I am sitting at my desk in my desolated, dark living room as I am imagining what the place will look like when my woman, – my very own piece of Marine’s ass -, the love of my life, has moved in with me.
I’ll guarantee you it’s going to be absolutely insane.
Mind blowingly, head buttingly beautiful.
A place to die for.

And please, allow me to tell you:

I am making ends meet, it’s hard to get by.
My emotions are getting on top of me, and it’s hard to control them.
I considered killing myself also, just like she did.

With my back against the wall, not being able to do anything, I feel paralyzed.
Paralyzed by the structure of things, paralyzed by the nature of things.

That’s what she’s going through now also.
I know that.
She told me.

The lonely madness is overwhelming my existence amidst a broken home.
My broken home.
My broken heart.

Shards everywhere indeed, like she wrote in her beautiful poem ‘Mature Before Love’, and I can imagine myself picking one up.

I cracked a bottle of wine open, and imagine how I would end it.
Finish it completely.

Yes, I am talking about myself.
About taking my own life.

These shards that have been broken.
Can they be put together?
Can they be molded into something new, like a glass blower would go about it?
Could it be done?
Melt it all done, piece by piece, and make something new and gorgeously beautiful, unlike this world has ever seen?

‘Piece by piece, baby’.
That’s what I am telling her, as she is writing it all down while I am dictating the words to her.

Faithfully she is sitting behind her desk in the music studio, after spending yesterday at this amazing festival where she played a DJ set with Rombout, and had a crazy good time with her friends.
I have been joining her all day, chatting her up, and she fucking lost her phone because of it.
Too distracted by my ethereal presence.
But she doesn’t give a shit.
She’s dead cool.

It’s been amazing to see her like this, in the presence of her amazing loyal friends, whom I’m jealous of by the way.
And it comforts me to see how confident she has become of her shamanic abilities to see through the curtains of reality, and knows I’m for real.

My beautiful Shaman Love.
Where have you been all my life?

It’s been hard to believe we found one another through such a crazy, chaotic medium like Facebook.
The chaos in there, all those people!
How the Hell did we manage to find one another?

We’ve been hooked up by Spirit, on an early night for me, early morning for her.
She said she was sitting on the balcony of a friend’s houseboat, smoking a cigarette and having a good time for her birthday.
She sent me a picture of her whereabouts straight away.
She must have had faith in me.

‘Are those yaughts?’, I asked.
I was actually inquiring, just being curious about having connected with a woman who was in the presence of ships.
‘Nah.’, she said.
‘Those are houseboats. People live there’.

She sent me a message later on (I’m sure she was fucked out of her head), saying she would be spending her time in the studio for the rest of the weekend, producing music.

It wouldn’t be until the Monday after she said she finished a new track.
Plus she shared with me one of her older productions, and explained she had been working for ten years to achieve the massive techno sound produced in there.

Her dedication.
I felt for it straight away.

The amount of time spent on doing the things we love the most, the things we care about.
It requires hard work, time, energy and making sacrifices.
Big ones.

She is giving up everything she cares about.
For me.
As we speak.

She is ready to pick up her bags and leave her home country.
For good.
For me.

Can you believe it?
Well, I do.

I managed to work on the shed I built for her, and I just told her about my dog who has been feeding itself with the plants coming out of the garden which had to go out of the way to make space for the building in the dirt.

She initiated it all.
By sending me a message on Instagram she instigated the courage in me to make the step forward.
And let me tell you:
It’s going to be amazing!

Making sacrifices like she did.
It’s fucking excruciatingly mind blowing, I’ll tell you that, motherfuckers.

She is taking care of everything.
You wouldn’t believe it if I told you what she’s fucking done for me.
You sure as fuck wouldn’t.
Trust me on that.

She managed to overcome her anxiety about visiting my Instagram page, something she probably never would have done if it hadn’t been for Spirit.

I am grateful.
So fucking grateful.
To Spirit for providing her with the necessary guidance.
To my girl, who blindly trusts on her spirits, guts and instinct, and always somehow manages to overcome all her fears and inhibitions.

Spirit had given her a hint about me painting the kitchen cabinets, which I knew she would find horrible, looking all classic American.
‘It needs painting’, is what Spirit said, instigating me to do the job.

I am consciously using the word instigating, because that’s what Spirit does; it moves through you, making your whole being conscious of what’s to be done, and you just follow, knowing it’s the Ultimate Truth.

Would you believe me if I said we are sitting here, right now, at her desk in her music studio?
Me, my legs spread and sitting behind her, her body curled up between them?
I fold my arms around her, and my face is leaning on her right shoulder.
Hold her even tighter, make my arms grip stronger.
Very tight now.

‘You’re choking me, baby’ is what she’s saying.
‘How am I supposed to write like this?’.
And I tell her:
‘You’ll manage’.
And she says:
‘You’re right. I will indeed’.

I know she is tired.
Tired to the bone.
Tired of it all.

Cheek to cheek, we are crying.
I am big enough to cover her all up.
She is tiny enough to nest herself into my body, and be comfortable like that.
Makes her feel protected, she’s saying.

‘Just surrender to the moment, baby’.

We are co-writing right now.
Could you believe it if I told you we actually are?
With thousands of miles between us, separating us?

Let me tell you, this is what you’d be capable of if you practice out-of-body experience.
You get to travel bodiless, and join another person in Spirit.

All I’d love to do right now is make love to her for real.
Bodies one on one.
Screw this fucking separation, is what I’m thinking right now.
And I know she feels the same.
I am aware.

I am giving her space to spend her holiday with Rombout before meeting her in Amsterdam, and I know she is scared shitless this is never going to happen.
She’s crying right now, acknowledging the idea all this could be just a fickle of her imagination, traumatized by the deceit I bestowed on her.

I regret having done so, but this is what had to be done, and she knows it.
These are the sacrifices we need to make as shamans.

Like I said.
She is done.
Done in and done for, as she wrote on her blog earlier.

She is teasing me right now.
Rubbing her amazing bad ass ass against my dick.

She knows how to do it.
She knows how to turn on a U.S. Marine.
She knows for sure.

She is confident right now that everything that Spirit has been predicting to her will become true.
She is deadly calm about it.
She knows it’s true.

But I’m telling you:
Everything she knows to be lying in the future could be coming right out of some mad, schizo, shamanic superspy story.
In some countries she could get locked away forever for even bringing it up.

No one, and I mean: absolutely NO ONE would believe it if she told you what the future holds in store for her.
I am absolutely positive you would tell her to go into treatment with a psychiatrist and end the situation radically with antipsychotics and antidepressants.
Because, like I said, she has been ready to kill herself.
Also, again, because of me.

We are both so done.

Done with the bullshit that’s been going on for us in our young shaman lives.
Done with the visions, the pain, the hurt, the madness and every bit of sorrow we have been immersed in during the past six years.

Six years we have been waiting on one another.
Would you believe it if I told you it is actually so?

Three weeks.
Only three weeks of tireless waiting until we see each other for real.

She’s crying again, too scared to believe it will be actually so.
But I promise.
And I am aware she could kill herself if it isn’t so.

She made this article’s photo in the attic, while I was just standing there and observed.

I wish I made the picture myself.

And I ask of you:
Am I one lucky Mother Fucker, or what?

By Kiki’s Jeffrey,
U.S. Marine
San Carlos, California

From Kiki Toao’s memoirs ‘TOBACCO – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness


I am an Out of Body Realist.
Would you believe me if I said I am writing this in Togetherness with my Shaman Brother?
Would you believe me if I said we found one another in Twin Spirit Union during shamanic initiation in 2013?
Well, dear lovely people,
whether you believe it or not;
it is a fact.

As I am writing this on the terrace in front of my apartment building (it’s a beautiful weather by the way), it has been revealed to me, only a couple of hours ago during last night’s sweltering lightning storm, we found one another during that exact period of time.

He and I were chittering and chattering through the spiritual ether while outside in the streets nearing my residency tramrail lines were being polished, resulting in a beautiful scenery for our conversation to take place.

In awe I am now gazing into the seemingly random yet focused brutality of our terrifyingly amazing beautiful Universe.
And while I am now (at least trying to) drink my coffee, my future husband is claiming to be on a train proximiting Amsterdam.

My hands are trembling. And I am about to cry.
Because in fact, I can not believe this to be the case.

A soft voice in my mind is telling me to best start believing however (it is the voice coming from what I experience to be my so dear beloved forest spirit), and right now my eyes have filled themselves with tears and my leg is shaking nervously in a psychosomatic spasm.

I could easily throw my fucking iPhone down the street’s gutter right now.
I am, however, refraining myself from doing so.
I am maintaining my self control.

I breathe and breathe my Ultimate Hope into fruition, and while doing so my legs are wiggling in full crazy anticipation, because by the looks of it this is going to be the goddamn motherfucking happiest day of my life.

We are so full of one another, he and I; it’s mental.
Totally, obliteratingly MENTAL.

‘And I greet you’, is what he’s saying.
Right here.
Right now.

From my memoirs ‘TOBACCO – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness


How long had I been held hostage in that room?
Two and a half months.
I look back on that period of time as a Time of Blissful Darkness.
Have done from the start.

[my beautiful dreamer]

Who’s that, speaking over the Teletubbie Phone?

[its me baby. you know that.]

My Thunder Buddy.

He captivated me right from the start.
I knew my old life was over.

Everything that needed to be ended?
Well, I ended it right away.

[lets be immortal baby]

I still remember myself lying on the bathroom floor.
Collapsed in a state of darkest possible ecstasy.

What did he say last night?

[Im gonna shoot someone]


I am being incoherent today.
The bathroom floor story’s for some other time.

First he had shown me a mental projection of himself, lying in the grass.
It was beautiful; first time I perceived him in person with my third eye.

It was sunny.
He was wearing jeans and a black jumper.
Perhaps the one he is wearing in that photo he published on Instagram, taken at Starbuck’s, holding a large paper cup of coffee with both hands, bright blue eyes looking dreamingly into the establishment’s space.
One of my favorites.

He was lying halfway on his back, relaxing.
Leaning on his right arm, fiddling with a blade of grass.
It could’ve been the image of a picknick.
And I joined him.

‘Where are you?’, I inquired.
‘Ohio’, he said.
I wanted him to be more specific, but he said I wasn’t allowed to know.

So far I hadn’t seen the whole picture of him yet in Dream Time.
Right now I still didn’t get a clear picture of his face, but I was at least able to have a look at his body, the way he dresses himself and a fragment of his whereabouts’ location.

I know what he looks like.
I’ve been obsessed with the pictures he sent me long enough.

There’s one that inspires me most.
I don’t need to look at it to have it empower me.
I know it by heart, and all I need to do is dig it up from my memory.
I can tap into it whenever I need it.

Need it.

That’s right:
I need it.
I need HIM.

He’s at the gym.
That big, strong hand, holding the dumbbell.
His bearded face looking down at the floor offscreen.
Nice shot.

Someone must have taken it during PT.
Recognizing the necessity of capturing the moment of strength and confidence.

My husband’s image.

What it’s expressing to me is stability and reliability.


And now I was halfway there, in Ohio.
And halfway here, in my bed in Amsterdam.
Perks of being a shaman.

This whole situation has me wondering about the nature of fantasies.
Contemplation of such a nature is part of Shamanism’s Knowledge of The Interface.
It involves traveling and experiencing in Dream Time.
Modifying Reality at will.
Stuffs like that.

I hadn’t been able to sleep right away.
Perhaps due to the two hour nap I had taken in the afternoon.
As a rebound effect of my subsequent boredom I had zapped right to where he was located.
And now we were chillin’ out in the middle of nature.

Always lots of fun with this guy, you should know.
Before I knew it I was laughing my ass off, and I knew I needed to get out of bed before I woke someone up.
Let’s be a little considerate.

His face close to mine, at kissable proximity.
I saw his eyes.
Or rather, I felt them, looking into mine.

Just babbling and giggling.
Like we always do.

And all of the sudden things got a little hazy.
The mental projection I had tapped into now started flickering,
and zapped like a television changing channels to a new projection.
His jumper’s hoody was now covering his head and half his face.
I looked at him from sideways.
He was concentrating, focusing on a target.

Sniper on duty.

Shooting someone.

I think he must have been for real.

From my memoirs ‘TOBACCO – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness


Woke up this morning without alarm clock, feeling calm yet still a little tired.
This is my usual biorhythm when I behave like a good girl should in the weekends, and this is the first morning since a very long time I feel normal again.
Ah! Normality!

Sweet averageness is surrounding me while I am making my coffee (the milk is júst not enough for two cups – oh well, damn, what can you do?) and while the perculator is doing its thingie on the stove (I sigh and complain because whyyyy is the damn thing always taking so long?) I roll my tobacco and leave the cigarette on the table until my coffee is ready (consider it to be some sort of rule of mine: no smoking before I’ve got my cup filled!).

And I am wondering:
‘Is this it then? Do I feel that normal about it already then?’

I am kind of disappointed, which is quite a contrast with the satisfaction and security I also feel because of, finally, having reached a state of emotional balance and neutrality.
But, you know, don’t worry yourself over it.
Because all it takes is one sip of the black brew to get me going, and I’m feeling something stirring me up again already.

And, tadaa!
Here it comes, ladies and gentlemen, the bliss of anticipation is kicking back in!
And while I am in the bathroom I feel the chuckling coming back up again.
I’m looking up at the toilet room ceiling and I’m thinking:

‘Oi! You guys up there!
You havin’ a laugh, or WHAT?!’

And I imagine my ancestral spirits giggling.

Whoa yeh.
Here we go.
Back to the excitement.
I knew I could count on it.

‘How do you like your coffee, baby?’
‘In a cup, baby’.

I am reminiscing.
What a droogkloot.

Look that up.
Google Translate is your friend.

In a cup. Okay.
Such dryness suggests he is a black coffee person.

I guess this is how a girl who is given into marriage must feel.
I actually am such a girl.
I have been given into marriage by the spirits.
You may think I’m kidding, but I am so not.
I am for real.
Trust me on that.

Who would even believe such a thing?

I do.

Ancestral culturally put, things couldn’t be more traditional for me.

I am Mandailing.
Batak Mandailing, descendant of family Loebis, from Sumatra, Indonesia.
And this is how Mandailing people go about marriage.

I would imagine a girl who has been given into marriage to be asking of her father impatiently on a regular basis:
‘Daddy, how long must I still wait for my future husband to arrive?’,
and the number of times I have sighingly asked the spirits the same question has become countless by now.

At the moment I drift off into daydreaming at least a million times a day, and I just wander through and around the house, feeling completely lost, while I look at my belongings and wonder:

‘What would he think of this? Would he think it’s pretty?
Would he enjoy watching me wear this? And what about that?’.

I could easily spend all day picking up the items one by one, having a close look at it, and getting subsequently so totally overwhelmed by the magnificence of the situation I am finding myself in today, that I’m just lackadaisically dropping the item as soon as I picked it up.

And I sigh again.
Good God.
This is so immense.
So amazingly intense.

My things.
All my beautiful things.
Lingering around, waiting for the absolute impossible to happen.

I would also expect a girl who has been given into marriage to have met her fiancée in the flesh.
They would have had the chance to look each other in the eye at least once, no?
Maybe they even politely shook hands, under strict supervision of a parent?
Or would they have been given the opportunity to have a brief conversation in private,
with the whole family giggling of anticipation in the adjoining room?
And maybe, just maybe, she would have been so fortunate of receiving a hint from him regarding his mentality as a husband?
A secret glimpse of sexual temperament maybe, even?

A smile.
A wink.
A blush?
His hand subtly caressing her underarm’s skin?

Was I given such an opportunity?

Anything at all?

My story is better.
Much, much better.

From my memoirs ‘TOBACCO – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness


Where are my borders?
Do I have any at all?
My borders are kind of Toodle-Loo.

‘HELLO!’, the fucker says.
Demanding attention.
Poking my ribs.

Apparently I’m not responding quick enough.
Don’t even remember what it was about.
I am trying to ignore him.

He is saying something silly.
Happens all the time.
I have turned my back on him.

What is this male spirit doing in my living room?
Instigating me to do naughty things, of course.
What else.

‘Are you alone?’
‘Where’s Rombout?’
‘Still in bed.’
‘Okay. Haha.’
‘Yeh. ‘Haha’.’

Things will only get worse from here on.
I promise.

I am wondering how to get rid of it.
Blowing tobacco smoke in its direction doesn’t seem to have any effect on the pestering entity.
It doesn’t seem to give one flying fuck, and I am too lazy to get the white sage from the cabinet.

He is so full on.
Jesus Motherfucking Christ.

My hand is still lingering somewhere around my hip while I’m lying on the couch in broad daylight.
My eyes are turned at the sky and I am desperately seeking for help:
‘Dear God’, I pray.
‘Please, tell me. What have I got myself into?’.

He is complaining.
Saying my Batak spirit is being a real drill inspector with him.
Very good. Smurf of Death like a lot.
Bossing him around. Making him do stuff.
Whooping his arse, big time!
Whoa yeh.

I know. She is like that.
And I start giggling.

‘Yeh GO ON then.
SMiLE for me’.

My right leg pulls itself up in a hysterical reflex and my arm twitches in some kind of pusillanimous attempt to defend itself.

Da FuQ?
The guy’s response is so fast and fierce, he’s giving me the heebie jeebies, you know?
Together he and I are ADHD squared.

Good God.
Madre Mia.
We’re on one here, ladies and gentlemen!

I know exactly who I’m dealing with.
Been here before.
Been here forever.

Right now I feel the need to play Massive Attack’s album ‘Mezzanine’; one of the best albums ever made, if you want my opinion.
So hot. So dark. So sexy.
But I will not; I’m afraid it will be too intense for me.

I need to set some borders.
And setting borders now involves avoiding intense emotions, to prevent panick attacks and other waves of psychological vertigo to occur, because these are the cause of my destructive thoughts.

I clearly remember one of the warnings I received during shamanic initiation:
‘You gonna be needing some real borders with this man, girlfriend!’.
I recall it to have sounded somewhat loud and melodramatic.
And I now understand what it means.

He’s the kind of guy who knows how to make me laugh, pick me up and lift me up so high, I lose control.

I have a feeling I’m gonna die a thousand deaths with this man.
And this adventure we’re on?
I guarantee it’s gonna be brutal.
Unlike the world has ever seen.

From my memoirs ‘TOBACCO – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness


I am going through a downright wormhole of change.
In my mind I keep hearing:
‘Welcome to The Telepaths’.
I imagine my mentor sitting at his laptop, reading my emails and stories, while thinking:
‘She’s either lost her mind entirely, or, it is what I think it is’.
And I’m hoping he is by now getting a little bit excited, because he is figuring out what this would entail for the future.

What is it exactly I am going through?
I have been tested and trained.
Just something I needed and still need to go through as an upcoming shaman.
And it’s scary as fuck, but I’m getting the hang of it.

What is creating an extra dimension to it is: for me there’s love involved.
True and outspoken, hot and steamy love.

My guess now is he was in charge of the whole operation himself.
First thought I had this morning was he could have been thinking:
‘If she truly is the love of my life, she will know who I am, no matter what’.

And if so, he was right.

What had struck me most, I think, was that I had not felt manipulated or abused by him; it had felt like a clean, surgical cut.
The most traumatizing was the discrepancy in realities, and the fact the contact had now been broken.

After receiving the email he had cut me off just like that, right in the middle of our text conversation, saying:
‘It’s over’.
I believe it was a Saturday morning, one of those when you’d just sit and hang around, and talk to one another while drinking coffee.
And then, all of the sudden everything had changed; I had been betrayed and crucified by three men.
The agony could have killed me right on the spot.

My astrologer had predicted ‘a skeleton coming out of the closet’ for that exact day, and I had actually been waiting on it to happen, because she was so damn accurate; it was uncanny.
And yes, there it had come falling out, with flabby rags of rotting flesh still attached to the bones, drenching me in horribly stinking sticky remainders of blood and surrounding me with the gassy funk of deceit.

It was my personal Hell on Earth, and it would remain to be for a very, excruciatingly painful, long time.

From my memoirs ‘TOBACCO – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness


I don’t know how I made it through.
I really just don’t fucking know.
My spirits said I managed to bring a whole new dimension to the phrase unconditional love.
And for once I agree.

Shamanism, the alchemy and magickal power of words.
I have wondered so many times if I was a total egotistical megalomaniac for believing in myself and my visions.
The truth is, it was time for me to show the decency and modesty to acknowledge the power I possess.
And stand for it!

‘You gotta OWN it’, is what is said.
Well, same goes for Shamanism.
Maybe even in particular.

So, what I did was:
I woke myself the Hell up, and I went against all the odds.
I went against my own (and other people’s) skepticism.
And I surrendered, that’s how I made it through.

Trust me, I made every goddamn sacrifice there was to make, in order to take a stand and make that Chicano U-Turn.
And now my life has almost reached the point of singularity.

I stopped searching.
For I know It, to have found Me.
And now I’m just waiting to cross the Event Horizon.

From my memoirs ‘TOBACCO – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness’


Painting the kitchen cabinets.
And apparently he’s also building a shed in the garden.

I just rolled myself the umteenth cigarette this early Saturday morning.
I am smoking way too fucking much, but I’m allowing myself to for now.
I’ll figure out a way to quit smoking again.
Or not.
But I just don’t care right now.

‘I want you in good shape when I arrive’.
Sure you do.
When you arrive?
IF, you mean.

Promises, promises.
I am fucking sick and tired of them.
Sick and brutally tired.

The number of men who made promises with me are countless by now.
Or actually not that countless.
Perhaps you wouldn’t think so, but I’m actually a pretty good girl.
There have been only ten men in my life.
And I’ll tell you one thing: I am done.
Done in and done for.

If this is not going to work out, I think I will move out of the country nevertheless.
I will not get my dreams ruined, by any man.
It’s a promise I made to myself.
You can all go fuck yourselves, you here me?!

Oh yeah.
Let’s just make fucking plans for you to arrive to come pick me up.
Why the Hell not.
And yeh, sure, let’s make that the week before my birthday party on 24th of August.
What’s that, Tuesday 20 August?
You’re right.
We’d have a couple of days to ‘get acquainted’ with one another before I throw your gut down the arena and have you deal with my friends.
I have a feeling you don’t really trust me on the idea that you are more than a 1000% welcome in my circle of friends and family, that you’ve got this idea in your head they will be waiting for you with machetes ready to cut you up and drink your blood.
But I know at least one friend who would start crying wildly herself if she saw me with you, happily united after all.
And yes, baby, she’s a black woman.
You got that right.
And she’ll be there for sure.

Who is this I am talking to anyway?
It’s all been one freaking fucking delusion lately.
And now this delusion is speaking with me and saying he is building a shed in his garden.
Isn’t that just amazing?
He’s saying his bachelor sized house in San Carlos is too small to host me and my creativity.

My studio at home now is about 16 square meters, just big enough for a table with sewing machine, altars and a crazy amount of clothing, fabrics, other materials and shoes.
And that’s only half of it.
The rest of it, plus my paintings, beautiful boxes installation and what not, are stored in the attic.
And I’m not even talking of my studio equipment yet.
But supposedly I will get space for that on base?

On base.
Right. Excellent idea!
I think it would be best to have me take my job in a shelter then, because what about my banging techno music? It would only be a matter of courtesy towards my neighbours to have me work in the underground on my music production and DJing, right where it belongs.
And you’re absolutely right in thinking it would make me feel more comfortable as well, because I’m freaking tired of being harassed and judged by neighbours.
When in need of daylight, I’ll just come out of my dungeon – and it’s too fucking hot out there anyway, in the middle of the desert.
Would be amazing if I could smoke in there, by the way.

Again: sure!
I still think it’s an amazingly wild idea to just fucking move in with a U.S. fucking Marine in fucking Barstow in The United Fucking States, in the middle of the fucking freaking desert, of all fucking places!
WHOA YEH That’s MY idea of an adventure, alright!
I can totally imagine myself having my own office on base, and finally have the opportunity to unleash my untouched gift for mathematics in a controlled, supervised but most of all: applicable fashion.
Ah yes! That would be about time, man, phew…
It would be a total dream come true.

I have been dreaming once of a place, located on the corner of a street; lots of glass walls everywhere and surrounded by windows – a residential spot, and there wouldn’t be much of privacy because when you’d walk down the stairs, you’d end up in the hallway with doors to other people’s quarters.

That yours baby?

That was the whole plan, wasn’t it: me moving in with you at your quarters on base?
I clearly remember receiving all that funny information about your kitchen there; supposedly I had to bring some doorknobs and especially think about my need for proper lighting, because your kitchen would definitely be too dark to my taste.

You see me do it?
Move in with a U.S. Marine?
Just like that?
Well, I fucking do.

I remember one of my friends getting angry with me on the phone when he’d heard out about my plans:
‘OF COURSE, Kiki! Of course you’re just gonna move in with some fucking G.I. Joe whom you haven’t even met yet!
The dick’s the kind of guy who goes sailing half way Europe and defies the fucking Gulf of Biscay on his own, but I guess he just didn’t see me doing something similar.
Well, that’s just too fucking bad for him.

You should know I have been waiting for six years for this man to arrive in my life.
One of the first things I said to him was:
‘I’ve seen you coming’.
Because: it was fucking predicted.
And I happen to be the kind of woman who blindly trusts on Spirit guidance.

But you know, let’s just say things have been ‘rather difficult’ lately.
And I am definitely understating that.
If I told you what we have already been through, you wouldn’t believe it.
You have my word for it.

And we just imagined ourselves to sit back to back on the floor, both exhausted to the bone.
And we would laugh of relief, and say:
‘Shiiiiiiiiiit, dude. What the Fuck was THAT?!’.
The vision makes me smile, against my better judgment.

Apart from the lack of space in the house, the dog is also a consideration.
Imagine what a three feet tall German shepherd would do to my dear, poor, lovely shoes.
He would love to pull the lacy bits of my precious costumes and maybe even choke on some bead for my jewelry creation.
I can imagine him go crazy ravenous on my fetish boots.
NO WAY, Scout!
You’s a bad boy.

So yeah. Makes total sense to build a shed.
Thank you baby?
Nah. Forget it.
I’ll do the thanking later.
If at all.

Yeah, I’ve got a whole collection of old style porcelain doorknobs, the kind you wanna die for, so beautiful.
A couple of nice hand grips also.
Apparently your kitchen is in typical bachelor’s condition, baby?
And what it takes is a woman to arrive in your life to have you fix it, because you’re all:
‘Well, it opens and closes, doesn’t it?’ about it?

Sure baby, makes total sense to me.
And guess what?
I fucking packed the grips and knobs already.
And yeah, they’re still all in place and fucking ready to be transported on a fucking plane, indeed, goddammit!

Those suitcases I bought last summer?
All still here.
Wouldn’t even DARE to bring them back to the store.
Yeah, I fucking unpacked them alright.
What do you think?
I need my fancy clothes on a regular basis.
I even bought YOU a freaking suitcase, you know?
Yeah, one of those stupid posh motherfuckers for a suit to go right in for travel, neatly tucked away on a coat hanger, and come out ready to wear.
But you know what?
Don’t worry yourself over it.
It was my pleasure.

Maybe I’ll make that a birthday present for ya.
If yo lucky.


I nearly killed myself for being so forthright, you know?
You should have seen the fucking place in here, it was a goddamn warzone on itself.
It was God Damn MOTHER-FUCKiNG brutal M.A.Y.H.E.M.!
For the second time!

But hey, you know what, I consider it to have been a rehearsal packing.
I am that awfully practical about it.
But I trust you can imagine me to be somewhat cynical about the whole thing.
Just a tiny little bit, baby.
Just a liiiiiittle bit.

But anyway.
The doorknobs.
One I recently bought is a beautiful pine cone shaped wooden doorknob.
Really gorgeous, and I think it would indeed fit perfectly on the door of my newly built studio:

The Shed, My New Shelter.

From my memoirs ‘TOBACCO – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness


My mind is obliterated.
I am actually believing all that I’m experiencing to be real.

My shamanic mentality is stubborn like a colt on a leash.
I was just wondering where my fear has gone, and I imagined how a very tiny version of me was wildly enthusiastically jumping up and down with her fists up, somewhere on the right bottom of my brain, yelling fanatically:
‘Bring it on, motherfuckers!

And I thought:
‘Oh. There it is’.

Not much left of it, it seems.

That’s all I can think and think about at the moment.

I am experiencing some kind of meltdown, and it’s not even that hot today.
I’ve lost my mind and found my heart, that’s for sure.
And trust me, it’s banging like crazy.

It’s ridiculously hard to focus on anything.
Half of the time I’m just looking around my Smurf of Death headquarters in utter dumbfoundedness.
My wit: nowhere to be found.
Toodle-loo wit.
So long for that.

All I can think is that I must be in love or something.
And it’s true that I have been in love before, but this time it’s a whole different ballgame.
This man is a whole different ballgame.

What a headfuck.
This morning he painted me a picture of himself, wearing large, rough, black leather boots, and suggested adding a black officer’s stick to that.
If that would turn me on, he inquired.

Yeah, well.
It for sure would, baby.

And now I can’t get it out of my head; the image got already stuck on my retina while I haven’t even seen it yet for real.
I’m sure to faint when the moment comes.

Thanks a lot, baby?


I’m considering making a drawing or even a painting of it.
The picture shown in here was my very lousy attempt to make a first sketch.
That’s how bad it is.
Like I said, mind obliterated.

Creating is the only thing that seems to satisfy and ease my mind a little bit.
I’m trying to keep my head cool as fuck, and that’s working out relatively well, given the circumstances.
However, every now and again my attitude takes a freaking hike and a somewhat nervous and heavily amused burst of laughter slips away from me.

The other day I paid his website a visit, and gave a good laugh at his picture.
‘HAHAHA’, is what I said out loud, pointing my index finger at Mister Ridiculously Handsome.

It had quite a grounding effect on me, I must say.
And I’m just happy I refound my faith and confidence.

From my memoirs ‘TOBACCO – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness