makes it make its own marketing mythos. Oh, when I have this woolly hat completed it will surely (surely) pour balm onto every dark corner or my squalid, spoiled little life.

That want, that desire to consume becomes, here, not a matter of money but one of time. Craft breaks my time bank. Spends what I have not got on frivolity. I watch TV instead of reading so I can craft. I despair over my word count because my hands were busy elsewhere.

And the real trouble is that as I fly, I gorge. I miss the thrill of the journey in the race to get to the end.

It is almost exactly like reading a wonderful book. I am always that person flipping as I near the final chapters. Losing that joy of reading in the rush to see how it ends.

I wish I let myself enjoy the process more. Not because it is better than the product – but because it is equally important. Because it isn’t one or the other. It’s both. Both at once. The process is bittersweet with anticipation, being right in it, not knowing how it ends, but with the joy of immersion. The product is sweetbitter with the full knowledge every loose end sewn in, but with the sadness of it no longer being a part of you. Connected deep to a kind of energy inside.

And then of course, when I finish something I stalk around. I wait. I wish. I flick idly through pattern books. Not wanting to fall too soon – but sometimes not being able to resist the urge to fill that gap. I have been known just to grab some fancy looking yarn and a pair of needles and knit to nowhere. Just for the soothing sensation of it. Casual knitting with no expectations and no future. Just for a distraction until I find another project that makes the shape of my heart. (And, often, of my arse.)

Related Posts:

• BITCHCRAFT: In Addition to Rewriting the Words of Kurt Vonnegut I Have Been Working on the Dominatrix Dress Made out of Bin Bags
• BitchCraft: A New Rumpus Blog About Handicrafts by Bitchy Jones

So, well, how’s that for slow blogging?

I have, as is obvious, been cross stitching lately. My heart got broken over Xmas and you’d be unsurprised how little cross stitch helps with that. But still – it has its own merits.

That Kurt Vonnegut sampler was made using the pattern generator available at the truly awesome subversive cross stitch. I am sure there are many other such generators web wide, but that’s the one I use.

Cross stitching words. That’s like a thing. And working a piece like this is essentially making words. Inscribing words. For a writer, or, at any rate, someone who writes a lot for pleasure, a kind of crafting that is essentially writing has many twists of interest.

A sampler like this begins the same way as any piece of cross stitch – with a chart and the slow labour of pattern matching and an eye strain headache if the lighting is not a million watts of hardcore brilliance. But after a while of checking and thread counting, the process of writing kicks in and just takes over.

Maybe it is something hardwired about language. Or just the brain, tiring of eyesite-eroding pattern matching, suddenly realises it has a well worn groove for this kind of thing. Suddenly I find I am not matching anymore but writing. The same line through its six iterations of there and back, I am saying in it my head. I begin, by line three to remember how most of the letters are formed and only need to consult my charts for the occasional moment. Okay at one point, my brain twisted and forgot how to spell crowded. But mostly, I am writing this familiar quote, over and back, slowly. Each line 12 times.

And it’s a joy to do that because I love this quote. The elevation of kindness to the only thing that matters touches me like no other sentiment. And if you find that odd; if you find that someone like me who also likes seeing men hurt and degraded is conflicted to feel that way, then you are the kind of person who pisses me right off. (Just saying.)

But that is the real point about making a sampler like this. The same reasons those puritans stitched out religious words that were significant to them once upon a whatever, still holds working with thread and words today. That sense of writing something over and over, letting the medium add unknowable weight to the message. It is easy to see parallels with other methods of adding extra sacredness to words, like monks producing painstaking illuminated text, or the weight of meaning that comes from pain and permanence when words are chosen for tattoos. (I think it is quite interesting that people seem so often to choose languages from cultures that are not their own when selecting how to have messages written on their bodies. Almost as if having those words so starkly, easily, casually readable would be too exposing of such a meaningful and intimate choice.)

That’s why this was so satisfying to make. To work and rework a sentiment like this. What else to do with those little clumps of words that feel so defining. Sometimes the favourite quotes section of my facebook page just doesn’t seem enough.

Just for fun, the next phrase I want to needlepoint is a Valerie Solanas quote. The most famous one, from the top of this page.

I also, in my idle moments when I consider desecrating my unpierced, untattooed unsullied by anything more than hair dye and sadomasochism body, I consider this quote as my tattoo of choice, right on the tramp stamp spot.

This week’s BitchCraft

Well, in addition to rewriting the words of Kurt Vonnegut using the world’s slowest dot matrix printer, I have been mainly working on the dominatrix dress made out of bin bags. I have swatched. It does work. Insofar as you can cut up bin bags and knits them and get a kind of fabric. It will be hugely uncomfortable – but that will make it an even more authentic parody of fetish clothing. So, I have been to a shop and studied the range of bin bags in the hope of finding the shiniest. The ones I got weren’t as shiny as the buffed up beauties of my dreams, but nice enough to work. Oh, and then I went crazy and bought a circular needle, which will probably cause me to knit a huge mobius strip and have a tantrum. Stay tuned for that.

***

See Also: BitchCraft, A Blog About Handicrafts by Bitchy Jones

See Also: The Rumpus Interview With Margaret Cho

Related Posts:

• BitchCraft: Endings and Finishings
• BitchCraft: A New Rumpus Blog About Handicrafts by Bitchy Jones

One of the most annoying aspects of being a woman who sometimes like to get bossy in bed, is the notion that expressing yourself sartorially by coating yourself in black plastic is actually compulsory. As someone who is typing this in a café wearing a green crochet dress and paisley shirt (shut *up* – it so *does* go) and a necklace with a little black elephant on it, this notion that my idea of style starts and ends with the front and back covers of Skin fucking Two pisses me off. I have so little interest in presenting my body as some kind of sleek plasti-coated version of armour-clad tactile/untouchable femininity.

Blurry, lacework, mohair fantazee

Having said that though, I have just finished knitting the dress in the picture. (I did try and take a less impressionistic photograph but they just looked like the worst back-of-the-bathroom-door eBay shots.) The pattern for the fuzzy-wuzzy, clothkits-inspired dress-that-took-forever (– it took six weeks but I am very impatient –) was from a gloriously retro knitting book called, in a way that probably sounded slightly controversial in the eighties when it was published, Wild Knitting.

Wild Knitting – I bet you didn’t read that without at least feeling the urge to say it out loud and make a flashy hand gesture and a face like a tiger.

Wild Knitting (which is out of print, but occasionally available on Amazon from ‘these sellers’) is a wonderful book full of encouragement to take knitting needles and do things that are, well, certainly wild, but also possibly futile.

And for that alone, Wild Knitting is one of my biggest inspirations. When it comes to craft I really do love the possibly futile. I love the way Wild Knitting calmly and AS IF IT IS NORMAL AND EVEN POSSIBLE suggests knitting with lace and raffia and feathers other bits of random. I once raided every one of my relative’s bric a brac a crap collections to find enough things I could rip into strips to make, um, this.

Big stitchy ripped up stuff and sequins

Actually I like it. I always thought would be a nice tapestry, hanging on a wall like something from an ancient castle in a reimagined pomo universe. But it has never been on my walls because weighs seven million tons and thus probably needs something like to have some batons added to it to support it and I can’t be bothered to go get batons (even though, as I type, I think a couple of extra batons could have some fun uses round my place). Anyway no wall for it yet and it lies in my craft graveyard cupboard stuffed in a plastic bag.

And talking of plastic bags, and talking (as I was even further back) of dominatrix wear, one other idea in Wild Knitting is a pattern that involves knitting using strips cut from plastic bags. And I did think in a sleepy, lack of concentration moment, that I ought to try knitting a proper traditional dominatrix (rawr) dress out of strips of black plastic bags – mostly for the sheer LULZ. Haw haw – it is like what you want me to wear except I knitted it out of crap. Haw.

It’s a tricky potential project because knitting with plastic strips that are wide enough not to tear would involve quite big gauge needles and most patterns for those kind of close fitting tarty dresses aren’t written for 10mm needles. So this project might involve me writing my own pattern, which is always a thrilling roller coaster ride through tantrum town. But the thrill will be tempered by me having to make sample swatches – little counted squares of knitting to see how big the final garment will be utilising maths – which somehow manages to be far more boring than the sum of its parts.

That, though, isn’t the main drawback of knitting a dominatrix dress out of ripped up black plastic. Far, far more scary is the thought that it might actually be nice and then I would have to give up all my ‘just because I am a sexually dominant woman, doesn’t mean I need to dress like a ridiculous fancy dress hooker version of my own sexuality *grump* – and then where would I be?

But I’m going to swatch anyway, because I like danger! And danger just loves me.

See Also: BitchCraft, The Introduction

See Also: Swining Modern Sounds, the new music blog by Rick Moody

See Also: All Rumpus Blogs

See Also: The Rumpus.net

Related Posts:

• No related posts…

Knit Yourself Prettier

This is an introduction to my blog and also a post that might have been called ‘knitting pretty’ in a parallel universe almost identical to this one. Or, really, in a radically different one where this blog post still exists but is, instead, called that. Titles are hard. I wanted to call this blog Domiknitrix. I should have googled it before I got so excited. But, actually, I now think BitchCraft is better as it has my name in it. Although, obviously, that is not my real name.

If you have followed me here from my other corner of the internet, please know: I will not be knitting any handcuffs. I don’t think my excitingly rare sexual predilections are really going to come up that much during this new and exciting bloggery direction. Bitch, please: I don’t braid whips. In fact, I don’t make anything that I use during sex, unless you count ripping small bits off of a big sheet of sandpaper. If it were possible to knit handcuffs, I would, but, really, knitting is about constructing a networks of loops that result in a notably stretchy fabric. Now, you tell me why this may not be the best material to make handcuffs from. (Don’t actually do that.)

This blog is not about being *good* at crafts. This blog is just about doing crafts. Doing, not doing well. Knitting up a jumper and then not being able to join the seams in a way that doesn’t look lumpy and awful and then having a small (appropriate) tantrum and stuffing the whole lot into a bin bag (note: google Americanese for bin bags) meaning to salvage the wool later. And then not even doing that.

I like the feel of my hands of making things. I like the process more than the product. (Although I do care about the product – as my frustrations with craft:fail will show. Possibly a lot.) But above all, with craft, it’s all the journey. In fact when I was younger I used to just cruise around. As young people do. Knit up some wool just for the feel of the transformation – one dimension to two – with no destination in mind, except the background needle clicking as I listened to old radio four comedy programs (note: google Americanese for radio four comedy programs)

Craft is simple and wonderful and a sign of triumph over the natural human urge to not be bothered. Craft is indulgent and industrious. Decadent and decent. Puritanical and let-them-eat-cake. Craftwise, mostly, I knit. But I needlepoint a bit and I have this crochet how-to booklet that is so gloriously kitsch and seventies I am probably going to try and learn crochet from it just so I can tote it about and be seen with something so painfully uber-cool that I will become better than that what I am. I also bake. And baking’s not really a handicraft but I might write about baking. So: domestic arts? And why ever not?

Because I have an enduring love of the domestic which (mostly unsurprisingly) is increasing as I get older. Home and soft textures: velvet and mohair and marshmallow. This blog is about those things. About everything that feels nice.

About how, as 40 is now the age-ending-in-zero that I am closest to that I feel less midlife crisis and more midlife relief, that maybe I never liked fast or hard or loud that much anyway. (I do, possibly, still like hard.)

And as I settle and spread, craft makes me pretty. I am somewhat plain as a person, insecure about the face I present to the world. Something about making things soothes this sorrow. Something about watching my (short, calloused) unpretty fingers spinning something fine and beautiful – or even half-arsed and lumpy – seems to silence that persistent, insistent, sanity-resistant voice that tells me that I am a scrumpled mess of a thing. How can it be so bad if I can make a pretty? A mohair dress, a filthily-worded sampler, a red velvet cupcake with piped, pink icing.

This week’s BitchCraft:
I knitted furiously at the dress that is taking forever. I am still on sleeve 1 after trying to get it to measure 53 centimetres for about 15 years (not exact time). Sleeves are exasperating because once the front and back of any project are done I feel so close to completion but, gah, because the sleeves – the sleeves! – just go on forever. (That is not part of the design of the dress.)

I did some work on something I cannot mention here yet because it is a Christmas present for Pan

I tried and failed to make fudge. In 3 attempts lately I succeeded only once. Fudge is such a fickle, fickle fucking bastard, but keeps on tempting me back like a feckless unreliable cad in a half unbuttoned dress shirt who promises it will be different this time, baby. And who also is made of sugar and butter.

- Bitchy Jones

See Also: The Rumpus.net

See Also: Post Young, A New Blog by Jerry Stahl

See Also: Swinging Modern Sounds, A New Blog by Rick Moody

Related Posts:

• BitchCraft: Endings and Finishings
• BITCHCRAFT: In Addition to Rewriting the Words of Kurt Vonnegut I Have Been Working on the Dominatrix Dress Made out of Bin Bags