i should totally go into PR, as i seem to have created a bit of a stir about something that's really not that big a deal. so PR it is!
thanks for all your sweet anticipatory comments (there are only 3 photos, guys. and none of them are dirty per se, unless you count the fact that in the third one, that black blur is actually the lovely and professional presumably straight photographer all down in between my legs . . . ).
so without further ado, THE ARTY PHOTOS, copyright cortney andrews 2006.
i like this first one because i look dead.
(hm. cut off. better-framed photos in pic folder.) I was freezing my extremities off in this next one. it was in the teens (with that pesky windchill) and i wasn't wearing much more than this weird frilly nightshirt and a pair of combat boots. standing on a frozen puddle of mud.
this is my kind of low-maintainance modeling.
i hope all you kids are having a good weekend. i'm apartment hunting, which rules because of the cafes that need to be visited while killing time in between each appointment. ostensibly to scour the corkboards for more listings. realistically for tea and gingerbread.
i went out on a ledge on friday night and drank some champaigne (don't even know how to spell the word - i usually abstain from all alcohol for health reasons). it was a play opening and there were caterers and it was all festive and shit. let's just say at one point an acqaintance was pouring a something down my throat from a bottle (i'd misplaced my glass). had a headache yesterday but seem to still be ticking . . . still, i don't plan to make it a habbit.
my friend is back in the intensive care unit, this time on a respirator, in full liver failure. she needs a bed to clear in boston so that she can be moved there by ambulance to wait for a liver. it's so strange to go about my life (i'm used to being on the other side of the fence in these scenarios), laughing and whatevering, in between bouts of remembering that my dear friend is close to death. i go from sobbing to, ten minutes later, singing that hall and oates song about "custom kitchen deliver-a-e-a-e-aay!" with the boy. it's like an amplified realization of how quickly most of us flip through emotions like channel-surfing all the time. the part that blows the hardest for me is that there is absolutely nothing i can do. i dropped a card off for her yesterday at the nurse's station (which she can't read as she'd heavily sedated), and wanted to just peek in at her quickly, but she's made it clear to everyone that she doesn't want to be seen. fuck.
love you guys. xo k
thanks for all your sweet anticipatory comments (there are only 3 photos, guys. and none of them are dirty per se, unless you count the fact that in the third one, that black blur is actually the lovely and professional presumably straight photographer all down in between my legs . . . ).
so without further ado, THE ARTY PHOTOS, copyright cortney andrews 2006.
i like this first one because i look dead.
(hm. cut off. better-framed photos in pic folder.) I was freezing my extremities off in this next one. it was in the teens (with that pesky windchill) and i wasn't wearing much more than this weird frilly nightshirt and a pair of combat boots. standing on a frozen puddle of mud.
this is my kind of low-maintainance modeling.
i hope all you kids are having a good weekend. i'm apartment hunting, which rules because of the cafes that need to be visited while killing time in between each appointment. ostensibly to scour the corkboards for more listings. realistically for tea and gingerbread.
i went out on a ledge on friday night and drank some champaigne (don't even know how to spell the word - i usually abstain from all alcohol for health reasons). it was a play opening and there were caterers and it was all festive and shit. let's just say at one point an acqaintance was pouring a something down my throat from a bottle (i'd misplaced my glass). had a headache yesterday but seem to still be ticking . . . still, i don't plan to make it a habbit.
my friend is back in the intensive care unit, this time on a respirator, in full liver failure. she needs a bed to clear in boston so that she can be moved there by ambulance to wait for a liver. it's so strange to go about my life (i'm used to being on the other side of the fence in these scenarios), laughing and whatevering, in between bouts of remembering that my dear friend is close to death. i go from sobbing to, ten minutes later, singing that hall and oates song about "custom kitchen deliver-a-e-a-e-aay!" with the boy. it's like an amplified realization of how quickly most of us flip through emotions like channel-surfing all the time. the part that blows the hardest for me is that there is absolutely nothing i can do. i dropped a card off for her yesterday at the nurse's station (which she can't read as she'd heavily sedated), and wanted to just peek in at her quickly, but she's made it clear to everyone that she doesn't want to be seen. fuck.
love you guys. xo k
VIEW 24 of 24 COMMENTS
twinkie:
I can't wait to turn 30. It'll be hilarious. We look awesome. Everyone will wonder how we do it.
twinkie:
and I'll say, "It's the ham."