My stolen internet is skipping out again, so I’m just gonna type this and hope that someday soon I’ll be able to post it. Ironically I’m PMS-ing again (last time I mention my ovaries today, promise) and I’m in the kind of mood where Eminem is too soap box-y and all I can handle listening to are trumpety renditions of Bob Dylan classics. Fallopian tubes!!! (A-ha! Didn’t mention ovaries, see?!)
Countdown two weeks ‘til I’m officially leaving Encinitas. I’m debating getting rid of the majority of my physical possessions. Not like I have a lot of stuff or anything, but the stuff I DO have is really just... stuff. It’s hard though, I’m definitely one of those people who attaches sentimental value to useless crap. I got this dining room table at a thrift store in Santa Barbara for $80, and it lived in the rain and served as a beer pong table in my brother’s backyard for months, and it’s now lived with me in three different states of mental stability and three different homes. I feel LOYALTY towards it. Okay, you know what? The table is going with me! (I’m going to pretend that this entirely useful piece of furniture is the problem, not the stack of a hundred dragon books that I’ll never read again or the collection of Buddha-shaped beer bottles or closetful of “hope” clothes that I pretend I’ll be able to fit into sometime in the near future.
I’m definitely about to get myself into an interesting situation, that’s for sure. My mom’s little house in SLO is a collection of complementing blue-and-amber glass baubles, glittering white animal statues, and colorful scraps of thoughts and wishes. If you could get into my mom’s psyche to visualize her mental essence... well-- you can, actually, that’s exactly what her house is. It’s gotta be the most artist-y spot per square inch in the Northern hemisphere. I’m hoping to walk in her front door and projectile-vomit acrylic paint directly onto a blank canvas waiting for me under the plastic white moosehead with rainbow butterfly wings that greets guests in the sitting room. I’m just feeling sooooo drawn to that creative energy lately. My heart keeps trying to get my attention by swelling with anxiety and knocking against my ribcage with stress about having no money, no plan, and no home; but either I’ve finally drunk away all my brain cells or there is some higher power trying to soothe away my fears and sweaty eyebrows and pull me steadfastly toward an exciting life change because I’m probably not neeeeeeearly as worried as I shoooooould be....
I think I just can’t wait to get out of this fucking restaurant business, even if all that’s waiting for me is... well... the restaurant business. I’ll take just ONE MONTH of scraping together a simple living no matter how worried I am about paying bills and stuff if it means I will receive zero phone calls about which 17-year-old made the 40-year-old manager cry or can you please work a thousand hours this week because it’s so-and-so’s dad’s birthday and hey a goat stomped on that employee’s leg and guess what that other guy read his schedule wrong and somehow that’s your fault! I thought that by working in a health-oriented cafe, I would be surrounded by a higher level of mental health as well. But it turns out, the restaurant industry is the fucking restaurant industry. All I really achieved was the realization that I am NOT. CUT OUT. FOR. IT. Which, actually, is a pretty big realization when it’s what you’ve been accidentally dedicating your life to for seven years. It’s just all I’ve known, and all I’ve felt comfortable doing because I have the most Debbie-Downerish Jiminy Cricket on my shoulder that’s always telling me I’ll never succeed in the art world or anything more independent and personal than babysitting someone else’s business. I should probably poke the cricket’s eyes out, but that just doesn’t seem very vegan-ly I guess.
Anyway, the first order of business I hope to tackle is setting up shop in my mom’s art gallery so I can be producing art while her gallery is open for viewers because right now it’s closed most of the time. I’m pondering ways to hide cryptic sex and candy references somehow on the building’s facade so passersby will all of a sudden feel compelled to go check the gallery out, though they won’t know why. I guess then out of guilt I’ll have to have sex with them and give them vegan chocolate bars... but I’m hoping the art will stimulate them enough that it will never come to that. I then plan to start an Etsy site with wearable vegan propaganda-ish art and paintings and cards and anything my art-parched fingers come up with. (Everyone’s been telling me for SO long to start an Etsy page, so even if nothing comes from it I’ll at least feel smug and accomplished on some hazy level.) Next step is using my mom’s status as a prolific member of the Downtown Association to ogre-stomp my way into a spot at the local farmers’ market (I once heard someone on a bus say it’s the largest one on the West Coast, so I have henceforth insomuch nevertheless forever quoted that bit of news as a FACT) where I will post up with my vegan wares and flap my T-shirts in people’s faces as they’re waiting in line for some ribs with BBQ sauce. In the very least, my mom and I will get a kick out of our vegetable banners and glorified animal paintings, and we can people-watch while we sit and eat food from that one really yummy vegan Indian food stand. Once I’ve got these three things going on, I will spend my free time exercising (I’ve got forty pounds of cheap white wine and Hefeweizen to shed from my thighs), reading, and cooking. I have a list of about five hundred vegan-related books I want to read and documentaries I want to watch. Skinny Bitch ended up being one of the most enjoyable/informative reads I’ve experienced lately... but that might just be because I usually only read novels meant for horny teenagers.... I really can’t wait to buckle down with The Sexual Politics of Meat, but I feel like I have to get through this text-book-style guide to veganism I’ve been pretending to read for about seven months now. Don’t get me wrong, it’s GREAT-- very educational, full of aaaaaall the tools a person needs to be healthy and thrive on a plant-based diet. I just don’t know how long the author’s gonna make me wait before Edward shows up (Team Edward!!), and at page 167 I’m finding it hard to care about how much I’ll need to increase my calcium intake when I’m pregnant or breastfeeding.
Oh no.
Okay, I’m sorry, this is completely not related... and also sorry I’m even telling you this... but I just found... The Whisker. **gasp!!** Oh God, WHY GOD?!!! I don’t know if this is... normal... but I’ve definitely asked other female friends if they’ve ever experienced this and at least two out of fifty have, so... here goes.
Every few months or so, I’ll be casually stroking my chin while staring at a wall (or computer screen), and my finger will touch a hair that doesn’t feel the same as all the other innocent peach fuzzy face hairs on my chin. No... no this hair is strong, determined, and manlier than the grunts I let out when lifting a bus tray full of dirty dishes. This ain’t no girly face hair... this here is (da dunh dunh DAAAAA!!!) A WHISKER!!! **somebody screams** It is so fucking mortifying!! If I’m ever in public when I realize that the little Hair of Satan has grown back, I can no longer behave in any sort of normal way, like everyone in the goddamn room KNOWS it’s there, and they’ve all been sadly shaking their heads at me and spitting up quietly in their napkins when the light hits my chin just right. Jesus. SO not okay. I should probably wield a pair of tweezers at all times just to avoid the catastrophic bout of extreme self-consciousness that ensues from Its discovery a few times a year. Well. I’m sorry to have ruined your appetite with my unsolicited body hair confession. But hey, animals have a looooot of whisker-hair... so maybe this will make a cheeseburger seem a little less tempting?? Ahhhh okay okay, far stretch, I know, I was just trying to pretend my scatter-brained paragraph had some sort of reason for existing other than to cause me to lose friends.
Okay, I guess I’ve kinda killed my chances to blog about legitmate shit now, so I’m just gonna finish devouring my $15 Whole Foods salad (only maybe worth it) and pretend I don’t need to start packing and organizing the clutterfuck that is my studio.
Oh. P.S. Sam and Sara-- if you ever visit me whenever I have a home again, I PROMISE I will have clean, human-sized towels for you to use when you shower. For real. And I might even get a shower curtain that doesn’t have things growing on it. But let’s take it one step at a time. I miss you guys!
P.P.S. I think I am on a potty-mouth bender right now, so I would not advise any Mormons to read this particular posting. Shitshitfuckfuckfuck.
No comments:
Post a Comment