(This is an x-posted festival. Don't feel too special, sorry.)
Haha. Okay, a couple of these compliments are pretty hilarious. "look out cyndi lauper, attica has come to town." Oh, and: "This is FUCKING SEXY! I can't stop looking at this set. I think I've looked at it like 20 times. I think it's eye crack!"
Eye crack. Wow. Ha. How surreal. When I first found out my set went up, I became a cynical, whiny cunt. I guess I'm overcompensating for the initial jitters and gigantic cresting waves of insecurity.
And just yesterday I was reprimanded for bitching about people wanting to have sex with me. I mean, I must be hard pressed for things to bitch and moan about if being a young American with a persued crotch is a problem.
I stated "so rockstars can jerk off to me" as my reasoning behind doing Suicide Girls. Funny how everybody and their mother is a rockstar now. Oh god this is weird.
Well. All I wanted to do originally was check my fucking email and read Daily Rotten. Maybe, just maybe, drain off a few layers of teen angst. Surely this is just a transition from Teen Angst to Existential Early Twenties Blues.
(Please digest all of the above with the knowledge that all day, I've felt miserable, alienated, and pockmarked. I am sorry that I hate compliments on my skin. My wisdom teeth are killing me and my baby teeth and impacted canines are not helping my mood any either.)
I love my tattoo. It turned one day old today. (The first day of the rest of my life.) I decided that as much as Courier New means to me, and as much as I'm used to seeing it solidify my thoughts into its particular pixels, I'd rather use my typewriter. My original powder blue manual from motherfucking Faginaw, Michigan. And okay, that was impuslive. I decided not to worry about my tattoo ahead of time so I left all the designing until the last couple hours and I managed to condense all the anxiety into the last, oh, post-paperwork cigarette or so. But it is fantastic and thick with nuances. Travis captured the essence of it well and painlessly. Last time, I just named constellations on the ceiling tiles but this time, I could talk and laugh under the needle. Having to hike my skirt up and chant silent mantras about "yes, yes, Andrea, you DID find a lone pair of clean underwear and you DID remember to wear them right now."
Yes. Stagnation equals death. Chug on, silly heart.
My horoscope reminded me that crying is okay. What an insightful generalization. But no, stupid newspaper, boys don't cry. Sometimes the pressure makes me imagine my head just suddenly exploding. So it goes.
T minus four years. The medicine for my restlessness is obviously the act of blowing this popsickle stand. I can put my Eastern Europe fetish on the backburner until after I've rescued my little sisters. I have until then to connect the American dots. Oh desert, ready or not, here I come.
There was a definite U.O. on the horizon due west last night. But we don't know if it was flying. Tonight, the clouds erradicated the hope of it hypnotizing my poor human curiosity into another migraine tonight. We stared at it long enough to confirm that the Earth was indeed rotating and it was not moving on its own.
Surely the sea is full of other delicious fish.
And don't call me Shirley.
Haha. Okay, a couple of these compliments are pretty hilarious. "look out cyndi lauper, attica has come to town." Oh, and: "This is FUCKING SEXY! I can't stop looking at this set. I think I've looked at it like 20 times. I think it's eye crack!"
Eye crack. Wow. Ha. How surreal. When I first found out my set went up, I became a cynical, whiny cunt. I guess I'm overcompensating for the initial jitters and gigantic cresting waves of insecurity.
And just yesterday I was reprimanded for bitching about people wanting to have sex with me. I mean, I must be hard pressed for things to bitch and moan about if being a young American with a persued crotch is a problem.
I stated "so rockstars can jerk off to me" as my reasoning behind doing Suicide Girls. Funny how everybody and their mother is a rockstar now. Oh god this is weird.
Well. All I wanted to do originally was check my fucking email and read Daily Rotten. Maybe, just maybe, drain off a few layers of teen angst. Surely this is just a transition from Teen Angst to Existential Early Twenties Blues.
(Please digest all of the above with the knowledge that all day, I've felt miserable, alienated, and pockmarked. I am sorry that I hate compliments on my skin. My wisdom teeth are killing me and my baby teeth and impacted canines are not helping my mood any either.)
I love my tattoo. It turned one day old today. (The first day of the rest of my life.) I decided that as much as Courier New means to me, and as much as I'm used to seeing it solidify my thoughts into its particular pixels, I'd rather use my typewriter. My original powder blue manual from motherfucking Faginaw, Michigan. And okay, that was impuslive. I decided not to worry about my tattoo ahead of time so I left all the designing until the last couple hours and I managed to condense all the anxiety into the last, oh, post-paperwork cigarette or so. But it is fantastic and thick with nuances. Travis captured the essence of it well and painlessly. Last time, I just named constellations on the ceiling tiles but this time, I could talk and laugh under the needle. Having to hike my skirt up and chant silent mantras about "yes, yes, Andrea, you DID find a lone pair of clean underwear and you DID remember to wear them right now."
Yes. Stagnation equals death. Chug on, silly heart.
My horoscope reminded me that crying is okay. What an insightful generalization. But no, stupid newspaper, boys don't cry. Sometimes the pressure makes me imagine my head just suddenly exploding. So it goes.
T minus four years. The medicine for my restlessness is obviously the act of blowing this popsickle stand. I can put my Eastern Europe fetish on the backburner until after I've rescued my little sisters. I have until then to connect the American dots. Oh desert, ready or not, here I come.
There was a definite U.O. on the horizon due west last night. But we don't know if it was flying. Tonight, the clouds erradicated the hope of it hypnotizing my poor human curiosity into another migraine tonight. We stared at it long enough to confirm that the Earth was indeed rotating and it was not moving on its own.
Surely the sea is full of other delicious fish.
And don't call me Shirley.