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[15 Jun 2015|10:59pm]
Logging into Livejournal still gives me a happy feeling when I do it.
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A Bronny Story [18 Aug 2014|01:54am]
Two weeks ago, I had a rare and random weekend day off. Brandon and I planned on meeting up for brunch. It was a beautiful sunny summer day. We agreed to meet at his apartment and drive to a local Cajun restaurant together. As I walked up to his sidewalk, a huge bird standing in the yard caught my eye. A hawk! It was eyeing me suspiciously, and moving its feet slightly. I knew it was going to take off at any moment, so I slowed my pace, enjoying the birdwatching experience for as long as I could. When I got too close for its comfort, it lifted off the ground and flew off, revealing a barn swallow in its clutches. Sad, existentially depressing, but nonetheless I appreciated the little bit of nature thrust into my over-urbanized life.

Brandon was car-sitting his mother's silver Subaru while she was on a weekend adventure with some friends, so we took that to the Cajun Cafe. I had blueberry pancakes with simple syrup and a large hot chai - I was happy to discover that they have the best chai in town. Brandon had a crawfish omelet and coffee. The conversation was great, and while I always look forward to spending time with Brandon, there just seemed to be something particularly optimistic in the air. We discussed going to the local zoo, where Brandon has never been. We talked about going shopping. Then I suggested we go to the Maker's Market, a small crafters fair at the Red Raven Espresso Parlor. Brandon was as excited about it as I was, so we paid our bill and headed out.

There isn't much parking at the Raven itself, so we parked down a street at the end of the block. We happened to park right in front of a cat shelter called Cat's Cradle; the very cat shelter that formerly was PAAWS, where I got Sunny. They had moved into another building and made quite a few changes. Brandon said, "Hey, want to go in and check it out?" Of course you know what my answer to that was.

We were instantly greeted by a litter of six kittens being played with by prospective adopters, and one of the volunteers asked if we'd been there before. I mentioned that I had adopted Sunny from them. She said, "Speaking of big cats, if you want to see a REALLY big cat, check out Columbus in room 7!"

We followed one of our former English professors who happens to volunteer there down the hall. We walked into the room, set eyes on Columbus, and I believe I squealed. He was a huge cat, indeed; very similar to but even bigger than Brandon's huge cat, Riley. Columbus was unhealthily obese, which sadly in a cat is actually quite adorable.

Brandon knelt down and started petting him while Dr. Frederick started telling us about his personality. She told us how laid back he was, never getting riled up or lashing out even when the other cats did. She talked about how he'd been there since last October; how a family had put a "hold" on him and several other people had inquired about adopting him in the meantime, but the people who put a hold on him never came and got him, and strangely the shelter hadn't had anyone inquire about him since.

Columbus was sitting on a chair, paws tucked in under him reservedly. He looked like a sleek gray watermelon, stripes and all. Cat's Cradle is a wonderful shelter, but it's not a home, and the body language of this big cat was that he was stressed out, bored, institutionalized. He shed easily, he was dusty from all the dander and litter in the air. Though he was awake, he never once fully opened his eyes. But he softened a bit as Brandon pet him. I took out my phone to snap some pictures, knowing full well what was about to happen.

Columbus needed someone to give him a happy home where he would be taken care of; fed the right amount of the right food, brushed, snuggled, loved. There was no doubt in my mind that Brandon was the right person to do it. He had been talking about getting Riley a friend for the better part of a year, but for some reason had never actively looked for one. Columbus was perfect. When Brandon started scratching him under the chin, he stretched his neck out in the sweetest bliss. We instantly loved that cat so much, and Brandon was in the ideal position to open his life to him. So he did just that.

He applied to adopt him, right then and there!

While I was once a romantic and quite optimistic of the notion of fate, I don't really believe in it anymore. But the power of that chain of events - the chance visitation, the instant direction into Columbus's room, the sudden rush of love and purpose that charged the air when Brandon knelt in front of him, and the empty spot in Brandon's apartment that seemed to be just waiting for Columbus all along - it really feels like it was meant to be. For the first time in a very long time, my lack of faith took a hit and had to give a nod to providence.

Brandon and I spent the afternoon getting supplies for him, then returned in the early evening to take him home. He walked right into the kennel willingly, without any type of fuss. Once he was outside, he looked around with alertness; it was the first time we'd seen his beautiful golden eyes. He didn't whine or struggle. He seemed nervous, but collected and curious. The mark of a very intelligent cat, I suspect.

At Brandon's, he strolled out of the kennel, sniffed Riley, and started exploring. His playful side came out. He'd seemed so weary at the shelter, when they told us how young he was, we couldn't believe it. Once he was home, we could see the kitten shining through!

After some deliberation, we renamed him Bronny Bear. He helped us decide; as we threw out names, I said, "Bronnyyy!" and he meowed and ran over to me.

What an exciting time!

 photo bronnyshelter2_zpse264edf1.jpg

Brandon meets Bronny.

 photo bronnynew2_zps5d304a5a.jpg

Bronny's first moments of playing at his new home! Brandon got him a little catnip-stuffed knit teddy bear.

While Brandon was filling out the adoption paperwork we learned that when he first arrived at the shelter, he'd had a clean cut on his right paw that had taken two of his toes off. You can see in these pictures that he's missing a part of his paw.

 photo bronnynew_zps8bef827f.jpg

 photo bronnybrush_zpsf26cb305.jpg

Brandon brushing Bronny.

 photo bronnybrush2_zps1058ec5f.jpg

He likes it.

 photo bronnybrush3_zpsf7618f82.jpg

 photo bronnypet_zpsa687300a.jpg

Big, beautiful cat. This was day 2, right before Brandon surprised his mom with a new cat in the family when she came to pick up her car.

 photo Photo1598_zpsd8d0d573.jpg

Bronny (l) and Riley (r). Already buddies. (photo credit: Brandon)
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[07 Aug 2014|07:01pm]
And I just want to add. After reading through the angsty lyrics of the album Transgender Dysphoria Blues and knowing Laura Jane Grace had only relatively recently "come out" as transexual and described herself as being in an awkward transition period, I was floored when a GORGEOUS, confident, glowingly feminine person took the stage. She looked comfortable in her own skin and, without exaggeration, is one of the more magnetic people I've ever seen. I wasn't kidding about that smile!
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Against Me! [07 Aug 2014|01:37am]
Well I knew it was going to be a crowded show. What I didn't imagine was the inescapable mosh pit that it was. I hadn't been in a sea like that in quite some time. It tossed me to the side, right in front of a speaker, way too loud. Maybe I would've been upset at a different show, but with the sunshine of Laura Jane Grace's infectious smile lifting my spirits, I decided to stop fighting the aggression. I was going to get sweat on and I was going to have fun with it. I had to take over and rule them all. AND I DID. Thanks to my sober head and slippery shoulders, a third of the way through the set I was upwave from the speakers, center stage, pushed up against the guys bracing the crowd on the front lines. The guy in front of me was a very big guy, and actually pretty comfortable to get squished into. My feet were off the ground at some points; it reminded me of lying on an inflatable raft drifting on a lake. I knew I'd made it when I looked up and Laura Jane was directing those beamers right at me. I managed to hold that position, second "row" and sometimes bracing myself against the stage, for the rest of the show. So close I saw Laura Jane's fillings. So close when she spit-sprayed beer onto the audience, most of it went over me. We fist-bumped and I got to strum her guitar.

I left completely soaked and disgusting.

One hell of a good night.
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New SoundCloud song. [16 Dec 2013|09:12pm]
Here's the link to a song I uploaded onto SoundCloud today. I am kinda disappointed at the production quality, but it's as good as I can get it on my own. This is one that will eventually be on The Very Very Famous Love Machine's first album, Black Randy. The Very Very Famous Love Machine is the name of my band. :)

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Corn mazes. [13 Oct 2013|11:20pm]
Why don't they just call them maizes?
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Wrapping up? [29 Apr 2013|02:11pm]
My senior year of college was, in a word, humbling. I’d rarely struggled to receive high grades in previous years, and took it as a sign that I was a relatively good writer. I imagined that the brunt work of learning how to be objective and precise would happen early on, and by the time I got close to graduation I'd be honing a well-developed skill. Since writing seemed to come easily to me, I didn't think I had too much ground to cover, really. I knew it would be a lot of work, but I figured by the end of my college career, I’d have a palpable craft under my belt. I breezed through the majority of my classes up through my junior year, fine-tuning my style. I learned the benefit of eliminating passive voice and how putting verbs in place of lackluster adjectives can transform a piece. I felt like I had a pretty good handle on it. Sure, I made improvements here and there and still sought to find my voice, but overall, things were going as planned.

Then came the group workshops.

They say the more you know, the more you realize how little you know. It wasn’t until my senior year that people really dug into my writings and exhumed from my complacent mind all the little faults I hadn’t seen before. Passive voice still crept in, and the bits I stayed up till the wee hours composing reeked of melodrama by the light of day. Getting so many perspectives on my work was like feeling the breeze after the bubble I’d lived safely inside all my life was popped. Now that I’m on the cusp of graduation, I realize that what I’m taking away from my college career isn’t a shiny achievement wrapped up in a bow. It’s more like a toolbox and some rough materials. College has helped me become more effective, but writing will always be a work in progress.

At first I felt a little down on myself, but now this humility excites me. When I read back over my work and see weak spots, I take that as a source of power. Receiving good grades and positive feedback was nice, but now that I’ve had some tough love, I look forward to bettering my work. It may take more elbow grease to create a functional piece now than when I first started out, but that’s because I see so much more opportunity for improvement. Ultimately that means that I’m not satisfied with diluted work; I will keep striving to create something stronger. Whether I continue to write on the side or find a way to do it professionally, I don’t plan to stop. Armed with a critical eye and the array of literary experiences that college gave me, I’m eager to discover what I’m capable of doing when untethered from a syllabus.
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[07 Feb 2013|08:50pm]
This is me doing no justice whatsoever to Jethro Tull's amazing "Wond'ring Aloud." I'm not happy with this one but it's the best I got for now. I've been trying to record this cover for a while and can't seem to get it right, but I'm tired of not having uploaded anything in a long time so I give up. This is kind of a "fuck-it" upload.

So.. enjoy? :)

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[05 Feb 2013|08:04pm]
a photo on my wall.
me and two friends, all cheek to cheek to cheek
and smiling
I can meet eyes with her, now,
once me
once all of me
she peers back
but she's not really there
that me is now just
a thin empty blotch of ink
and when I try to think back
I can't recall when the photo was taken
what I was thinking
where we were
it's a quiet hollow place like
the name of someone I've never met
the answer to a trivia question I don't know
a void that left behind
not dust but six eye-shaped stains
this flimsy ghost
an unmoving tome
the traveling light of a star
long dead
what happened to that girl
that mortal moment
right there smiling
but unreachable
one of many deaths
small, adding up
one more battle lost
in a long war,
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What is in a name, anyway? [24 Jan 2013|05:25pm]
My name existed for me before I myself existed. Before I was born. Before my mother was even capable of having children. She was a child herself, about nine, when she came across it in a book. She tells me that, back then, it was very unique. She didn’t know anybody else named “Lindsey.” She thought it had a nice ring to it, and put it in the storebooks.

By the time she and my father began having the discussions that eventually drummed me up from the ether, she’d long since forgotten the title of the book, but my name was still with her. She expressed an affinity for it early on, along with the name “Shelby Jo.” She wasn’t sure which one I’d be. She and my father just figured that when they met me, they’d know.

As it turns out, the first words I ever heard were that of my father exclaiming, “It’s a girl! It’s Lindsey Sue!” He named me before even consulting my mother, but she agreed, when I was handed up to her. They knew I was a Lindsey. Since I first heard the story, I’ve been grateful that they vetoed Shelby Jo. I'm comfortable in my name.

Lindsey means “Linden trees near the water,” or “By the Lind Sea.” When I think of this, in my mind I picture a long horizon of ocean meeting a long horizon of sky, rippled with waves and birds, the Linden trees and I gazing toward it. I have an affinity for beaches – where the land meets the sea – and maybe that’s why. I’ve always thought my name had a quiet dignity about it. It’s cute, but not cutesy. Refined, but not snobby. The perfect length at two syllables; just long enough to suit formality without being a mouthful, but easily shortened to “Linz” to those who endear me. There’s a sing-songy optimism about it, but it also seems perfectly at home when attributed to the author of a thoughtful work of prose or poetry.

Once, while working for a bank, I answered the phone with a mention of my name and department. The voice booming from the other end was definitely that of a male, and he sounded like a large, robust one at that. “You said your name is Lindsey?” He asked, in a confident, commanding tone. “Well, hey, that’s my name, too!” I thought first of how unfortunate my caller had been growing up, assuming he must've been made fun of. But then I realized that I may have been wrong about my name all along. The more I mulled it over, the more I found the masculinity in it, just as surely as the femininity. It’s a name that adapts. It behooves all the complexities of a person.

A part of me has always wondered how different I would be if my parents had gone the other route; if my dad had proclaimed me Shelby Jo instead. I don’t know any Shelby Jos, but I imagine that being bubbly is a mandate for them all. It’s a decidedly feminine name, and tips the scale from “refined” right over toward “cutesy.” I imagine, as a Shelby Jo, I’d have cared a lot more about clothing and makeup than I do now. She sounds more like a hairdresser than a writer. That’s not a detriment, by any means. The introverted task of rumination and the tedium of jotting everything down seem too drab and pessimistic for someone of such a perky moniker. Shelby Jos probably have a lot more fun. Shelby Jo doesn’t sound like the kind of person that lies awake in the middle of the night pondering existential questions. She’s liberated by surety, doesn’t bother with what can’t be known.

But why do I identify so strongly with one name over the other? Where do these constructs even come from? Doesn’t a person make the name, not the other way around?

Maybe if I were Shelby Jo, I’d be the same person. Maybe I wouldn’t even have any qualms with what my name was and I’d be grateful my folks had chosen it. Maybe I’d see the quiet dignity in it. Maybe people would call me Shel, and when they said it, it’d conjure the notion of me sitting on the beach, gazing out toward the sea.
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[22 Jan 2013|09:23am]
Yesterday I started playing Words With Friends on Facebook. I've got about 12 games going now and I never want to stop. It's so fun! And to be able to essentially play Scrabble with my grandma in Phoenix is so cool.

I know she can hold her own, but I felt a little guilty about dropping a 60-point word on her. I didn't realize it would be worth THAT many points. But THEN in another game with Aaron, on his second word, he somehow got 119 points. 119 points?! In one WORD? WTF. I didn't even know that was POSSIBLE. So I don't really feel as guilty anymore.

I was just about caught up, too, until he dropped some other whackadooery on me and as of the last full turn I was about 102 points behind him. Ugh.

I'm simultaneously impressed and pissed. And I'll be humbled if I lose, but I'm still not planning on losing.

So for any of you who have Facebook.. Words With Friends! Bring it!
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[31 Dec 2012|03:33pm]
My 2012 Year-End Meme!!Collapse )
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[09 Oct 2012|07:48pm]
the wall shattered above her head fragmented into chalky hard palettes of negated shelter negated security negated peace negated home and her hair was lighted with white drywall dandruff it got into her eyes but she cried them out easily enough just a little itchiness his fist was only inside the walls for a moment reaching into the sanctum sealed by carpenters years before maybe only tickled by the occasional mouse or baby squirrel or spider there were so many spiders in her home that she learned not to squeal or start when she saw them but instead say hello in peace she is a peaceful person not accustomed to violence and she would even let the spiders outside in a jar when she could at first until eventually she learned to just live in harmony with them or sometimes secretly just vacuum them up but that always panged her conscience she desired harmony she desired sanctuary she desired reverence he denied her that stole the still air from between the walls that levied peace sanctioned stability barred the boogiemen caught the cold and kept her safe and warm violated by a clump of dumb digits thrust with so much force it shattered the bones in his fingers an immutable battering ram deployed in honor of dysfunction reverent of anger and control and self-loathing the crunch was awful the wound gaping on the wall and the quick withdraw of his fist loosened and red and his face contorted hissing inward a grimace so fierce it seemed magnetic and she saw nothing else thought nothing else but what next as he turned his back to her but he slept soundly that night close and hot and calm in the suspenseful way a dead body is always seeming as though at any moment it will start up again she never moved out of the bed she laid with the drywall and hard painted slabs on the mattress retired from their duties as sanctum she waited she waited she waited there was no sleep she only waited and processed and wondered at how any of this would ever make any sense and it seemed apparent that none of it ever would and the walls had been broken her shelter compromised and now she was huddled like a rabbit naked in the wilderness just waiting wide-eyed and the whole world to her became wilderness walled up or not a mere fist careless indifferent powerful more powerful than peace more powerful than the bastions that once held her safe within now a cage and she was caught within the wolf was within and she had loved him beckoned him tempted him with her own juicy tender disposition and she loved herself she never meant to give herself throw herself wantonly toward bone yellow teeth gaping maw the dark black lines that slash across a snarling front she would have fled if she would ever have known but she could never have known and nothing now to do but lie next to him and let him lie let him sleep weather the calm quiet the disquiet lull the witching hour til it gave way to dawn and it came slowly subtly delicately she watched the room turn from black to grey then a sweet buttery yellow the birds sang outside her window cheerfully chipper ignorant forgiving their music pardoned the night assured her of the beauty in the wilderness she felt safe with them and they didn’t need walls they didn’t want walls because walls are a sham walls corrode walls collapse the birds lived in a hollow pad of sticks there was peace in their songs an immutable purity which made sense and so it made sense that he didn’t make sense so she got out of bed he stirred and she started with her hand on her heart which is when she remembered that she had fists too and the rabbit was gone in fact she was a wolf with her own cause to honor reverence to honor harmony to honor a spider crawled out of the chasm in the wall and she invited it in she shook the drywall from her head she woke him up and said leave and he did and she did too and now she lives in the shelter of the wilderness with her hands up with her heart open as ever she is a rabbit still wide-eyed and a songbird with a lyric and a wolf waiting and the spider trespassing and insignificant as anything else she lives on a pad of sticks but she feathered it and she lets in the wolf sometimes but instead he is only a man and she is a woman with fists and teeth and a cause and the battering ram which she keeps dismantled she only unfolds it to reveal five delicate fingers she uses them to put things back together she doesn’t mind when the fortresses fall anymore she catches the pieces and wears them like a tiara she lives with her hands up in the shelter of the wilderness and she lets the birds sing to her she lets the wolves howl at her and grinds her teeth sharp as shale but doesn’t bare them she loosens the clenching in her powerful jaw she keeps them hidden she keeps them tucked behind her soft lip she knows a man who desires peace who desires harmony who desires reverence she touches his face she kisses his mouth and they smile at each other as though they are looking into a mirror when they see each other they see a man and a woman with kingdoms inside them animal kingdoms righteous kingdoms she desires peace she desires harmony she desires reverence she denies the tooth the claw the powerful jaw the mutilated wall a bludgeoning boogieman embattled and taking up arms she takes into her arms a feral fellow feral who only makes sense they sing together at the end of the day forgiving and when they walk through the woods the animals recognize them she told him once that if she were an animal she would be a songbird and that was true he said he’d be a fish and somehow they still get along they live and let live and when they look at each other it’s like looking at a piece of art that makes sense cathartic and tender and powerful more powerful than a wall collapsible more powerful than a painting corruptible more powerful than a bone that will not break even with the fingers bared and reaching she told him she was a songbird and it was true but she is everything else and he is too she walks through the woods and she sees the spiders watching her they don’t invite her but it’s a harmonious affair and she feels at home in the wilderness sticks breaking under her feet silent eyes on her and she is a woman she knows about the wolves and their teeth sharper than shale their carnal hunger their jaws more powerful than her soft skin her dull teeth her delicate bones but she lives with her hands up she knows their plight and thinks about their cubs at home hungry and wailing with sweet button noses she can’t blame them for her tender juicy disposition beckoning them tempting them she could have taken up arms but she is a peaceful person not accustomed to violence a rabbit starts before her and scurries past but it doesn’t look afraid it looks dutiful and she notices that all of the animals are dutiful and all of the animals desire peace the kingdom is righteous embattled and taking up arms but harmonious and the animals look at her and recognize her and she looks at the animals and recognizes them and when the animals look at each other they see men they see women
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[07 Sep 2012|04:55pm]
Last time the world was here, he got up and announced to the party that he was going outside for a smoke.

I joined him.

We stood alone beneath the porch light, surrounded by nighttime flourished with chalky white wings.

The flame illuminated his face for a moment, and I saw the curve of his lips, watched how steadily they held the cigarette, the cherry glow as he took in a breath and brought it to life.


I wanted to try a drag. He let me. My first.

I thought, this is the most intimate thing we've ever done.

The cigarette was an hourglass. We had only a minute.

Conversation was inverted; between the lines, in silences, absolutely unspoken.

A pull.

I watched his smoke rise and whorl, spread and fade, becoming the black air around it.

The same thing happened to my breath in the chill.

No meaning to our words but the difference in timbre.

The tobacco turned, bit by bit, to a spattering of ash. Everything around us running out of substance.

And then a modest orange firework arcing from his fingertips to oblivion. Spent.

To cling would be futile. We left the porch light, passed through the doors that led us back to our friends, the music, the warm yellow living room, our opposite ends of the room.

But I imagined that last ember, nestled in the grass beneath the wispy world of moths and autumn air, still burning.
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[24 Jul 2012|10:07pm]
Foundations are being laid, sturdier than before.

In many ways, I am happier than I was before.

This happiness is more valuable than the dreams I've lost, which, though I longed for them greatly, were built on sand.

This happiness redoes dreams.

It's a boon I didn't know I'd have.

I know who I am. It's not exactly who I thought I was before, though I had a pretty good idea. Thing is; it's better.

I have found a way to give up things I'd been clutching my entire life without even realizing the intense fear behind losing them.

I'm not just metaphorically looking that fear straight in the eyes now, as they say; I'm dancing with it. Learning to move gracefully with it. Learning to embrace it.

An exciting new lover: liberation.

Security, naivete, pride; to the fire.

I am a gentle force, a sure force, resilient, to be reckoned with.

To be loved.

And I love the world in a way I haven't before.

With my hands up.

Heart perched in my chest like a clam. Soft maw open to the world, so desperate, so delicate; but content to tuck itself again into fortified sanctity. Patient.

I don't make the rules.

There are no rules.

I just live here.

And everything about that sentence feels wonderful.
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[05 Jun 2012|09:45pm]
Some days are better than others. I just don't know anymore. I went to the Bahamas last week. In case you were wondering where I'd been. Little brother got married.

I would write more, but I just have nothing to say. My existence is the size of a pixel. My hurt is bigger than my self. Not all the time, and I hope not forever. But at the moment.. I just have nothing else to say, really.
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Cinco de Cry-o [05 May 2012|02:47pm]
Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah" could be the most perfect song that has ever existed.

I've been feeling the lyrics poignantly. Love, lost.

And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah.

He did, when I was happy. He did, because now, I have no more Hallelujah left within me.

All I ever learned from love was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya.

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[02 May 2012|11:53pm]
To prepare for my jaunt to the Bahamas and the intensity of the sun there, I had my first tanning bed experience today. TERRIFYING. EVERY SINGLE THING ABOUT IT.

1.) It's like being in a fucking oven.

2.) Skin cancer and expedited aging?!

3.) You are laying on fucking GLASS. THAT DOES NOT FEEL SAFE. And just in case it breaks, underneath the glass are, oh, just a bunch of long glass bulbs with hot UV rays shooting out of them.

4.) And did I mention you are naked?! (except for little eye buggles)

5.) When the lid closes over you it's so tight in there you can't even lift your hand to adjust the little eye buggles you have to wear.

6.) The glass is creaking constantly and you can feel it moving unstably beneath you, probably warping a little because of the heat. Like it's about to fucking shatter and leave you baking to death full of glass shards.

7.) Did I mention that I once watched a horror movie in which a young buxom female got stuck in a tanning booth and the heat turned up to full blast and she cooked/burned to death in the most painful of ways? Yes, the glass did break underneath her as a result of the heat. Her eyes exploded and her skin melted off of her.

So you can imagine all the things going through my head as I laid naked and prone, offering my life up to the glass in that claustrophobic little death chamber as it cooked me.

No person has ever been so delicate and gentle getting into or out of a tanning booth as I was. I'm surprised I even made it in at all.

It took a lot out of me. AND PEOPLE DO THIS FOR FUN?
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[27 Apr 2012|10:00pm]
I wish Livejournal wasn't so lonely. :( I think everybody reading this should write a new blog, right now, about your current state of well-being. Just do it!
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[24 Feb 2012|05:48pm]
[ mood | determined ]

The older I get, the harder it is for me to write. I don't think it has to do so much with those neurological synapses turning in for the night after noticing the absence of excitement they felt in their nascence as it does with humility and reservation. As time goes on, empathy broadens, emotions complicate, vernacular narrows. The more you know, the more you realize how little you know. Once I could take a subject and turn it over and over in my head, grabbing a vibe willy-nilly and going with it, throwing down my every observation and judgment onto the page without a second thought. Now, that seems blasphemous. Life is too complex; the reverence deserved by each of its parts is too great for vocabulary, much less its assertion. Each word says too little, can be interpreted so differently, seems so inadequate. The task of writing is so large that it no longer seems plausible. And yet I know I was once good at it (or at least did it to some degree of potency). Writing is beautiful, important, necessary. It's meaningful regardless of the impossibility of perfect conveyance. How sad that it should fall by the wayside due to timidity or overanalyzation. It's as though, since I can't paint with a brush as broad as God's, I feel it's no use at all. And that's ridiculous.

I have two new resolutions: 1.) to speak my mind more without giving a fuck. I do find a lot of value in other peoples' comfort and happiness, and I recognize that others may take offense or judge me negatively due to what I say, but I have to remember that their judgment is on them. I paint with my brush and only my brush, and they're free to color my words with theirs. I am a reasonable and well-meaning person (if I do say so myself); the last thing I want to do is offend. If someone doesn't give me the chance to justify what I stand for or stand up for themselves, that is on them. I'm going to try to be done worrying about it. I always thought life was too short to cause friction or make others uncomfortable for the sake of a petty expression. Now I'm realizing that life is too short not to be expressive, and the rest will follow, for better or worse. How solid can a friendship be if it is based on platitudes rather than confidence? I've had similar epiphanies before, but I don't think it's ever really resonated to the extent it is now. I don't think I've ever had such a need to be me. I haven't written so little or played music so little as I do now since I was about six years old. I almost don't even know for sure that I exist. That's got to change. Maybe this is what happens shortly before I get a mohawk.

Resolution number 2.) To climb (or at least ATTEMPT to climb) the rock wall at my college wellness center. Just because I've always wanted to do that.

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