Count your blessings, name them one by...oh look! A kitty!

Sometimes it is hard to think positive.
My hair is falling out due to stress so when I start to feel overwhelmed I distract myself...

I have an apartment (which is a serious mess).
I have a job (the department is drowning and I am responsible for too much, and accountable for other peoples' mistakes)
Kitties! ( mine won't cutddle, I admire the strays across the street (that need to be TNR'd)
Art (when was the last time I did anything. The gallery is going to drop me. I have too much shit everywhere)
Boyfriend (probably thinks I'm lazy, fat, weird)
Family (I don't see them enough, they spoil me)




I think the worst is when my mind can't connect with my body.

mentality

Being a [wannabe] artist and OCD is a weird dichotomy.

I am messy. My apartment has crap everywhere. But I need things to be straight[ish] at work. And I won't sell a piece that's not perfect.

And the trypophobia thing, which makes no sense to anyone. "Fear of holes." Why is that even a thing?? My p. doc says it's evolutionary. Frogs and stuff that were poisonous had circular patterns or something, so according to him I'd survive in the Amazon. He actually said that.
Uh, yay me?

2FAN and Polka

2nd Friday Art Night is a thing where a bunch of galleries downtown stay open late. There are exhibit openings, food and beer from locals, and my favorite...live music.

Tonight I had a freak-out. I drove past the first place I wanted to go, started crying, and kept driving. I ended up crying in a parking lot outside this museum, one I almost kinda feel comfortable in.

I went in, eventually, tucking in behind an old couple to pretend I belonged. There was a "ghost story" thing and I finally started to breathe normally.

On to my second stop. First thought: I know nothing about wine so I just pointed to the prettiest bottle and said "that one!"  Second thought: CHEESEDIPCHEESEDIPCHEESEDIP. Third thought: HL frames represent!

No thoughts after that. Just men with accordions, doing the chicken dance, and polka-ing my arse off. I chuckled the whole way back to my car (which made me look even crazier so I laughed harder).

Be a fool. Have fun. Hang out with old folks.

I should be afraid to die, right?

"Maybe, you have to be dying to understand. But there’s this thing that happens where death stops being scary. What starts being scary is hope, because it's not true."  

I still have hope, but I also understand reality. I may never stop feeling like this, and that's ok. There is a purpose that I may never know.

Dying doesn't scare me. It'd be kinda nice I think. Apparently that's not normal.

Kitty fun...

I have a kitty now.

A twitter-gram/graham

Twitter isn't just good for stalking. Fakejasonboyett is the best kind of funny - random, full of great culture references (Foreigner, noodle soup, unicycles...), and quick. I'm surely not the only one who feels too busy/A.D.D. to read long, satirical blogs just to get a laugh. Make me laugh in 140 characters and you're a rockstar.
Here are a few of my favorites:









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I bought seven boxes of graham crackers today. I'll probably finish them off by Wednesday.


Supposedly graham crackers were invented by a guy in the 1800s who thought you should eat bland foods to curb your sexual appetite. . . but apparently the recipe has changed, sorry Rev. Graham. At least his trend of frequent bathing stuck.

nerdiness revealed

My mind runs in book form most of the time. If I've been reading a lot (especially fiction), its even worse. Sometimes, at the end of the day, I find myself coming up with chapter titles, had my day been transcribed in such.

For example:

"Adventures in Splinter Removal," or "What Else Will I Find Embedded in My Flesh Today"

"Another Musical Moment that Changed Me"

"Faces, Questions, and the Cupid Shuffle"





In other news, I fear that I've been using "ect" to abbreviate etcetera again.

Who needs skin on their thumb anyway?

Once upon a time a girl created a piece of art.  It was very mixed-media-y. . . made of wood, bottle caps, lambs wool, and mirrors.  A year passed and, although the girl liked the concept, she became dissatisfied with the way it was put together.  She began deconstructing it, saving as many of the original elements as she could.

Unfortunately, this girl never went to kindergarten, so she was never taught not to be a "glue monster."

She tore the bottle caps off the wool as carefully as she could, but giant,wooly blobs of glue clung to the backs.


In a moment of rare stupidity, the girl grabbed a steak knife to scrape the blobs.  As you can imagine, this didn't end well, but with a few bandaids on her index finger she was back to work.

Then, in an even rarer moment of pure lunacy, she grabbed an exacto knife to resume the glue excavation.

*slip*

*slice*

*panic*

Obviously the concept of learning from one's mistakes was foreign to this girl.

Four words come to mind...

Suppose...

As much as I'd love to be labelled as a "creative," what I'd really love is to be a "facilitator."

I am the queen of unfinished projects.  Great ideas that reach various stages of fruition but never reach that point of completion.  I'm not so vain that I think this is a problem only I have.  I'm sure there are so many other with closets, portfolios, and hard drives full of works-in-progress.

My initial thought was "Someday, when I run a gallery and frame shop I'll have specific shows featuring unfinished work.  But what if we as a community of artists gathered to hold some sort of unfinished project collective. . . A place to share ideas and inspire each other. . . Musicians, painters, knitters, poets, etc. . . All media, all stages welcome.

How can I make this happen?
Or am I the only kook with more half finished canvases than shoes?

No shame in high maintence snoozing...

I just pulled four band-aids out of my pillowcase.  No wonder I can't sleep.  Screw you Princess with Pea issues...

Legit Skills, right?

Seriously, why can't I include "able to sing along to every song on The Little Mermaid" to my resume???

or maybe I'm just peter pan

Lately I've been wondering if I missed my calling as a junior high literature teacher...
Don't get me wrong, I still don't like kids, but junior high people are in the midst of chaos, much like myself, so I feel their pain...kinda...
Also, I'm addicted to audiobooks.  Seriously addicted.  For really real.  And I find myself drawn to YA fiction.  Partly its the length...I'm afraid of most books audiobooks that last more than ten hours.  Seven-ish hours is ideal.  Maybe its ADD, maybe just a fear of commitment.  Whatever the reason, most YA books fit this requirement.
I wanted to like the Twilight stuff, but I'm sorry, I just couldn't.  Too much scifi and melodrama.  My favorite?  Anything by John Green.  Once, while listening to Looking for Alaska, I did the ugly cry in the middle of Funwash.

Awkward, yes...but this was Funwash.

Silver lining: I didn't even say a bad word!

Wet feet + linoleum + running = hello new bruises. . .

I...have...arrived...

So, I'm partly watching an old Without a Trace, kinda eating dinner, and browsing these internets, and something made me google the phrase "presto change-o eureeka's castle"

Then, my friends, the unthinkable happened...

See that first result?  That's my xanga, from 2005.
Whaaaat?
Ridiculous, but it proves that I'm just as strange/nerdy as I was six years ago, since I was googling the same thing.

Alright, set your watches. . . my fifteen minutes start now. . .

and it wasn't even that funny...

I made a boob joke tonight and my mom laughed.
Stay tuned for the ending of the world. . .

throwback

They made me.  They are my forever favorites.

Trapped in the Closet: Electric Boogalo

Once upon a time I moved into a slightly ghetto but still amazing apartmebnt.  At some point in the moving process I decided to remove the front closet's door. . . by myself.


Naturally, I ended up inside the closet, trying to support the weight f both doors without losing any major body parts or toes.  I macgyver'd my way out [eventually] but couldn't fight the feeling that I had a better understanding of R. Kelly, due to our shared closet trauma.

There are lessons to be learned from this, but I'm apparently a bad student.  Tonight I learned that metal is probably always stronger than any part of my body, especially my [non-cow milking] fingers.  I was fortunately able to stop and reverse my drill in time to save my precious digits, but they're all going to need a little therapy [especially point, he's prone to ptsd].

So, my friends, do be careful.  Closets are dangerous, and no one needs to relive those 22 chapters or torturous insanity.





Safety never takes a vacation.

Awkward is. . .

...skipping church then biking past with a friend just as everyone is leaving...

I couldn't have timed it better if I tried.


[but I finally had a real conversation.  Too bad I had to look outside the church to find it]


In other news, I have approximately 427 new bruises.  Pourquoi?

I have extra saliva! It's a medical condition, ok?

Maybe it's because it's late(ish), and I'm anxious about the new job tomorrow, but I find this hil-arious:

“Roses are red, violets are blue. I have a knife, get in the f*ing van.”

I spit all over myself and haven't been able to stop giggling since I read that.



[I briefly considered writing it on a notecard and slipping it into my purse in case I start feeling overwhelmed tomorrow, but there are just too many ways that could end badly.]

your wood and metal are no match for me

Today when I went to work I left through my back door.  The lock on that door doesn't really like my key, so I came in through the front.  Well, I tried to. . . but it was chained.

Brilliant.

After spending what felt like an hour fighting with my key and the back door I gave up.  I figured my options were a locksmith or finding a place that sold decent bolt cutters at 10pm.  Neither sounded appealing.

I went with my third option:

I am part macgyver and part incredible hulk.  Do not get in my way.