Kinky bastard! Grats! You're 79% kinky!

Well well well, you kinky bastard! Most likely you're into some weird shit, which is always great. Consider mailing the author of this test, and keep up the good work ;)

My test tracked 1 variable How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 93% on kinkpoints

Link: The Kinkyness Test written by nilnisicruce on Ok Cupid

What Is Your Animal Personality?
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I need to do something creative. Something creative that doesn't bother the shit out of my wrist.

Something that doesn't involve schoolwork. Something that doesn't involve the GIP and something that doesn't involve photoshop at all.

Hard choice, no? I think I'll whip out my wordpad and write something. Doesn't matter what.

A fanfic, maybe?

Of one of JD's movies? *grabs Edward Scissorhands of the shelf*

And you can be darn sure of it, that when I start writing, that I'll whip out my Chet Baker Cd as well. Yum. Smooth jazz.

The room I'm sitting in is perhaps one of the prettiest rooms in the entire building. You can see that it used to belong to a man, since there is a lot of woodwork and a lot of darkgreen. Very male. I can't say that I hate it. In fact, if my mother loved these rooms, I cannot see why it wouldn't appeal to me. This room was this way throughout the years I grew up, and it is still this way. I have no single reason to believe that my children will transform this room into something more modern. It is family history. And that is why I'm keeping it this way. I've seen pictures however, of how this room used to look before my parents took on the dutiful job of restoring it. Blank, white walls. Ugly plumbing. Floorboards who were in dire need of a sand down and a new layer of varnish. Not something I would have gone for. In fact, the entire building was derelict, but my father refused to let it slip through his hands. He was in love with it, you could say.

But underneath that terrible layer of white, my father found green. And so ... the walls became green. The woodwork was chipped, but he managed to get the paint of it, and back to his original splendor. Furniture that my father bought to match the area of when this room was decorated, although he hated Victorian furniture and had a outmost love for Art Nouveau furniture. Most of the furniture in the building is Art Nouveau. It isn't the nicest style, but it doesn't suck either. But when you grow up with it ... you can't love it or hate it. It's just there, really and you grow used to it.

I was born in this room. I grew up in this room, watching my mother bang away on the only pieces of Art Nouveau in the entire room : The Remington Noiseless that I chucked into the flames in a fit of rage when I was 17, and the Art Nouveau desk, which is still here. My father had such exquisitive taste. Antique dealers who come into the building just don't have eyes enough to take it all in, and walk around with their eyes as big as church bells. I think my father would have been amused, really. And right now, I'm writing in this room.

My parents were both artists, which is probably why they nearly drove each other insane. My father preferred the rich versatility of his piano to the harsh clacking of the keys on my mother’s typewriter. Perhaps that’s why they had separate bedrooms. My father’s piano was downstairs in the lounge, of course, but often while he tossed and turned and tried to sleep my mother would be up half the night, banging out b-grade horror novels on autopilot. I can't say she was a very good writer, but her ideas were out of the ordinairy. Her novels would attract the people who loved a bit of a scare. I believe they can still be found in second hand bookshops. My father, apart from being a wonderful, passionate pianist, which I've learned from the recordings my mother let me hear as a teenager, was also a police officer.

As a teenager, I imagined him nursing his bottle of whiskey late at night, listening to recordings of his favorite classic pianists, weary of his job, but that is perhaps not what he did. It is easy to have a wrong image of your father if you never knew him at all. I adored him, I needed him, I missed him, in a way. Whatever there's left in my mind are vague, made-up images of someone who looks like my father, from the pictures I've hoarded and claimed as my own as the years passed by. Long hair, pale skin, slender build, long fingers, those of a pianist. All of them are pictures of my father with long hair, apart from one, where he looks gaunt and pale, with short hair, ruffled about, messy clothes and a weary smile on his face. It is easy to believe that my mother chucked away all of the other pictures where he could be seen with short hair. It is understandable. She always told me that the man with short hair just isn't your father anymore, just a mere shadow of the person he used to be.

My father had cancer, and he would have died of it, if he hadn't fallen down the mainstairs when he was 32. On purpose or by accident, that I don't know. It isn't easy to fall down them, although the building's history has two recordings of people who have seen their lives end by falling down them. First recording was a servant, who liberately fell down them to end her life, in the 1870's. The second one is ... yes, my father.

The piano that my father just loved to play is still here, although no one has played it in ages. It is tuned each year, although it is far from necessary. It isn't gathering dust either. It is polished at least once a month, because my father did have exquisitive taste. A Steinway from the 1930's, if I can believe my Uncle Noah's insane Irish ramblings, God bless the man. It's just my way to honor him, I suppose, apart from his pictures that used to decorate my bedroom with as a teenager.

I don't think it is odd at all to miss someone you never knew. And in fact, my father, the enigma that he was, since my mother rarely spoke about him, has always been around. He is in the house, each way I go. He is in every single piece of furniture that I touch, he is in every room. Why? Because I want it that way.

But before I continue this any further, do you believe in ghosts? Could you ever believe that they are around us, watching all our movements, watching us being born, watching us grow up, cry bitter tears, watch us eat, sleep and breathe? They watch us live our lives without the singlest trace of recognition as of why they are there. Most of them don't know either. All they know is that they are trapped. I can believe it gets rather lonesome.

The older the building, the more ghosts there are. Roman armies have walked through our basement ever since I can remember, destined to continue their doomed march for so many centuries to came. There are servants, there are Victorian ladies walking through the corridors of this building without taking note of me or their children. But some of them walk talk to you. Some of them will want the contact, but little of us mortals are willing to accept that, and they are ignored.

This building, and the site it is based on, has seen quite the history. What do you wish of a former Victorian hotel? That no ghosts at all wanders through it? It would be entirely inlogical to believe that. Romans have used this site, which partially explains the Romans in the basement. Most of the ghosts in here can be explained, and as the years passed I learned their names and part of their histories.