Folds, Dents, Wrinkles, Scratches and More

Somewhere along the way I lost myself, not in the way most people do, but in the way in which I did.

 

It seems like I've been asleep for the last four years. I can't go on like this. Something needs to give and when things are giving, but in a gradual manner, you forget to notice what is being given until it's fairly near the end of its growth and you're in too deep.

I wish someone would save me so I can save someone else. It's so loud, the dreadful noise coming from my insides, the one that echoes "oh, darling, in the end you have to save yourself because everyone else is busy saving themselves." I promise once I do, I'll change the tone in someone else's insides.

It almost seems like there is a force that is constantly placing people/things in my life to drain me. Drop by drop, day after day, I'm vanishing with this masked misery. I look in the mirror and I'm blinded by an image of a little girl who had all the potential in the world until she discovered the truth about it and realized she wanted nothing to do with it. I can't operate like this anymore. I need to wake up from this coma or it'll really be too late.

I miss my thoughts. I miss my abilities. I miss my emotions. I miss my opportunities. I miss my creativity. I miss my sense of security. I miss my hunger. I miss my intelligence. I miss my beauty.

I miss myself.

 

As if I required confirmation ...

Nothing has felt any better, nothing quite as bad.

Move so fast, you can't keep up.

 

 

 

Operation: LEAP

One Day

 



True Obession, True Story

City of God

"If you run it will get you. If you stay it will eat you."

 

"True Story"

 

I have a vivid love affair with novels, plays and/or movies based on a true story. Last night, I watched this Cannes Gem from 2002. Not only was this an incredibly good movie, but half the fun starts when the credits roll and you're able to embark on your journey of investigating the real story/individuals from the movie.

 

Welcome to the nerd life!

 

 

 



Guilty and Never Proven Innocent

Let's celebrate

 

el-oh-vee-e

 

because it's not

 

February 14th

 

We're all guilty of 'it,' no matter who you are, what you do, how you look ... you are perpetually guilty of 'it.'  Guilty of wanting it, looking for it, talking about it, dressing up for it, getting hurt over it, but most importantly feeling indescribable because of it.

 

And when it gets hard and grueling, just remind yourself that you aren't alone, we're all guilty of love. You'll feel better, I promise.

 

 

Confessions of a Grown Child

 

 

ALLOW ME TO SHOUT FOR A COUPLE MINUTES

My reality, since I can remember, has been defined by one of very few assumptions: I'm pretty fucking lame. And not in that cool Matrix, cute girl next door, please-tell-me-I'm-not kind of way.

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time trying to surround myself with people who were higher up on the cool spectrum. Seven year old me would hang around the cool kids' houses and watch them do things that I thought were so much better than the things I could do. Twelve year old me would make constant eye contact with the cool kids at school, hoping they would acknowledge me (an act I can confidently declare now, as creepy). Seventeen year old me would daydream about what it would be like to have the school jock hold my books and walk me to fourth period. I've done it all with my lenses and cerebral unit. Watching kids play video games I didn't own, making mental notes of what type of lunches I should be having based on what others were eating and pretending like I knew what a boner was so that I wouldn't have to have the joke explained to me.

As I got older, I became pretty good at covering up my uncool bits, but after 28 years of life, I'm finally realizing what an enormous amount of time and energy I've wasted. It's annoying, confusing, and most importantly tiring. Every time I get suckered into doing someone elses' favorite thing, I am automatically deployed back to my childhood where I rather be eating broccoli and watching Ducktales than eating a corn dog and fake-laughing along with a conversation that doesn't even belong to me.

It's taken me longer than I would've wanted to not only learn, but realize and believe that we are all secretly eye-ing one another, trying to pick up on tips, avoid awkward encounters, evaluate ourselves based on what our lenses interpret from others, nod along to avoid confrontation and/or drop tiny clues in our interactions that scream "accept me, I'm trying, validate me!" It basically can be boiled down to picking and harvesting traits of others that we want for ourselves, ignoring the traits they see and yearn for in us.

So what did I do in my adult days leading up to this day? I transformed my looks by acquiring the right size chest, investing in facial paint to enhance the eyes, lips and cheeks, and most importantly surrounded myself with taller, prettier, less spazzy, better versed individuals than myself.

These amazing people know the right pronunciation of the popular bands and fashion designers of the moment, they are full of interesting and intelligent things to add to a conversation about the most uninteresting topics, they're caught up on HBO shows that I don't have on my cable plan, they look flawlessly tailored in their appearance when outside in public, and even when they aren't photo shoot ready, they aren't all self-conscious and wacky about it. They are what I like to call self-assured, smart, successful people who make life look effortless and fun, nearly all the time. They are what the term "perfect" was fitted around, but the more I hang around for the chronicles of "The Cool," I realize an important and overlooked concept: the mere fact of being awesome at something (or lots of things) doesn't mean you're not also a total lunatic-ual spaz at other things/times. Once the night is over, the drive in the fancy car to the fancy apartment in the fancy city with the fancy clothes comes to an end, everyone is just relived to be home where they can let out a fart.

So really, it doesn't matter if we lounge around our house in a ungodly expensive (and cruel) mink coat or a pair of old shorts from K-mart with a hole on the lower left seam because we all have moments where we feel inferior, lame or socially absurd. What matters most is that we reach out and hug these awkward, painful, sweat inducing moments when they arise as opposed to retreating into an ugly cave of loneliness. Because really it doesn't matter if you are up to date on the latest twitter trending topic or just rocking out to some generic top 40s hit from the 80s. Doing whatever you think a better human is supposed to be doing in the moment of life you have doesn't make you a loser, it makes you, YOU. And I can nearly guarantee that you are:

A. human
B. relatable and
C. entitled to your desires.

I'm just sorry that it has taken me 28 years to realize that saying subject A is cool, but subject B is lame is like saying purple is amazing, so yellow must be shit - it makes no sense. There's an endless amount of room for all of us to exist and be normal and weird and cool and lame, all at the same time on the same planet.

TL;DR: I guess I'm not so fucking lame after all.

FOR: the love of pretty

It's not how much you spend, it's how you spend it