lilyatx

I'm slowly beginning to hate the pretnetion that just OOZES from Austin.

just want to shatter it, to watch it explode... the whole "I'm a hippy, hip-hop. punk-rock rebel but i wanna be a star" attitude is overhwelming.

I love the fact that so many 'types' of people can co-exisit and love one another... but people so often jump to categorize.

So fucking what if I want to have hot pink hair and a mini schoolgirl outfit one day, and a bananna republic "new this season" with blonde hair the next.

Who cares "what" i "am".

If I knew, wouldn't my life be over?

And speaking of the answer to life, the universe and everything, it's 42.

thanks for asking.

For the Fourth Of July my boy and I fought.

We fought over the fact that I was ranting about my rent being late.
We fought over vegetarian food.
We fought over the fact that I'm a cold-hearted bitch.

And we argued, and fought.

And then:

We went to eat at this nice little coffee shoppe.

Ah, coffee was the answer!
And I imbibed hot cocoa and a wondefully yummy but not filling veggie sandwhich.

And I said "hey, let's just go home and paint"

"screw fireworks"

And he said "ok"

But before we left, he asked if I minded him smoking before we go (of course I do, fucking cancer stick!),

"sure, I'll walk across the street to window shop at this nice store"
(it's called Fetish, it's expensive, and the name is a little misleading, 'cause it's more cutting-edge upscale than cutting-edge fetish)

Anyhow, on the way, I see across the street they've got the guts of a building sitting outside, with some furniture.
And this nicely multi-windowed panel deal.

I say, "wouldn't this be nice to paint on" and he says "yeah",

... after some convincing, he decides to let me (mini skirt, patterend tights and all) haul it across the street to his car,

So we go to Home Depot (tree-cutting dowm motherfuckers), and get some nails, and glue, and black paint.

And we go to Wal-Mart (slave-labour motherfuckers) for some modge podge and a doll face.

I decide I'm going to peel open a dolls head, srt it on fire, get a matchbook with a phone number and a lipstick kiss, some black paint and an old tube of lipstick and paint/glue/glitter it all into one angry riot-grrl panel. Another panel is little white angel wings, pressed smartly and blackened with a brush. Another will be of gem-like rocks. I can't paint, I can just turn stuff into cooler stuff.

With these plans in mind, I feel better. I think we're okay. I'm going to be okay. It's all okay.

And we get home, and he's smashing out the few broken panels with a hammer, and I just know if I help I'll get glass in my eye.

And we fight some more.

And I'm worn out.

So it ends.

For now.

Riotgrrrrrl has returned. GRRR.