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I haven't been nurturing my artistic soul enough as of late.
I don't know when my last honest to goodness photo-whoring was. (And Haley, don't get all offended, I'm talking about glitter, fake eyelashes, high heels, a strange set, fake blood, and a film camera.)
Recently I have been entranced with Lilith. I want to do a scary succubus of man photoshoot. She's a red head who gives birth to hordes of demon spawn.
I'm thinking some lonely mountain for the setting...but perhaps that includes too much walking/hiking.
Also I want desperately to do the water nymph pictures in the river. Too bad I don't have an underwater camera. But I'm envisioning draping trees with barefooted girls roaming about in soggy white nightgowns.
In other news, does anyone want to see a fantastic video of the "I Hate Gabe Knutzen" song?
I could upload one soonish...
The book is stalled right now because someone is too lazy to attend writer's club. And someone else is too bored to write her story.
I need an angry fan base to yell at me for my underachievement.Maybe then I could pick up a paintbrush and finish the alien abduction painting.
Or better yet, illustrate Attack of the Chocolate Eaters. And yes, I freaking italicized my BOOK. Someday it will be just that. A book.
I found hope the other day at Walgreens when I stopped to read The Big Ugly Monster and the Little Stone Rabbit by Christopher Wormell. It was beyond depressing. So tragic. And the ending left much to be desired. I figure that a dead parakeet in my book isn't the end of the world. (You guys should read it, the drawings were very good.)
My point though is this,
Actually it is more of a plea for help.
Someone inspire me to get off of my ass and make creative-ness.
Please?
Someday.
(http://monislawa.deviantart.com/art/A-Way-Of-Suicide-126952127)
The picture to our left is by Monislawa on deviantart. I love the photographs that this lady takes. (Just giving credit where credit is due)
Last night I discovered something about myself. My self preservation instincts are a bit lame. Imagine, you are deeply asleep. It is two in the morning. In the middle of a strange dream about headless men in business suits you are awoken to the soft creaking of your front door. You live alone, in one room.
As your head turns toward the formerly locked door, a man's silhouette is looming near your bed.
What would the typical person's response be?
"AAAAHHH!!!" Right? Possibly an accelerated heart rate, a defensive posture?
Mine was, "Who are you?"
I said this very calmly and remained peacefully wrapped in my blankets.
It was Nick.
He used his key (which I made him give me back) and we had an odd talk about his life. I felt like a Catholic priest. Except my hair was a hot mess and I was wearing sweatpants.
He left and insisted on leaving me cash. A donation for Jesus?
I woke up around eleven today and decided it must have been a crazy dream. Nope.
The money was folded up neatly by the bed.
Drat. I have been floating along now for two or three weeks, waking lazily at noon. Sad times are ahead; I signed up for two classes at CBC this summer. It is all a part of the whole Western plan...but how I loathe the thought of statistics at eight in the morning.
My schedule:
8:20-9:30 M T W TH
Statistics
(Online Class)
History of Jazz
This will bring my total credits to...65! Yipee.
It all began this morning, with brown browns. I rolled out of bed looking like I was Fraggle Rock's biggest star. (A fraggle is pictured above) Then I thought to myself, you know what sounds just delicious for breakfast?
A three day old sub sandwich from Winco.
So I walked the two and a half feet to the fridge from my blankets and unrolled the plastic wrap to reveal three more succulent inches of bread and turkey. How nutritious.
(And curse you Alec Chunn for leaving all this food in my shed. I think it is quite rude and that you are NOT a gentlemen.)
How did I complement my rudimentary sub? With brownie batter BJ's!
(Ben and Jerry's for those of you too skinny to be in the know)
This is where I ran into a slight roadblock. All of my spoons were dirty. Not only that, all of my dishes were dirty and relaxing in the sink.
"Well Tipton, I guess I should clean these while I'm washing the spoon..." I remarked to the ant that was perched by my toothpaste.
He nodded in approval.
First thing in the morning and already doing housework? By Scott, it's a sign of the end times!
Anyhow, I dumped some dish soap in the sink and got to it. As I was dumping the stagnant water from my cheery red bowl I found myself facing the first nausea attack of the day; grey-green mold came slopping from the dish.
It smelled rank. It looked vile and rather malicious. I had to urge myself to continue my work. With a face towel pressed against my nose and swallowing bile, I scrubbed at least half of my dishes clean.
Then my dear sister called.
And I remembered, BADMINTON. Don't get me wrong, I love the sport. But today my stomach was feeling discontent and I'm truly a lazy bastard at heart. A promise is a promise though, so I went willingly with little complaint.
As we dashed around the backyard volleying, my stomach threated rebellion again. Apparently Monster and cigarettes are not so in line with physical activity. Oh well.
Haley then treated me to the biggest spectacle of gluttony I had been involved in since I moved in to the shed and quit my job. Thai food, butterflies drenched in oil and full of cream cheese. How fantastic. At least until the car ride home, whereupon I was clenching my swollen belly and caressing the food baby within.
Currently I imagine that I appear at least three to four months pregnant.
So ends the day. Hopefully cat-man managed to start his tractor and Haley has worked on the Apria Delink story that I love. We can only hope.
Yay optimism!
Isn't it? And as an extra bonus it is extremely crooked. I thought this picture illuminated that.
Is it pathetic that I am afraid to open my fridge? There is some raunchy Panda express in there. Stephanie brought it over when Nick still lived here.
Speaking of Nick, I hate him every time my mother knocks.
I wish he hadn't left me. I can't be with him on Friday nights again. I can't pretend I'm sixteen and forgive him for leaving me here in the whale's belly. He is heartbreakingly sad though.
I went to bed at six in the evening today. Then woke up at eleven p.m.
No one wanted to do anything with me.
I find that I do not give even half of a flying fuck about it. I feel that I will probably return to my bed soon and have more dreams about traveling to fantastic places.
Oh, UPDATE: I have five dollars left in checking, and seven dollars in savings.
I need to get a job. But I hate working. I also hate being marooned here because my car is out of gas. I also hate not having a cigarette. Or coffee for that matter.
Food today:
half of nasty english muffin turkey sandwich. (Kayden said it tasted like the sandwich took a poop. Mother was not pleased.)
a cup'o' noodle
five cigarettes
snapple
Needless to say, poverty is making me more attractive. I know it's bizarre, but I'd rather have my happiness back...
I live in part of my mother's garage. The only company who frequents the residence are a sizable colony of ants and one Simon V. Hunter who I escorted out. (A stinkbug)
I was taking my second shower of the day (damn the stifling summer weather) when I noticed Francis the ant climbing up the vinyl. This irritated me. I let them eat portions of my ramen noodles, leave them the decaying garbage to munch on, tolerate them crawling on my laptop, but quite frankly Francis, I will not tolerate your voyeuristic intentions.
I am a lady after all.
I watched him climb the shower head so as to assume a better view.
"Francis, you need to evacuate with urgency. I will not let you gawk at me and such."
He didn't even grace my firm command with a reply, simply clung to the shining metal and flicked his antenna suggestively.
"Well really Francis!"
And here is where the story takes a sad turn. I was rather angry, so unthinking I splashed him with water. He became dislodged and fell many stories to the shampoo shelf. I shuddered as I imagined my own body plummeting an equal distance.
Still he moved.
Spurred by some satanic impulse, I splashed poor Francis T. Culbert once more.
I was really quite disturbed when he insisted on pretending that he had drowned.
I crouched down on my knees and prodded him lightly with my index finger.
"Francis...Francis...stop playing around."
He was dead.
So today I murdered my good friend, and trust that I have endured loads of remorse about the matter.
Goodbye, Francis Tiberius Culbert, we will miss you always.
