i hope this isn't an innate thing. pt.1

I had a purpose for taking this picture. I took it to sell a bag I'm modeling. That's my excuse anyway for the almost unbearable vapidness of this photo. I was also proud that I came up with a decently matching outfit when most of my clothing possessions were packed in several suitcases, cardboard boxes, wicker baskets, and garbage bags (not pictured).

You see, I had made a gallant effort to pack in a dignified way in order to make the smoothest transition between housing, spurred on by my friend's words of "i am a true believer that all the mistakes of forgetting stuff we made in the past could be fixed." (in any case, those words turned out to be wrong.)

In the end, fustrated and teary, sleep-deprived and surviving only on daily shawarma specials from alibaba, I gave up playing tetris with my possessions and just got garbage bags from shoppers to throw everything in. The moving guy (I gave in and paid for one, when the daunting task of moving by ttc blue line at midnight was starting to look hopeless instead of challenging.) eyed me warily. I wanted to protest that I wasn't always this much of a mess, but my sauce-stained sweats said otherwise.

egg but not the hard-boiled variety.

being somewhat of a brunch aficionado i was excited to see parts & labour being recommended in an old issue of NOW that people like to leave on the subway (more about in-depth feelings about subway littering later, but don't you hate it when people leave only the sports section of a paper?)

that place is 5 minutes away from my house, but i've only been there only once to indulge in the fatty breakfast. (I guess my brunch "aficionado-ness" only extends to weekday specials at some rundown dinner where weary-looking old bearded guys go drink in the daytime)

culturally, when I look towards japanese breakfasts of fish, rice, miso soup, or chinese breakfasts of soy milk, congee, dough stick they seem to favour proteins and simplicity to fat content. But despite my upbringing, I continue to be someone who gets their morning jollies from the runny egg that spreads over toasty bread like cheese sauce, many kinds of junky meat, and indigestion from solidified grease-build-up in the tummy.



grease on mouth can double as lipgloss if anyone asks.

http://www.partsandlabour.ca/

related but not cohesive

I like doodling more than drawing. Doodling is like drawing that's lead by your spirit instead of your brain. It leads my head to places I don't know, in a process similar to daydreaming. But doodles might not amount to anything. It's better in that way preciously because it doesn't have to communicate to anybody but me. Drawing, or more specifically, illustrating, is something more scary. It has to be appealing, it has to reach a certain audience, achieve a purpose, cultivate a particular image that has to both fit within a client or project specifications as well as your own brand. Then, of course, there is a chance of failure or rejected. People procrastinate even more, I think, when they want to do something so badly but are scared to fail than something they just plain don't want to do. I might love illustrating but I can't fail doodling.

I also write things. But of course I don't identify as a writer, because I'm not any good at it and I don't work at it either. "Writer" is like a title. I get protective of any titles I think I belong to or claim. I hate it for people who I think are undeserving to enter the world I identify with.

When I wore frilly dresses, I hated any ugly girls who didn't bother to do their hair or make-up, putting on cheap lace dresses they got at bodyline also calling themselves a Lolita. Who the hell are you? I don't want to be lumped together those who didn't put enough effort whether in money or energy. However, to outsiders, me and those girls are the same. Only those on the inside knew the difference to actually acknowledged any of my effort.

Actually, that's wrong. When you're wearing a lolita dress, even if you look totally ill-suited for it, you're a lolita. When you're serving tables, even if you drop the dishes and forget the orders, you're a waitress. And even if you're writing haphazardly for yourself only, at that moment, aren't you a writer?

I'm entrenched in the idea that "to be something, you have to be good at it already" that I probably close many doors for myself. I'm sometimes scared, or just simply apathetic to people who are not in the same world as me. I want to expand my world, but approaching it in all the wrong ways. Isn't it better if there's no "my world" but just "the world"?

no matter how much prepwork I do, moving continues to be exhausting, time-consuming, and on-going. I wish I didn't have so much experience in it, having to move every year, sometimes even twice to three times a year (but usually it's usually just a few floors up. and i had more help).

Actually I had to resort moving some of my stuff via public transport. I felt like a runaway kid with a beat-up backpack, cardboard boxes from no frills, and a wicker basket bursting full of clothes that flew away in the wind and ended up sharing space with the dirty slush bits and the hardened dog poo that uncovers itself during the feb-march months. Oh well, those clothes might as well as go, since I had to seriously downsize my possessions to fit into a 200sq ft one room apartment. I'm now a practitioner of creative broom-closet living and having to go to the public library for internet and getting creeped on by the security guard there.

what I love most about antique shopping, besides the old man stink and farm fresh breakfast, is how even the most "cute" of the products are also creepy and sinister looking. You try on some old shoes with the knowledge of how it probably belonged to a dead person, and it's hard to not get kinda philosophical. I get excited thinking about the history behind the items (like the maker was toiling away in his shop and then caught small pox and then the apprentice had to take over at the tender age of 14) and maybe some dead skin cells of the consumer too... and it makes money jump out of my wallet like maggots on casu marzu cheese.

sometimes I haven't gotten my hormones sorted out and feel as psychotic as I did when I was a nervous nail-biting teenager.
at those times I brb to the woods because it makes me feel "peaceful and serene" in the way that only sitting on a tree stump drinking vodka spiked tea out of a thermos while crying can provide.

I miss oakville because I had that convenience practically in my backyard, and now where can I go to outlet my angsty insecure shit? In the past, I've also tried lettin out steam via shopping but in recent times I think i've developed SHOPPER'S RAGE, which usually leads to retail therapy for my retail therapy.

I peeled off my bandaid just now and it was like giving myself a wax job.

the forest girls say their style is all about "au naturalle" which is total bs. any unruliness is super contrived, because if you spend all your life rolling in the dirt in the woods you would end up with milk-soaked skin and voluminous curls clearly?! I totally get that looking artfully messy has meticulous method, but what about those days where I don't feel like covering up my eyebags with concealer and keeping my arms and legs hairy?

i propose something like feral girl, where girls don't shave and let their nails grow until they become something like claws. and eye bags give you character.