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Something a little more personal

There was a HONY (Humans of New York) post that ran parallel to how I feel: about everyone, about myself, about how I try to stay within the public company of others to feel a bit more alright. The usual caption, a la HONY, read:
"I dealt with people all my life, and now I'm burnt out. I just like to be alone. It's more comfortable."
I haven't even started a legitimate career in public relationships and I'm already, quoting, "burnt out". Needless to say, I'm not entirely burnt out about people in general. I myself, can't feel. If how I felt before was on Volume 100, I'm now on Volume 20. Perfumes and scents are less uplifting and toned down, and foods that tasted familiar now all taste the same, no matter how much spice or sugar or ground pepper I add to the palate. I tell myself it's dehydration: that my body is slowly shutting down due to the lack of life-giving water I restrain myself from taking in, or I've hit an emotionally physiological plateau--something like anhedonia. But, not anhedonia? Even my opinions have taken a toll (really, it's all "who gives a flip").
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Maybe I should follow in Klosterman's footsteps and create a SimDiana in SimWhatever doing SimStuff.

Literally the only two things that have lifted my spirits since the "Ode to coffee" post (which was a week ago?) has been Fitz and the Tantrums' "The Walker" playing on the radio and the first two chapters of Chuck Klosterman's "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs". Everything else is inevitably un-stimulating, emotionally, physically, mentally, intellectually. I get a few gag laughs from Brooklyn Nine-Nine and some YouTube prommies but still, even the charm of Klosterman's ever-satirical parody of life is losing its sparkle with me. I even joined an online gay forum but someone wrongly accused me of being bi-phobic and adding no insult to an injury that didn't occur: a pseudo-intellectual. Okay. Please tell me how you're deducing this from your inferiority/insecurity complex because I don't have the mental power to deal with you I'm leaving this forum okay bye-bye. (To specify: I'm pansexual, so not only am I part of the LGBTQ community,I also am an ally for anti-erasure of asexuals/demisexuals/bisexuals and the transgendered.)
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Not even my friend's resemblance to Vincent van Gogh, with my friend having an even number (a full pair!) of ears, could cheer me up.

I'm just retrograding. In a vacuum.
A personality, self-actualizing, synthetic, life vacuum. (The self-actualizing I haven't gotten to yet.)

In part, I do know what's causing it. I miss being close to someone: emotionally. But I refuse to reveal to anyone my past (the ones who haven't grown up with me) because I'm "so over" that stage. I'm beyond it. Which is to say, I'm beyond trusting people with my own feelings and everything in place is now superficially created to satiate my need for protection. Am I self-actualized yet? Nope. (I mean, I sort of always have been???)

Which isn't working.

But I do hope the best for everyone, as I try to sort the ... whatever, I'm in. Have a good Easter.
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PROMO: Vans' Warped Tour Battle of the Bands

Get your voting on! I caught wind that two local bands are in the running for Vans' Warped Tour Battle of the Bands 18! Since I personally know both lead singers of each band, I've decided to help them out on their quest for glory and Warped Tour-dom. 

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Yes, the Warped Tour in mention is THIS Warped Tour.

A 5-man group led by Adam Elara (who looks like Vic Fuentes in a way), they just got back from a short semi-nationwide tour back in February. Though I've seen them live in January, I don't really remember what sort of genre it was (pop punk? alternative? both?), - well the description is RIGHT THERE - but take a listen! And don't forget to cast your vote!

Created by long-time friends Enoma Asowata and Fausto Padilla back in 2004, Otenki actually has a track record of playing for Vans Warped Tour (in 2005 and 2009). I guess they're in the fray again, because they're duking it out against pretty much everyone else. Vote for them here!

Good luck guys!

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A day in the life: Poetry tit-for-tat

Five days ago I was on Chegg writing short-essay-form answers to scholarship questions and free-typing some poetry. By now we should all know that I go on artistic tangents and put the least amount of thought before venturing into a medium. I've got a basic foundation to lay but the rest is history and free-flow, and minimal editing. (To illustrate example, in the post before this: An ode to coffee, the drawing had only one, single line erased on the right (the drawing's right) cheek.)

Since it's inherently my intellectual property, I'm going to post it here as well: 
{to be read aloud, in spoken word form}

A mass-televised world that isn't real
Where journalism is meant to hide and conceal
I stick with my roots to get me through
Because what I know to be true
Is few.

Fashion design opened my eyes to ugly
That it's not all glamour, fame, and beauty.
And I wish I could see
All the girls like me
Killing themselves
Ever so slowly
Just to express themselves freely.

By the time I was old enough to know
By the time I had enough time to grow
It's really who you know
Not what you know.

A year or two passed "Undecided"
because it wasn't by my own gut
that I abided,
A year or two passed before I knew
I knew just what it was I wanted to do.

Though my major isn't Public Relations,
I knew I had to give into communciations.
And I'll tell you why:

I live my full life as an underrepresented minority,
APIs stereotyped on media as the media
Goes scot-free.
But I also grew up in that same tradition
Where feminism wasn't in full bloom
Where I felt the sting of male privilege
Because I was born of the other gender
And I had to plant the seeds of knowing
Always knowing
I had to rise as a leader.
Even if I didn't want to be.

Dubious means that promise quick drops,
Getting labeled cool and "hip hop",
The competitors will feign their plastic
"Thirsty", "salty", "illest", "ratchet",
But you know they vie for the attention
That not even their brand can mention.

I can't be like them,
Drawing myself to meet the same ends
That see the ends of civilizations
And wilt away with their faces.

Those trends that negate progression
Are the lessons behind my transgressions.
My passion is in my infliction, 
Because I know one day
One day
And that one day will be swift
And soon
I, and everyone
Will challenge the social dichotomies
To end the universal tyranny.

My brand is myself,
And I protect that with the full force
Of myself.
I represent no one
But me.
Me and my comrades
In the struggle.
I am no one's everyday man.
I am no one's quickdraw marketing scheme.
I am no one's pitching tool.
I am made from my own dreams
My own ideals, my own realities,
Molded and haunted by a life
That only bore me strife
And suffering. 
Of humanity and principality, 
Of want and need,
Of oppression and progression,
Of matriarchal feminity,
Of compassion and empathy,
And knowing fully well,
Fully well
That the necessity of the human condition
Is beyond my physical being.
It's written in verse, not prose, and follows the same read-it-aloud style that combines modern spoken word and most contemporary poetry (I don't think you're supposed to read poetry quietly) so it's also a performance piece. Iambic pentameter, haiku, ABBA/ABAB rhyme scheme whatever, I don't really like structured poetry when I'm the poet. Something to do with boundaries and limitations and being a free spirit and hating being tied down. 

To explain the background of certain stanzas and topics I brought up: 

Stanza 1 (A mass-televised world that isn't real):
What we know as advanced citizens (because we're able to self-educate and search different outlets and perspectives to uncover any sort of truth that helps shape our opinion and knowledge, that's what an advanced citizen can do) is mostly filtered by what we can access. Yet, even with the help of powerful search engines, social media, and accessibility to international browsers/servers sometimes we just don't even try. We don't. We're okay with being ignorant but it's not okay to assume what we know is what's actually happening. It's like how everyone's distracted by the Flight 370 disappearance while Crimea/Ukraine is pretty much getting screwed over by Mother Russia and the revolutionaries in Venezuela are not getting anything out because of restricted news outlets. That's happening now, and all we care about is what Iggy Azalea is wearing to the MTV Awards, okay. (Iggy Azalea is a wonderfully-spoken and articulate woman and artist, but I meant to say is that we're really freakin' trivial when it comes to mind over matter.) Rumor and press control is also something that PR handles, which is what I'm getting into (thus the title, PR: Positive Renovation).

Stanza 2 (Fashion design opened my eyes to ugly):
Taking notes from my "get to know the girl" post, I am Danny Nguyen's sometimes assistant, and ex-intern. Most of his interns and apprentices were "fired" by the guy himself, but I had the luxury of just quitting (and quitting again and again, but I know this guy needs my help sometimes). This is also noted on my Tumblr. A lot of girls filled my inbox (on Tumblr) asking me what it's like to be a fashion designer's assistant, while feigning some sort of professional and well-worded bite of interest. I do say this bitingly, because though I am involved in the circle of artists in Houston, I've met and heard a lot of crooked things and it broke my heart. I say this with a heavy burden: If you've read Kelly Cutrone's "If You Need To Cry, Go Outside" and don't really "get it", when you join the ranks of failed interns or wannabe apprentices and sky-high model management you will know. It was when I was interning with another girl on Danny's SS2013 campaign just three seasons ago and I was just fed up. Fed up maybe, because I took fashion, art, composition, detail, and all those other elements - too seriously. And everyone, including myself, just wanted some idea of what this "fashionable crowd" really was.
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Abeer (the other intern) and I. Flapper '20s meets '80s design pop. 

I pop into the video only for a few seconds (0:18-0:20, in the faaaaaaaar right strutting towards the guy in the red shirt), but even though my short-lived internship gave me a winding disgust for the fashion industry, I came back to help Danny with his FW2013 campaign as well.
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We're not going to talk about my fluorescent bra. Never. Never ever never. Middle guy's Danny, the designer, heads up.
The next 4 stanzas (By the time I was old enough to know/Even though I didn't want to be):
Korean Asians are the only Asians getting on-screen attention compared to the rest of the APIs (Asian/Pacific Islanders) especially with the peak of K-pop as a trend in North American (Oppa Gangnam Style, let's face it, it's catchy, but none of us know Korean so Psy's parody of society goes mostly unappreciated) but they still play the weirdo or the awkward geek. Except in The Walking Dead, - thanks, Glen. Being Asian, Chinese/Franco-Vietnamese exactly, I either had to be in law, engineering, or medical. I was the medical kid. My parents have been "lovingly" trying to suppress me into dentistry or surgeon practice so they can pretty much bum off their doctor daughter. Literally, I have four years of medical training (in and outside of a medical program offered by my alma mater, Hightower High School, by the way) and they don't listen to my sound advice so what's going to convince them to listen when I have a PhD? The PhD? Naw. I'm their subservient daughter, I'm stupid and supposed to be quiet and to myself and a be wallflower and generate grandchildren like a freaking baby factory. Hence the mention of feminism in one of the stanzas. I'm not condemning housewife-ry, but I sure as hell have been oppressed by the only, not-so-much consoling idea and traditional role that that's what I "must" and "should" do, or be doing. What I do condemn is the idea of "should" - because no one really ever has to do anything
Take kindly to the example of knowing what you want to earn a degree in to settle for a career field that you may or may not want to commit suicide at the end of your career life because your unwitting 18-year old self did not YET enjoy the full extent of the world. It's like Russian roulette. The education system needs a huge turnover much less REFORMATION, because at this point in society, education is like a prison system with allusions to the meat industry (cows to the slaughterhouse). It took me two years to be comfortable enough to say I wanted a degree in Social Psychology, Cultural Anthropology, and Marketing. Funny, because I want to do PR. Funnier yet, I know a degree in PR won't actually get me a place in PR. 

The next 2 stanzas (Dubious means that promise quick drops/And wilt away with their faces):
I'm actually referring to Twitter and Instagram culture. People put themselves on blast in hopes to be famous but they burn out like comets, like fads that die out in a few days and have no lasting power. The poem has a lot of free flow like I mentioned, but I'm surprised I rhymed "plastic" with "ratchet" phonetically. Others might disagree, but I'm not a hipster: I don't have a particular fondness for what's "in" - like certain slang words (coughswagcough) or other distastefully short-lived things (sending each other nudes through direct tweets). 

The last 2 stanzas (Those trends that negate progression/Are beyond my physical being):
Pretty much my war cry.

Before we forget, this poem was typed up in not even 20, 30 minutes. Even after some editing. And it's for a scholarship about a dream job (which went haywire and ended up being a social diss on matters). Ha. Oh, me. I am ridiculous.


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Edit: P.S., can we appreciate the unintended microcosmic poetry scheme in the beginning and ends of those stanza groups (By the time I was old enough to know/Even though I didn't want to be & Those trends that negate progression/Are beyond my physical being)??? They're really... wow. Even though this is war cry-esque and very much improvised, those two pairs of lines combined break down the confidence and momentum of the entire thing.. 


A day in the life: An ode to coffee

Just the right mixture of French-dripped coffee with chicory and amaretto-flavored creamer and suddenly my anxiety is anti-climatically gone. Poof. Buh-bye. Don't come back. Jerk.

I thought I had to get caught up in a swirling maelstrom of ambiguity and slowly crescendo-ing hysteria having to metaphorically "die" to be "reborn" again to get out of my depressive funk episode. (Which is usually what happens by the way, especially in October and April of every single YEAR UGH.) It's very melodramatic if you're not the one having to be stuck in a rut of impending doom and suicidal ideation. Very,very bittersweet. But THANK YOU, COFFEE, for relaxing my liver and other physiological aspects into a more relaxed, happy state. Basically, I think coffee is how I should self-medicate.

Taking the advice of a certain NOLA-based artist I met this Spring Break, Lionel Milton, and another certain cool kid friend-from-high-school who's also an up-and-coming painter, Sebastian Tristan: "do whatever you want" and "do you".
Lionel actually was answering a question I asked him while in his attic-studio: What kind of style were his paintings? And he really said more something along the lines of "whatever" and a mix of "it's whatever I like/whatever I want it to be". But really, do whatever you want, because we're in that post-modern age away from the "-isms".

I don't sketch daily, only when the feeling moves me, and I think they turn out phenomenal when they're inspired yet not-really-where-you're-starting-out because to be frank I didn't know what I had in mind to draw. I just kept going, and ended up with this:
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Not sure why I sketched this image though: Maybe because I miss my long hair and running my fingers and palm to get that edgy, indie-grungy, sideswept look? 

As an artist... to be very technical, my illustrations are very manga-inspired (old-school CLAMP, specifically) with some influences from Alphonse Mucha and tid-bits from here and there from other contemporary artists. As of late though I've been doing more "cameo" work where it's just the head and upper bust. I like it as is, though. It looks very earthy, very pretty (I'm very aesthetically inclined to an almost perfectionist level, which is why I went totes anal on my angled bob and choppy nasty bangs). My art's never consistent because of the third/fourth/fifth ever-changing influence so asking me if I sketched one illustration because another doesn't look quite the same compared to another, is a huge, HUGEHUGEHUGEHUMUNGO DISS.

Someone accused me of that when I was 14 - when in reality that's just how I draw. Never forget. 
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Detailing, detailing, detailing.

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The doodle above that I did tonight and this doodle (done several weeks ago) aren't very alike. The only thing consistent I've ever kept with me is clean lines. Edited to bright with contrast because this was lightly done.
Self-medicating and doodling aside (which by the way, explains my nickname, "Doodles"), color is reviving itself in my life. Fluctuating moods galore: I've opted to wear a lot of grayscale and monochrome the last few weeks, even if I did spend a small fortune on a wardrobe of salmon pinks, floral prints, royal blues, soft turquoises, peachy oranges, and sheer numbers. Now I'm slowly getting back into the color spectrum. Slowly. Like a turtle. An awkward turtle.
But probably like a cute awkward turtle, like something chibird would draw.
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Drizzling Sunday afternoon, I donned a pullover and headed towards a Whole Foods because I'm in the market for lotion moisturizers with SPF now. I was just a passerby, appreciating the colors in bloom in the floral section and packaged fruits in the grocery aisle.

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Oh, and this is my new tea-only mug. The style reminds me of Lilly Pulitzer which caught my eye, but the clever (because it has some truth to it) quote on the side: "Sooner or later we all quote our mothers". I'm not sure if I want to quote my mother but sure, yeah, maybe I'll have the same technique. My mom uses a lot of imagery metaphors, by the way... which I already d--crap.
My Sundays usually suck eggs but today was pretty chill, laid-back, and not really as introspective and maddening as those other days where I wanted to run someone through Velvetine. Oh, what was yesterday? That was yesterday. Yup. *sharp inhale*

We'll see how the rest of the week goes before I make a concrete decision on whether this is a good or bad thing.


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What a cruel joke

Why does Houston never have a "TEMPERATE" weather dial to turn to? It's either Death Valley scorching hot or Lousiana swamp sweltering humid or windier than freakin' Chicago or don't-go-into-the-ocean-water-it's-cold-it'll-take-you-by-surprise chilly OR SUDDENLY IT'S 20 DEGREES ON A SUMMER NIGHT BUT THAT'S OKAY THIS IS HOUSTON. THIS IS NORMAL. Houston weather will never compare to Anaheim or San Francisco weather. Listen, folks, I know the economy's booming down here but stay away.

And stay away from Austin, y'all SXSW attendees. No one wants you tourist folk

The sad truth is that I bought a fleet (a fleet) of cutesy lightweight jackets but it's too muggy to even wear clothes ever here so count your blessings, non-Houstonians. Count them slowly and ever so deliberately. 

Update: Still in a bummy mood. Not as all-engrossing, all-encompassing bummy. A squadron of friends and I headed over to some Alaskan Husky canine-themed Hooter-esque (I apparently can't be bothered to remember this eatery's name) shindig doodad where we proceeded to zap my month-old crawfish cravings away. Huzzah! Except, you know. It wasn't that great and 80% of the crawfish weren't fresh (you would know). Oh, and we joked about how one person from the group looks like Mike Shinoda of Linkin Park. Consequently Mike Shinoda is my screen background and this fellow look-alike we were dining with I do not like. He knows this as a fact, though. 

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Mike Shinoda, as is as my wallpaper. I live by this mantra, as you should know. Or if you didn't, you sure do now.
Trying hard not to visualize them being too phenotypically alike or I'll set my screen on fire (or just hide it in the shadows of my Google Chrome windows and widgets). They're both half Japanese, half European so I mean, it shows??? Jeff doesn't have the coolness factor of Mr. Shinoda, though. 

In lieu of attending and basking in the events that were corollary to a few weeks' worth of planning (the Hermann Park Japanese Heritage festival, and the monthly Muse Party) I just drove to my college on this Saturday and just played resident bum during Pop Singers' rehearsals. Simply put, I didn't want to be home. I also didn't want to be in the midst of people genuinely enjoying themselves out on this prickly warmed-over day at the park. Or drive an extra hour to central Houston/midtown to a studio party where I probably wouldn't be missed anyhow. To that, I shrug. What-ev-er. I mean, I did hold down the fort against a barrage of questions pertaining to the music (are you/why aren't you in this concert? are you/why aren't you in Les Miserables? are you/why aren't you singing for jury? are you a singer? why don't you sing? blahblahblah) which was pretty much the only redundant part of my day. 

Oh. I carried my foil on campus. A foil is a type of sword you fence with, and it counts as a weapon. Why was I toting it around? Because it was a physical manifestation of all the hatred I have for humanity sometimes, and I was frustrated coming onto campus. I really am like a pendulum swing: I either love everyone and shower hugs and kisses to all in the land or I just want to take my foil (its name is Velvetine) and run it through someone's arm. Which, to anyone who actually fences competitively - happens on occasion and by accident. Sheer accident.


I'm not quite positive if I'm feeling better though. The moment my friend Kitti said "I'll see you Monday, right?" I slow-mo'd into a panic attack. Another bad habit of my escapism is wavering in and out of time, and being reminded of days of the week, hours, dates, just any increment of time, and I just FREEZE. Putting yourself in excruciating pain in fear of a deadline doesn't even begin to explain it. April Fools' is almost a half-month ago. Time comes and goes and it's scary. Usually that means I haven't been making good use of my time, which would account for a lot... Days pass by like water from a faucet through your hands as it just drips down into the sink. 

I think I have it all down for a week or two and then the will, the motivation, and the fire just vanishes. Having an adequate amount of sleep does that to me though. I can't fall into the same patterns other people do. I can do 3-5 hours of sleep a night just fine, because my worker ant ethic never stops and if I let it stop with a normal sleep cycle it just stops. And it breaks down. And yeah, it's a cruel joke.

The weather. The placement. The time. The pieces that don't quite fit the same anymore. 
And I'm supposed to make up for it all, in a way.


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Putting it in song

Going to express myself in song, because the words haven't found me or haven't moved me yet. Two of my all-time favorite songs (regardless of who remixes them because they're that fantastic) are included:

Miike Snow's "Animal"

There was a time when my world was filled with darkness, darkness, darkness
And I stopped dreaming now 
I'm supposed to fill it up with something, something , something
In your eyes I see the eyes of somebody I knew before long long long ago
But I'm still trying to make my mind up
Am I free or am I tied up

I change shapes just to hide in this place but I'm still, I'm still an animal
Nobody knows it but me when I slip yeah I slip
I'm still an animal

There is a hole and I tried to fill up with money, money , money
But it gets bigger to your hopes is always

Running, running, running

In your eyes I see the eyes of somebody of who could be strong
Tell me if I'm wrong
And now I'm pulling your disguise up 
Are you free or are you tied up

I change shapes just to hide in this place but I'm still I'm still an animal
Nobody knows it but me when I slip
I'm still an animal

I change shapes just to hide in this place 
But I'm still I'm still an animal
Nobody knows it but me when I slip, yeah I slip
I'm still an animal

[Repeat x2]
I change shapes just to hide in this place 
But I'm still, I'm still an animal
Nobody knows it but me when I slip yeah I slip
I'm still an animal

The Submarines' "1940" (Amplive Remix)

Something's wrong when you regret
Things that haven't happened yet
But it's a glorious day when morning comes
Without the feeling of alarm

So rise, and shine
Now's the time to be alive
To stay awake with me a while, and smile

You couldn't sleep for the awful fright
That kept you up in bed last
But curious shape shift in the dark,
They vanish with the sunrise spark

So rise, and shine
Now's the time to be alive
To stay awake with me a while, and smile

So rise, and shine
Now's the time to be alive
To stay awake with me a while

So rise, and shine
Now's the time to be alive
To stay awake with me a while, and smile

Something's wrong
We can discuss how phenomenal my taste in music is later. For now, just sit back, and meditate on the lyrics.


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PROMO: The 21st Annual Japanese Culture Festival at Hermann Park

The title really says it all. I'm going to miss it on the account that I'm pretty bummy today. Bum mood. Wearing bum clothes. The light burns, hiss hiss.

Otherwise it's a great day to be out and about with friends and family - if you dress up in cosplay and win their cosplay contest, you win tickets to visit Japan! Heck yeah. But boo for me, because I won't be there.

My friend Vincent who represented Nintendo of America at SXSW this last Spring Break will be volunteering at the comic convention that'll also be in cahoots with the Japanese Festival - I think it's that same comic convention that's sponsoring the airfare to Japan but I could be wrong, hey. Say hi to him when you see him (he's Luigi and his twin is Mario and you know you think that's cool)!


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A day in the life: 4/12/14

I feel like someone pushed me down one of San Francisco's rolling, steep hills and once I got to the bottom, I just stayed in whatever mangled position I landed in. 
Blank. Expressionless. Not dead, but a little dead inside. And life goes on: the streets remain in their bustle and form. University students bike on by. The BA/bart can be heard rolling from a distance. 

Upsetting isn't exactly the right word to frame the last couple of days that I haven't been posting. Introspective? Introverted? Idiosyncratic? Another word that starts with an "i"? It was just two days ago that I chopped 14-16 inches off my lion's mane in a fit of anger and passion and being in desperate need of a haircut, a change of context. It didn't really work out. I think I look like a boy, and unfortunately, people on Facebook (though I know they're joking) don't take me seriously enough to get the drift that I really hate this haircut. Edgy my butt (but we all know Miley Cyrus has the edgy-ist butt of them all, seeming as how she doesn't actually have one). Seething and loathing don't even begin to spark the amount of spurn-y maliciousness in the black hole that is my heart. But yeah. I could go on for hours mathematically explaining how this haircut or the bangs don't frame my face right or they chop my forehead off and shorten my face and broaden my cheeks and make me look horizontally chub-tastic but, sigh. SIGH. LE SIGH.
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Chop chop chop. How do I even begin explaining everything that's wrong with this photo? Answer: I don't but probably will, somehow.

None of my smiles have been natural-looking as of late. Nor do they feel natural. It's been bothering me, yeah, but it's really not so much about the haircut as it is with just about everything. Blah. I feel blah, and I just want to wrap myself in ugly, loose-fitting T-shirts and yoga pants and pullover hoodies WHEN IT IS LIKE 90 DEGREES HERE IN HOUSTON I AM GOING TO DIE OF DEHYDRATION.

Asides from alluding to a situation faced by a bunch of bloggers (I am specifically referring to Hyperbole and a Half's Adventures in Depression) and normal people (not saying bloggers aren't normal people, but we can be extraordinary yeah), I am suffering the unkindness of being a woman. Periods. Bloating. Crying. Cramps. Wanting chocolate but eating it makes me break out in oily T-zone zits. But I'm not merely PMS-ing, which unfortunately, a whole lot of ignorant, insensitive, uneducated men/women/children/people would jump to the conclusion of. Insert generic statement about how women shouldn't be barred from political offices because of stupid red-neck Congressmen blaming women for biological occurrences and deeming them inferior. Someone restore my faith in humanity, because this Georgian congressmen sure as hell isn't.

Seriously though if ripping out my uterus was a viable option at the age of 20 I'd do it without blinking - even under anesthesia I wouldn't blink just "yup get it over with bye bye uterus". I just want to keel over and lay on my side for a good 6 months. Or be a bear. Hibernate during the winter and roam free the wilderness and maul people who stand in my way and live in that one Yellowstone bear refuge-sanctuary and be cared for for FOREVER. 
Yes. Be the bear. 

I need cuddles. But we've all established that no one loves me, I think.

in need of xoxo

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P.S. I've been spending a lot of time mulling over how to answer the last "get to know the girl" question which deals with what lesson in my lifetime would I pass on to a generation... And I'm trying to answer it with a lot of grit and enough grains of salt where I could figuratively (and possibly literally???) start up the modern version of the lucrative salt trade of Africa back in the 1200s-1400s. I'm also trying to dedicate it to a fellow blogger who suffers from the same emotional issues I contend with, so trying to wrap it up into a neatly-tied package is difficult as it is. It carries a lot of ballast, which is probably why my metaphorical hot air balloon's hanging pretty close to the ground. Neither soaring nor grounded. Just sorta... floating aimlessly.