a tingling sensation December 30, 2009

…my life can be pretty fucked up!

gosh, I used to be cute.

I used to paint my toenails.

and not give a fuck.

I was creative too.

I used to be in love.

I used to fall off my skateboard.

for a while I had close friends
the kind that let you spray paint them when they’re drunk.
the kind that keep you warm when the heat goes out
the kind that help you fill up the station wagon when dumpster diving
and never blame you for eating that chocolate.
or making strange cinnamon treats out of the pizza crust.
the kind that will always share their last cigarette with you
the kind that will write lyrics to punk songs and hide them on your computer
the kind that haggles for used skate shoes as a gift to you
the kind that bombs hills with you, even when they have loose bearings.
the kind that helps you cook a feast in an unpaid for apartment.
the kind that keeps playing even when they bleed.
the kind that accidentally breaks your ceiling fan with nunchucks
the kind that allow you to witness them shave their mohawks
let you paint their spikes.
the kind that give you hope and faith in humanity.
The kind I let go and forced away.

because I like to hear myself talk.
‘I am lucky to constantly be exposed to a ridiculous variety of experiences. I’m almost always completely consumed in this strange sense of appreciation and adoration for all things life. It can never be turned off. Everything is too interesting.’

Like right now, the speed and comfort with which my finger tips are flying across the greasy keys hitting letter after letter individually, forcing them to combine and spill my thoughts on to the page. On to my screen. On to your screen. You’re getting a sense of my life(the passion, the insanity, the awesomely fucked up-ness) from the safety of your own life. What a stunningly beautiful thing. How simply feeling the comfort I associate with typing can bring me to the brim with joy. REAL joy. It’s swirling about in my lungs at all times. My eyes are spinning, over-stimulated, desperately soaking in every last visual drop of information in my surroundings. Caressing it in brain fibers and sending a tingling bliss through my entire nerve system. Even in the two feet that have been crushed in circle pits so many times and are basically numb, they tingle now.
And don’t you want to live this?
don’t you want to look back on your memories and sigh happily with the knowledge that you’ve been living life to the fullest?
don’t you want to look forward to the future and giggle because you understand so clearly that even the most dreadful, terrible things that may occur are in their own way truly lovely?
don’t you want to be lured by the promise of new sensation?
fresh perspective?
don’t you want to be confident in your perception of actuality?

I do.
I am.
I love.

Hmm. Been hitting the bong.
But seriously, how can you let anything pass by you!
WAKE UP.
let the merriment commence!

your willingness to let yourself be happy is the key to full-blooded, unquestionable delight

bird guts and fruit cabinets December 13, 2009

[After a decent toke]
My puppy, Bronson, walks into the room. He snaps me out of an Al Bundy induced daze via the crinkling sound of the plastic wrapper in his mouth; for some reason the boy’s holding a fortune cookie. I put my hand out and ask him to drop it. He eagerly places it in my palm without question and without breaking the cookie. [good boy, his cute tail wags fast.]

Now, I love fortune cookies. They are crunchy, yummy and mysterious. And I’ve been having a tough time lately, so I was ready for this little slip of paper to turn everything around. To reaffirm my recent craving for change and push me to make some sort of path altering life decision. Or something like that. There’s a lot of smoke in my lungs at this point.
In any case, I crack that baby in half and quite literally gasp; the cookie’s empty.

I look at the wrapper it came in: nothing, I look at my dog: he’s asleep on the floor. No fortune? (my brain assumes this means my future is wide open; I do what I wantz bitches!) I sure as hell wasn’t expecting that, which made it all the more powerful. [and yummy, too!]

Thursday night I’m at my buddy Alfie’s place on the balcony smoking my corn cob and he just looks at me and says most girls would get cigarette extenders but you get the manliest thing possibly: a corn cob pipe. I just laugh because he’s kinda right. Between my choice of socks, tobacco products and affinity for Velcro I’m something of an old man. Alfie kidnaps my pipe for a puff; him and his ridiculous mustache.

Friday at work was fun. We got new mannequins and I kept catching glimpses of my silver pumps in the mirrors. Black sweater dress, black skinny pants and set of heels that pop. I love my new job; we’re working on a fashion show for the end of December to preview next season’s prom gowns. I’ve been granted the task of getting models; talk about a dream job, I’ve been waiting for something like this to come along. Good things this way come.

This weekend was insane. An blunt alcoholic blur. Friday afternoon starts off with me, super smoked with James and Audrey before the show. We have about a million epiphanies about the most ordinary things. I love these too with my whole soul, we have such a good time. At one point on they open up a cabinet in their shared room and ask me if I want some fruit. I ask: You have a fruit cabinet? Audrey answers: Of course we have a fruit cabinet! It’s where we keep our fruit!
I love that girl, she’s perfectly high and an exceptional conversationalist.

Oh, the show! I was rocking a pound of eyeliner and four jackets. The turnout was great, all the cool kids were there. Our set was actually bearable and Bricker kicked ass. I love my band. I love Ray’s Golden Lion. Except for the part where I was drinking shots of BV, Fireball, tequila along with car bombs and PBRs. Can you say ROUGH?! The last thing I remember is the third band playing and a shot of tequila. Next thing I know, I’m waking up on my bedroom floor. Fireball flavoured vomit burns like a bitch. I have good friends. They literally had to carry me out of the bar. Photos exist somewhere, you’ll be seeing them some time.

Saturday was a whole different story. The usual suspects and a few extras were over. I was still recovering from Friday night and having spent another lovely evening with James and Audrey my brain was a beautiful fog; so I chilled mostly half asleep in my room.
Let’s just say shit went down.
People rolled in trash, dishes were broken, the floor is boxes of PBR and a bird was killed.

Now, to really understand about the bird you gotta know about Gruber. When we first moved into this apartment we adopted a stray fat head kitty, cool as fuck; that’s MacGruber. Gruber and Grubs for short. This meow sleeps like a champ and eats like a tiger, but you can’t take the street outta the cat. He’s always aching for the outside and makes a game of sneaking out the door when a drunk girl is hitting fresh air to smoke. This time last night he makes it out onto the balcony. We don’t know how long he was out there and it wasn’t until he drags in a freshly killed birdie, guts-a-hanging, that we even knew he had left. I wasn’t out there, I just remember vaguely hearing people in the living room freak and then I faded back to sleep. This morning, the carpet was spoiled with feathers. God damn Gruber, he’s a machine.

Sunday has been chill. Just smoking and cleaning, cleaning like a mother fucker. I get most of the mess taken care of and take the best shower of my life. Washing hair is fun! I love the suds, the dreads didn’t bubble as much as this new hair does. I dig it. Thanks to the herb I really enjoy the cleaning, especially the dishes; simply satisfying. Cleanliness so drastically impacts the energy of a room, I need to remember that. The apartment feels so much more positive with trash contained, couches febreezed and shot glasses soaked.

While I’m washing the dishes I keep getting distracted by this random box of birthday candles. All I can think is cake; I love cake; I want to eat cake. But it’s cold and snowy outside, plus my wallet is stranded in Laruen’s car. The cake is a lie.

You should listen to this band if you never had. I heart Rich Kids on LSD.
Think, think positive.

a note in the wind December 10, 2009

[yesterday]
I fell asleep in the middle of the day and woke up feeling low; like nothing mattered, like there was no purpose.
I wandered around the apartment desperate for any glimpse of motivation. Then I saw my keyboard and I remembered: there will always be music; music is the only thing that matters.

[skip to Thursday around 6pm]
I kick off my heels after a solid afternoon of work. Oh yes, that’s right: WORK. This morning while I was sitting in my living room among hung over friends applying for more jobs on my MacBook I could smell the piles of trash in our apartment. A DVD of DodgeBall was playing on the television and my cats and dog were bickering. My head was woosy from a mixture of alcohol and prescription medications. A decidedly strong sense of helplessness mocked me with every emailed resume. Then around 11am, a phone call from an unknown number. To my surprise the caller was the owner of a small formal dress shop to which I had sent a resume some weeks earlier; I had completely forgotten about it. He briefly apologized for having taken so long to get back to me and asked if it was a good time for a phone interview; I, of course, obliged. We hit it off and he requested that I come into the shop and meet in person. The wonderful Lauren was kind enough to assist me in the hasty coming together of a classy outfit (pencil skirt, black patent pumps, Fat Robot top, crop asymmetrical jacket) and a quick trip to the mall to pick up some less terrifying gauges; I went for a set of swirling black and white 5/8 plugs.

Long story short: the world fell into place, I was hired on the spot. I have nothing but pure enthusiasm and excitement for my new job and my lately dipped hope in the world has been renewed to it’s former glory.

After training for a few fun hours of dresses and glittery conversation, I braved the cold completely unprepared. My fresh lack of hair kept my ears desperately pained. Being completely unfamiliar with the bus route in this area was certainly a downside. I stood on the side of the road at a bus stop for some 45 minutes in a small jacket and skirt in the darkness with no hat before the adrenaline of the day’s excitement wore off and the cold set in. Giving up on the bus I began walking my frozen feet in three inch heels to the nearest gas station (still grinning like an idiot).

I immediately purchased a large french vanilla machine mixed coffee and wrapped my poor gloveless hands around it.

The store attendants were jolly and I shared my happiness with them by telling them about my new job. I also told them about my failure and how I was frozen to the bone. They invited me to sit and warm myself at a table. I obliged without resistance and the male attendant opened a package of hot hands without request of payment, smiled and placed them in my red numb fingers. My digits eagerly accepted; I’ve never felt such perfect warmth. While I waited for my friends James and Audrey to come kindly fetch me, the attendants and I tried to think of each of the gifts presented on the 12 days of Christmas. We didn’t get very far, but it kept my mind off my deeply chilled bones.

When James, Audrey and other guy (sorry, I didn’t get your name, sir!) picked me up I was happy with the enthusiasm they shared in my good news of employment. These two have always been amazingly supportive with me, I barely know them, but love them dearly. I accompanied them to a local head shop in the search for a new water pipe and was delighted with the one they purchased. I’m looking forward to partaking in it’s deliciousness.

Tomorrow the band plays our first show with Bricker on guitar.
We have a ridiculously short set. It’s going to be fun.

Dear world,
I fucking adore you.

‘Sean is the king of the jungle; Fuck Simba’
-Lauren

We made dinner tonight. That’s backwards.
First there was an hour long expedition to the Hastings down the road that’s on it’s final legs of life. The shelves were cleared out and we found little of value.

Still, we managed to waste a lot of time wandering about the chaos. The three of us may very well be easily entertained; maybe we were just avoiding the incredibly uninviting cold that awaited outside.
Today felt like a million days combined into one.

After leaving Hastings and determining that our three little stomachs were empty we made the mistake of traveling to Safeway in search of food. A mistake, I say, because the excess of options left us weaving the aisles without aim for what could have very well been over an hour. I ended up with a loaf of bread, a Kit Kat, guacamole, two bottles of sparkling flavored water and corn chips. Now, my tummy is full.

Bread wars and giant pickles.

will you be my beetle? December 7, 2009

I’ve always been fond of beetles. When I was a child living in Canada I remember riding home from a family day at the lake. My younger brother and I would have water beetles stowed away in little containers of water, vowing to care for them. The little guys would swim about, dive and swirl, sit delicate on the surface. We never did find out what they ate, though. I regret our failure to keep them living. [sad]

My desk is a mess.

Something big happened today. Upon waking I instantly felt the need for some variety of drastic change. Considering the few things I have control of, the task of drama fell to my hair. For two and a half years I have adored my dreadlocks. Warm, beautiful, original. As I thought of cutting them off, my heart beat faster and I understood that too much of my identity was wrapped in them. I like being the weird girl. The girl on the bus that people look at and wonder what sort of interesting things must be floating about my mind. I should be able to be her without looking the part. So I chopped them off.

It took several hours, metal combs and a lot of oil. I wanted to salvage as much length as possible so I would have some room to play with what’s left. NORMAL HAIR. I will be getting it cut tomorrow, professionally. I’m thinking very short. My ears are so cold, but I haven’t had a heavy headache all day and everything feels light and silly. The reactions of my roommates were minimal, barely existent. Good.

At this point in the day the roof of my mouth burned. It had been cut to hell by the dollar frozen pizza I had eaten for dinner. Eating canned pineapple rings for dessert probably wasn’t a good choice. The citrusy goodness stung at my open wounds. Totally worth it. I love canned fruits and vegetables. I’m not sure why that is, maybe it’s because I’m always so broke. More likely it’s because they’re are so convenient, stackable, easily controlled and the variety is stimulating.

A rather exciting prospect presented itself to me yesterday. It’s keeping me motivated and thriving. Something to work toward. Lauren and I will have a life of muffins, smoke and art. Fashion and like minds. This seems to be exactly what I need. The potential for symbiosis exhilarates me.

Today, I appreciate everything.
My morning, afternoon and evening have lacked fashion. I will remedy that now, I’ve got to get sewing. I sent out more resumes today. I think something good will come along soon. Maybe something cool, where I get to dress nice. I’d love to be an office assistant, or something along those lines. The new hair will help me get there. God damn, it’s cold. Bundle up!

resorting to resin hits December 6, 2009

At times, I wonder.
This afternoon was one of those times; using a dirty towel to soak up the urine left on the bathroom floor by the other. My poor socks, at least they were on sale. I wonder if this is right, if this is okay, how long can I continue. I’m only twenty years old, I cannot even legally be an alcoholic yet. This hasn’t managed to dissuade me. [sigh]

The theme of last night’s party was the 1980s. The mix was great, the spandex was better; it was a fun group of people. Where we live (in an apartment) the neighbor’s don’t call the cops. I hate this place some times, but I do not want to leave. I may have no choice, though, if I don’t find a job soon. Very soon, T minus 3 weeks, MAX. I should be trying harder. Part of me wants to start over, be alone, snow and smallness. Then again, NO.

At last resort, the place I’d have to move to is Sandpoint, Idaho. I grew up there. It is a stunning place; the lake, the mountain. I could snowboard all winter, boat all summer. My family is close to there, but not my friends. I don’t even think I could get decent internet. I’m terrified that a move there will leave me feeling depressed and isolated. In the same way though, I would have a nice house to myself,  I could focus on building my character. I could go mountain biking, run the trails everyday, adventures in the woods. But I wouldn’t.  My mind keeps swaying. I am frustrated beyond belief with the pressure of decision and time is running out.

 

I’ve been sewing a lot, at least.

Let’s go on an adventure, shall we?

I’ll leave you on a note of slight sadness.
Though, the resin collected was impressive:

If I had a doomsday machine… December 3, 2009

The things that happened last night somehow managed to skew my immediate perception of the world and I do not like it. In the same moments I realized I need to return to my double daily doses of yoga. A deep sigh here. A distraction there.

When I woke up this morning my roommates were watching Doctor Strangelove. It made me giggle internally because the last time I saw the film I was living in Spokane, it was a Sunday afternoon. My old guitarist and I were sitting on the front porch of my broken down apartment building practicing our punk set acoustic style because the rest of the band was out of town. A neighbour came walking across the street without any shoes and we felt sure he would be coming to tell us to keep it down. Instead he told us that he had a mini studio in his apartment and invited us over. Turns out he did music scores for IFC and upon walking in we saw a beautiful set up of iMacs and audio equipment. We played a few of our songs for him, he was encouraging and told us that back in the 70s he was really into the then new onset of this thing called punk rock. He couldn’t have been more right; when getting up to use the bathroom (having to to avoid several cats) I noticed a gold record on the wall. To my great surprise, it was for an album in 1978 by The Skulls. I immediately questioned his possession of it, and to the great delight we found that we had just smoked [out of a small bronzed Coca Cola bubbler] with a teeny tiny little piece of history. Then we watched Doctor Strangelove and walked back home in a haze induced by both drugs and awe. I had completely forgotten about this experience until now. Wow.

 

I’ll be the first to admit it: I am a crazy cat lady. The big orange one is Sean Connery.
There are two others; MacGruber and Isotope. At some point last night I awoke to find two cats silhouetted in the window. Isotope was licking Sean Connery’s face.

Yesterday the weather was beautifully deceptive. Sunny and bright and glowing from my window; when I stepped outside my face froze instantly. Bicycling in that temperature was wholly uncomfortable even with the layers I was wearing. The majority of my day was spent standing in lines. At the Department of Licensing, at the bank, at the cable company, at the court house. Lines are terrible for one main reason; everyone in a line is in a bad mood. Impatient, angry, annoyed- it’s pure negative vibes! A very draining way to exist on a Wednesday afternoon.

The light part of the day was ending and I quite randomly decided to do something uncharacteristic.

My stomach, for unknown reasons, is uneasy.
Today I feel human.

shaky hands this morning December 2, 2009

The voice intended for those without sight makes me anxious as it demands that I wait to cross the street. The red flashing hand annoys me, urging me to quicken my pace or else face the consequences. The consequence in this instance being broken bones at the smash of an oncoming vehicle.

Today I am in an exceptionally terrible mood.

I can tell that I’m still drunk because my steps are a little off balance and the cold doesn’t numb me as much as it ought to. Sick to my stomach and my clouded head predicts a migraine. I find salvation in a chilled bottle of water and a warmed gas station muffin. Almost instantly I accidentally drop the bottle of water into some dirt. At first I was upset because I knew the mouth piece would be filthy; I was wrong. I have never before been anything but inconvenienced by the little plastic barrier they stick over the mouth piece until now.  A solid innovation. My mood improves a bit.

Walking by a yard with a barely used trampoline my vodkawhiskey brain almost convinces me to jump the fence and test it’s springiness. I resist, but make a promise to myself to get my own should I ever have the room. I never did grow out of that act; bouncing bouncing bouncing is a very pure form of fun.

I start to eat my poppy seed muffin by biting right in the top. I find it strange, but every time I eat a muffin this way I feel guilty, like I’m not supposed to bite from anywhere other than the side. I wonder if other humans experience the same guilty rebellious sensation. I hope so.

The fact that it’s garbage day on this street makes my walk home a little more exciting. Avoiding the obstacles of overflowing trash cans and recycling bins scattered about the sidewalk becomes a game. These homeowners have a poor sense of the pedestrian life, it seems, and I’m just thankful that I didn’t bring my skate like I had planned. Not that my lack of sobriety would have boded well for skateboarding, even if the sidewalks were clear.

Last night was rough. Drunk early, passed out early. I missed a lot while I was asleep on the couch. The only evidence of the threesome that had happened in the other room is blood and condoms. An empty bottle of vodka, an empty bottle of whiskey and a sticky floor; that’s how we do Monday nights. The kitchen sink is full of dirty dishes, and maybe a little urine. I feel bad, the party wasn’t at my apartment this time. I wake up to my buddy cleaning frozen vomit from the cement in front of his neighbor’s door. I try to piece the evening together by browsing the photos on my digital camera. The first message I sent was “dude are those YOUR balls in my camera?!” ; I suppose I shouldn’t have left it unsupervised.

Today I am addicted to torrents.  I try apologizing to my bandwidth when my computer starts to freeze but it does no good.

I can feel my attitude shifting over to fuck it! mode as I write this though and I’ll probably catch the last bus over there.

Still no job.
I will be trying harder tomorrow.
Earlier I experienced the delightful task of trying to decide which bills not to pay.  I haven’t been to that point in a while, but now I’m back and I hate it here.  I ought to spend the evening cleaning and sewing.  It would greatly benefit my life.  I should also stay sober tonight. I should write my grandma a letter.  I should meditate and catch up on yoga.

But what kind of a self destructor would I be if I did what I should?

My bad mood has returned and I’m out of eyeliner.