Last night, I felt ok being alone. Like really ok. I was driving back to my bestie’s house after my photography class across town. It was 9:30, I had the windows down and American Steel blasting through the stereo as I sped down the interstate. I thought about how if I had a passenger I wouldn’t necessarily be able to do this. What if they didn’t like the band? What if they wanted to have a conversation? I smirked to myself, and turned the music up louder, reveling in the silent solitude of my own company. It was a wonderful relief.

Current Jam: “To the Sea” American Steel

Narcissus… what a jerk.

I wouldn’t consider myself a narcissistic person. At best, I’m extremely self-aware and introspective. I have a long history of self-criticism, like the majority of self-loathing females plagued by media attraction guidelines. Blah blah blah, we’ve heard it a million times before. That being said, I have these occasional moments (more like stretched to minutes) of admiration for my form. They usually arrive after hours, under the soft glow of a bedside lamp. Last night I found myself contorting my figure in the mirror for a good 10 minutes, just… contemplating. My body has changed a bit since my teenage years, and it never ceases to amaze me how my utter digust at 16 has blossomed into mere occasional annoyance at 26.

NO, I wasn’t masturbating. God, get your mind out of the gutter. This isn’t soft core porn. My visual exploration was triggered by another photography class. As I am taking a digital, pas film, class this time, I get access to the studio and get to learn some lighting techniques and more about photoshop, both of which I’m excited about. The structure is the same as the one before: 3 projects, 1 technical, 1 portraiture, 1 still life.

Portraiture has always been my favorite, although I don’t have quite the passion for fashion photography. It’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but it’s beautiful partially because the people are stereotypically perfect. Doesn’t seem like as much of a challenge to me. I prefer to work with average joes (Not that I have access to a plethora of super models, but you know what I mean). I like to discover how beautiful people can be without perfect noses and oodles of makeup. To be lovely just because they are. To pull it out of them, even when they resist. That’s perfect, to me. That’s the best part. Let me know if you wanna join in. Don’t be scared, trust me. 🙂

In the mean time, I’ll be pondering self-portraiture.  That’s part of the assignment, unfortunately. I prefer to be behind the camera, as I don’t feel I’m particularly photogenic. I have my moments, but they are few and far between. Usually I just look weird and all light-defracted. I tried some mild nudity the last time I had this task at hand. I wanted something pure and real, but I couldn’t get it right. I couldn’t portray the beauty I felt must be inside. I wanted a cross between Robert Mapplethorpe and this one photo fro Lillian’s (but I’m totes blanking on the artist; look at this pic: it’s the woman’s hip, upper left of the photo).

This time, however, I’m even more determined. Fingers crossed, here’s hoping.

Current Jam: “Tip of the Tongue” The Donnis Trio

sweat. sweat. sweat.

I fucking LOVE working out. ….well, ok, that’s not entirely true. I LIKE working out. Sometimes it’s frustrating as hell. Most of the time I’m happy I did it. And it makes me feel better about the cocktails and cigarettes I have later. I have a strange, yet effective, system of justification.

Yesterday I went to my current Tuesday class, spinning. No other class makes me sweat like this. The first time I tried it I thought my heart would explode, but now I can make it through an entire class without wanting to barf… much. I’m not joking about the perspiration, either. My entire head/hair/body is soaked when I leave. I suppose it is slightly embarrassing, but pour la plupart it feels refreshing, like I got a bunch of shit out of my system. Given my excessive drinking and smoking lately, I’ve needed those intense workouts to push out the toxins… or dying unicorns, whatever the hell my liver secretes. All I know is it makes me feel better.

Plus, extra bonus: spin class makes my lady parts feel funny sometimes. Like when we used to climb the rope in gym class (movie reference…. anyone?). Tee hee, wink.

Continue reading “sweat. sweat. sweat.”


I got a tattoo today.

PS Here’s how I feel about ink: First of all, do whatever the hell you want. It’s your body. We live in a generation where these markings are practically already passé in the cultural and professional world. In short, WHO GIVES A FUCK?

That being said, they are still permanent. And to me, at least, if it’s permanent… I want to find it relevant, always. 20…. 40 years from now. I want it to mean something to me; doesn’t matter if it means something to anyone else.

The first tattoo I got: It took me 3 years to bite the bullet. It’s a slightly larger version of a stylized fish hook pendant my parents got me from New Zealand when I was 18. I didn’t even think of it as a tattoo idea until I was 20.  It’s called a Hei matau, and it’s a cultural treasure for the Maori (aka taonga, yes I wrote a paper on it once). It symbolizes prosperity, fertility and safe passage over water. I enveloped my own meanings into it as well; familial protection and love. I knew that I wouldn’t wear the pendant every day; but I could always carry that sentiment with me in the form of a tattoo. It was the perfect first ink. Done by the wonderful Mike Salay.

This time was slightly different…. Its feels like I’ve been through uncertain hell for awhile now, and I needed something to remind me to stay strong. To stay brave, and to keep my heart open. And I got this:

L’audace means audacity in french, the willingness to take bold risks. I have difficulty stepping outside of my comfort zone at times. This is my reminder.

PS: This one was done by Tim, a very nice and talented dude.

Current Jam: “After the Storm” Mumford and Sons (I KNOW, they’ve taken over my musical mind lately. Deal with it, that’s how I roll. I’ll move on, eventually)

So fitting a theme considering….

I totes “like” this.

I haven’t read comics in a while. I was initially turned onto them by my ex: He chose Y: The Last Man as my starting point. An excellent choice. It is a limited series, with a definite (and absolutely beautiful) ending. I felt the same way as I approached the last pages. I didn’t want to leave this post-apocalyptic world in which every single male dies of a mysterious illness, save Yorick Brown and Ampersand. Because somehow it felt better, more exciting maybe? than my current reality. I’ve re-read it several times, although I’m never saved that twinge of regret upon its completion.

Mayhaps I will take up the hobby again, and check out some Chew

Sam Smith.

Endings are weird. They’re incredibly common, but they freak me out. Whenever I finish a book, I always feel distressed and empty, despite my brain being a little bit fuller (apart from that time I read Russell Brand’s autobiography, lost a couple brain cells on that one). At some point, your game of Pac-Man is going to end, no matter how well you dodge the ghosts, because the kill screen on level 256 is always waiting in the wings. Not to be too deep, but get this: Life ends.

Comics are a respite from endings. Some heroes have been doing the same thing for over fifty years and they aren’t slowing down. Single issues end, but you always know that in two weeks Spiderman will swing back, Batman will punch another goon in the chest and Hulk will smash yet again. It’s an infinite, comforting cycle.

Which is why Chew…

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The cracks are beginning to show.

I danced it all away last night with my good friend, Ed. Or so I thought…

I went to my apartment this morning to feed and visit my cats. I had to leave after 30 minutes. It felt like I was suffocating.

I have so much sadness that keeps building, threatening to spill over the well. And I’m quickly running out of steam to stave it off. This morning was the catalyst. I can’t fight it anymore.

Continue reading “Brittle”

Can’t Hardly Wait Style…

DUUUUUUDE. My parents were out of town this weekend…. and a sparkly idea came to me. I took a poll amongst my friends: Did we want to have a high school style KEGGER at my parents house. The overwhelming answer? HELL YEAH.

Planned in less than 12 hours, it was a rager to remember. Considering I haven’t thrown a house party since I was 21, I was please to see that Momma’s still got it. Complete with a keg, beer pong, SHOTS, and awesome friends. It was a perfect Saturday night, one that I really, really needed.

I offered ample crashing space as my ‘rents do live off the beaten path a ways. The party finally dwindled, at dawn, to about 10 people or so. I rolled over around noon (it’s bender induced insomnia, bonus because I’m used to waking up at 7:30), and perused the sitch: my bestie and her fiance in the room next to mine; a hooded figure on the couch (I found out later it was my alive friend Ben) another curled up in a money chair, my boy Ed on a cot (? where did that come from ?) in the dining room with a towel for a blanket, and my sister and her husband in my parent’s room.

A sprinkling of moments for your entertainment:

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Best part? My parents totally knew. And they didn’t give a shit. Cause Momma’s also responsible… sometimes….