uninterested in clothing

June 17, 2011

I just feel that there is no sure thing in life except death. And taxes, but that is funny to me because it’s an old person joke I grew into and it makes me feel like one of the old boys club. The old boys club I guess being the grown ups.
I feel constantly unencumbered by belief that the world is a daisy nosegay that will simultaneously hand me whipporwill evenings and salami sandwiches. I am twenty seven years old now and my worldview is apparently exactly the same as it has always been underneath all my gypsy gyrations of self definition: life is beautiful but it can kill you. The earth is a torpedoing ball of constant doom and destruction and growth and glory; humans are brutal animals capable of any horrible thing my mind can conjure, and they are stratus cloud spangles of hope and spirit; that it is all about balance, always, forever; that there is a question and I am the answer.

Basically I have been aware for the entirety of my memory that the world is shit and the world is shineola. I have spent the entirety of my memory coming to terms with the fact that no matter how hard you work, how smart you get, how fast you fly, how wide you love, how good you behave…you cannot escape the shit with your helping of happiness. Every silver cloud has a thunder lining, and vice versa. Every rose has its thorn every corpse has its maggots. And there are reasons for every amount of shit that ever comes on top. Roses probably love the fuck out of their thorns. Corpses would stick around as blood and guts liabilities way longer without maggots. It’s the loss that creates the soul wine of genuine thankfulness for services spirit rendered and makes me stop what I am doing, hold onto something solid, and consume myself with tears for a moment when I hear the full, golden swell of a certain saxophone note. It’s the pain that creates the beauty a lot of the time, is what I’m saying.
I think the same goes for the grossness.

And the real jam in all this donut is the fact that I think there is a question and I am the answer. I have never been satisfied with life just rolling all lackadaisical and of its own defining up to my doorstep and telling me what it thinks I should do: I have tried to be fine with this, because it is one half of exactly what you have to be ok with in order to survive without insanity; but the other half is just as important, and that half is going out in search of life on its whoring highways and grabbing life by its little pinkie finger and telling life exactly what it is that YOU would like.
Naturally sometimes life will roll up with some sort of shit pie that you have no tolerance for, and you will send life packing. Likewise on occasion you will hook your pinkie into life’s and whisper the desire of your heart confidently into life’s petal pink ear, and life will shrug its naughty shoulders and take its finger away and make it rain poison on your kitchen garden instead.
Fuck if I know why.

Seriously, just go break something if you have to. Get life’s attention, because if it is only bringing you crap that you don’t want then it is time to straighten that bitch out.
Just because you are not the boss of life does not mean you are not the boss of you.

Get her done.

I am


happy happy happy happy…

this is the sound of finals hitting the pavement done good and finished.

I have turned into a huge school nerd, and I feel mostly like I have found my true calling. My true calling is to read entirely through my textbooks almost at a go because I have a hard time putting down a book and I prefer the steady linear flow of information to sporadic chapter reading as a learning style any day. My true calling is to write amazing papers and discussions straight through after germinating on their topics and persuasions for days and weeks beforehand. My true calling is to tell myself it’s just a test and I take online school, and speed read through the chapters that are being covered, and then flip to the intended passage to double check the verity of every single question. (methinks that not going to a regular school and being tested hardcore like only once a year has done some strange things to my confidence; I almost always am right about the answer with my first intuition, but I HAVE to double check it because I have this nervous rabbit sort of feeling that they may have changed their minds and what I think I know is terribly wrong).

This weekend Ricky gave me a fluffy lamb pillbox hat on Haight street and I got home and tottered around drunk in heels and my red leather trench coat and adequate mascara for the first time in god what, a year?! and was very gorgeous and very wasted. I have been goaded into having better style again. If someone can buy me a rad fucking hat when I am not there and expect me to have the wardrobe chops to glimmer, then I am compelled to spit polish up my closet. I only have three pairs of heels and one set is red feather malibu house slippers. There is no way I won’t wear those out of the house, but they require just the right companionship and I don’t even currently have it. Le sigh.
However, the damage has apparently been done large scale. Without the persistent, better formed influence of Holly upon my fashion sense the aforementioned has reverted back to its freedom dog days of comfort and function, where she originally found it at the age of nine and resolved to bring it up out of the saltmines for its own good. I spent my entire childhood up until this very necessary introduction of ‘style’ and ‘peer pressure’ bitterly resenting the existence of dresses and scratchy things, most notably cotton stockings PAH, and while a significant factor in my decision to be a nurse is centered in the daily office attire of pajamas and flat shoes, there is a seventeen year brewed drop in my coffee that shudders at the lack of effort and stilettos. Not to mention gorgeous little sweaters.

I am