Thursday, August 29, 2013

Quiet Day

Thursday, August 29, 2013




[apartment photos, canon t3i, 8.29.13]

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Painting Process

Tuesday, August 27, 2013




[apartment photos, canon t3i, 8.27.13]

Thursday, August 22, 2013

Beach 8.21.13

Thursday, August 22, 2013




[fisheye lake michigan photos, iphone 5, 8.19.13]

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

Eternally Weenie

Tuesday, August 20, 2013
The riskiest thing I did as a kid was trade my allowance for a foil pack of Pokemon cards. Not knowing if there would be any card worth my hard earned cash (I pulled weeds, I dusted poorly, I stopped slapping Alex), it was the biggest gamble I took part in. I rarely ding-dong-ditched or stole gum from the grocery or snuck out of the house or secretly sipped wine or uttered curse words in public places (god save my soul now). I was a weenie. I still am a weenie. I hope I'm not doomed to be eternally weenie.

I must give myself a little credit in that I came to Chicago and am utterly alone and pathetic. This took balls (or if we want to get all feminist-y, it took the female equivalent of balls, which I'm guessing is where-ever the eggs are kept, I don't know, I'm pretty grossed out by all the sewer stuff) and I'm proud and all, but I'm failing on a deeper level: connecting with human beings. I've got the animals and even the BUGS in the bag. I have a million mottled pigeon friends and don't bother killing the bugs that break into my apartment. But I find myself consistently letting myself down when it comes to humans.

I share elevator rides with others and don't speak. A human opens the door for me and I say, "thank you" and immediately walk away. I am passed by a tall handsome fella who is very obviously trying to catch my eye (this is real, this happened last night, someone LOOKED AT ME) and I look at the ground because I am terrible. I am given the decision to sit next to a delightful looking man or stand and potentially fall on my ass due to unfamiliarity with how to properly stand in order to not fall on my ass while on the train, and I choose the threat of rear bruises.

I think about this a lot. I wonder why people are so scared to do things. At least some people. I guess I can only speak for myself. I am scared shitless to do a lot of things. This past weekend my friend Alice (who is the worst example because she is amazing at being gutsy in the "talking to people she doesn't know" department) urged me to talk to people and I brushed it off as if it were impossible. It's not in my nature. That's what I always tell myself. I'm not "meant" to be "that person". I'm incapable of it. But the truth is that I'm not. I could have introduced myself to the girl in the elevator this afternoon. I could have sat next to that man on the train. I could have followed that attractive boy home and watched him from his window. I could have broken the bus stop wall and stolen that Adam Driver Gap ad and hung it above my bed on the ceiling.

But I didn't do any of those things and it all comes down to one thing. I care too much what other people think. I spend a lot of time getting dressed because I care about what others think. I spend a lot of time worrying about if I'm sweating or if my make-up's smudgy or if I'm talking too loud or too quietly or if someone can see that I'm reading an embarrassing book (what am I, some walking cliche? I can't read fucking Klosterman on the train), or if someone can hear that I'm listening to and enjoying Vampire Weekend on my iPhone (because good GOD, that would be the end of it all). I worry so much that I probably look like an idiot. You can spot the worriers from acres away because they look uncomfortable. Their muscles are tense and they are sweating and they are constantly looking around all panicky and they look stupid. I look stupid. I look stupid going to great lengths to hide the book covers and turn my music to the barely audible volume and essentially hiding my face with sunglasses and my hands and my shirt collars because I'm so fucking worried. Heaven forbid I not put forth this persona of perfect taste and impeccable fashion sense. As if somehow Bauhaus and black tights will so dramatically change others' opinions of me.

I'm done being a little shit. To hell with anyone who would think less of me for anything that I do (save, you know, murder and listening to Rihanna or whatever). Yesterday I had some weird out-of-body experience where I went to the beach on a very windy day and my skirt flew up and I didn't lose my calm. I literally walked to where I wanted to get to and sat down. I'm sure at least 16 people saw my ass but for some reason I didn't give a shit and it felt great. It was something really simple that I conquered somehow. The day before, I ran outside. That was huge. That may sound idiotic to some, but it was a huge step for me. 

I can't go back and correct all the things I potentially messed up by being a weenie as a younger miss. I can't redo the "mud walk" at Camp Potawatomi. I can't get drunk at 16 or wait out my freshman year in Cincinnati to see if maybe I could have succeeded there. I can't go back and actually SPEAK to the boy I had an enormous crush on and who I'd managed to get in the same room as (after much prodding of my older brother) this past spring.

I'm not a fan of platitudes and that garbage. The whole "be in control of your own destiny" shit. But it applies. I spend a lot of time thinking about "what if" scenarios and it's such a waste. I may be denied. I may feel ugly. I may get arrested for stealing Gap ads. But I'm going to start doing more of the things I want to do. If people want to laugh at my running form or peep my butt, so be it. 

I guess here's to flashing people and making asses of ourselves forever and ever.


Amen.

Friday, August 16, 2013

Spiders

Friday, August 16, 2013





[apartment window spiders, canon t3i, 8.15.13]

Thursday, August 15, 2013

Felt Bows

Thursday, August 15, 2013




[bow clips, felt, 6.13-7.13]

Post-Breakup Shit Shoveling

I spend a lot of time staring at bald spots and howling dogs and beach squirrels from seven floors up. I’ve dropped a significant amount of weight and pushed myself a state over into a “big city” and switched majors from something boring and certain to something “exciting” and potentially fruitless. This is what we do. This is how 20-something year olds behave. I’d denned up in Fort Wayne, Indiana for many (17) years and stuck myself in the slime of a horribly boring and stagnant relationship. I’d packed on a lot of excess weight that pulled my skin and pleased nearby fast food chains. I’d gone on and off medication for all the things that I inherited or that I spontaneously sprouted psychologically. I’d failed my first class in college (or ever) and grown so sick of the man I was living with that one night a pizza ended it all. The monotony of $5 pizza and TV drove me to the edge and in a tearful rage (as I am want to be in), I ended a four year relationship and found myself trudging through snow with all my meager bags could hold, ready to board my Grand Am and drive the long mile to my parents’ house, where I’d live for the next five months. I can still see myself looking up at a low-flying plane and smiling out of exhaustion or relief or complete terror, whichever.

The first week was a trip. I’d never describe myself as dramatic. Sure I’d vowed never to speak to my mother again no less than 15 times growing up. Okay, I’d slapped my little brother Alex across the face (really no explanation of motive needed, as slapping is a dramatic thing to take part in no matter the circumstance).  I’d thought my life would freeze when my fellow classmates heard tell of me having started my period in the sixth grade. But these are commonplace dramas among growing young ladies and I thought myself a levelheaded and serene near-adult woman in March of 2013. But that first week of singledom was pathetic. I wore out the ears of my mom and ate nothing (oh, but thank heaven because I was getting so fat), and did nothing but sob and think my life over because no one else was going to ever fall in love with someone like me. It was a great week. I’d highly recommend it. Although, fun tip, when your mom takes you pity shopping: buy stuff. I was so “depressed” that I wasn’t “into” shopping and missed out on a lot of stuff I’d probably want now, sitting on my bed, broke as all hell in the future where I’m very fine and very in need of pants and food and train fare and toilet paper. But in the haze of drama, I saw nothing but eternal loneliness.

There’s nothing that feels like rock bottom like reading a self-help book. Granted I did not seek out nor purchase this book, but I read it cover to cover. I will not disclose which book, but my mom arrived home with it one night (undoubtedly because she wanted me to leave her the hell alone for a few hours) and I read it. And it made me feel awful. Not only because it beat the fact that my relationship was absolutely over into my head, but because it was written by two boobs and I’d prided myself on being an asshole who read Gogol and McCarthy and pooh-poohed Kate Chopin and lined my shelves with Dostoevsky, never to be read, but, oh, to be seen (ya know, cigar smoking and scotch drinking and all that, too). After reading this book I cried everyday for a bit and then was totally fine. This is not exaggeration. I was fine one day, about 8-9 days later. I had a drama queen week where I thought I would never recover (not helped by the fact that a lot of “experts” claim it will take you half the duration of your relationship to get over said relationship… to them I flip the bird because I recovered from 4 years in a week) and surely die in my bed from exhaustion and hunger.

After that splendid week I spent a lot of time with friends. I tried a lot of “new things” and continued losing weight and reconnecting with people I hadn’t talked to in a long time and running and bicycling and gaining some pretty sexual tan lines and occasionally eating food and kissing the shitty spring 2013 semester goodbye. I failed microeconomics by the way. And I think I owe my current situation to both my slimy relationship and to my D- in economics. Because both those things made me realize that my life was a turd.

[I’m by no means attempting to besmirch the name of my ex-boyfriend, as he was a disturbingly kind and loyal person. He put up with a lot of shit from me (including but not limited to: baseless rages, baseless tears, baseless arguments, occasional unintentionally violent night terrors, loss of much of his closet space and lots of forced back massages) and he will always hold a little place in my cold dead heart. But we were not right together and we both knew it and thus, we were sludgy and disgusting. He has since gone on to do other things to which I can only respond with a series of wrinkled faces. But wrinkled faces are fun and adorable so no harm, no foul.]

As is customary during times of drastic change due to realizing your life is a turd, I’m “expressing myself” like young women so frequently need to do. I’ve always been one to flop my business on the internet. My Xanga is a testament to my idiocy as a middle school lady and I’ve been member of nearly every blogging platform since. But upon re-opening this blog I’ve decided to get grossly personal because writing massive amounts in the TextEdit on my Macbook feels wrong. It feels cowardly. I tend to hide everything I make/write/do (I've also been known to retreat into the head hole of sweatshirts like a stupid turtle). And if I’m not hiding it, I’m terribly embarrassed and critical of it. I’d taken to writing loads and loads almost everyday as a means to release all the shit. I had lost my best friend and transferred my outpouring of words onto others who didn’t want it and thus, needed somewhere to shovel all the shit. It’s a beautiful image and I’m keeping it.

But all along I had this want for someone to listen - as humans do. I’ll admit the first few months of that little notepad are an abysmal mess of teenagery sob-fests and petulant rages, but as time goes on I feel I’ve regained my level head and forgiven people without receiving apologies and done all that adult bullshit that we are supposed to be able to do at 22.

It seems to be common practice to look back on who I was a year ago and weep for myself. The older I get, the more I realize this is not fading and I am not getting cooler or prettier or better. But the rush I feel from divulging is really cool. And not in a “wow, now that I’ve lost weight I’m going to show everyone by bubs and buns” kind of way. That rush works for some. I prefer words, which can often lead to feeling more naked than physical nudity does. But since I’m “putting myself out there” I feel I would be remiss if I kept my thoughts in private. I’m going to be showing classrooms full of people that I’m not adept at drawing like they are. I’m going to be reading my writing and showing others my “art” for them to tear apart with bloody teeth. This is very terrifying to me, so during this period of pharmaceutically-supported contentedness, I’m taking advantage and dishing out.

There’s something about only having spider and pigeon friends in a new city that really makes a person want to shove all their junk on the internet. Less in an Anthony Weiner/Vanessa Hudgens sense and more in a ‘what I’m doing right now’ sense.

So here’s to embarrassing my future self.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Chinatown

Tuesday, August 13, 2013




[chinatown photos, canon t3i, 8.11.13]

Saturday, August 10, 2013

Sky

Saturday, August 10, 2013




[roger's park photos, canon t3i, 8.5.13]

Friday, August 9, 2013

Apartment Views

Friday, August 9, 2013





[roger's park photos, canon t3i, 8.8.13]

Thursday, August 8, 2013

Apartment [Pt. 3]

Thursday, August 8, 2013










[apartment photos, canon t3i, 8.8.13]

Apartment [Pt. 2]






[apartment photos, canon t3i, 8.8.13]

Apartment [Pt. 1]













[apartment photos, canon t3i, 8.8.13]