House of the Rising Sun

I'm pretty sure my eyebrows are going grey.  Seriously, what the fuck? Ugh. Have some fake-Instagram-filter pictures. (You know what, though? Fuck your ugly high-res crap. My favourite camera growing up was a Polaroid, and I intend to recapture the magic digitally whenever I can.)

After Diana informed me that she thought my mantle looked a little bare ("don't you usually have more of your stuff up there?") I did some rearranging. Behold the hand of glory, shoved in a jar on a whim. Also behold my totally awesome Urban Outfitters candles. SEE THEY ARE CUTE. Also pictured: The Victorian Regina Tarot. I love this deck if only because Oscar Wilde is the Prince of Wands. (Of course he is.)

The short bookshelf. That little bottle under glass there is an extremely thoughtful gift from the gentleman known in Vancouver's more theatrical corners as Aleister Crane. It's the Elixer of Life. No, seriously. I have not opened it.

This isn't mine. It has to be returned to Clown Boss. Until she remembers this, it stays on the wall.

This greets you as you enter my apartment. Saint Death, motherfuckers. I have not lit it since my sister gave it to me. Presumably this makes me a giant chickenshit.

In other news, elderflower martinis rule.