Magical Tattoo of my Dreams

I've been pretty stuck on what to write here.

I asked my lovely Facebook Friends to give me a topic.  And I so received!   What tattoo, if free and licked on by kittens, would I want.  And why.

First, licked on by kittens (please get the reference!) because I am TERRIFIED of needles.  Butterfly needles make me cry.  Like a little baby. Which is the primary reason I don't have any tattoos.  That, and I'm pretty indecisive. 

I do, however, have one idea that's been with me for a while.  A wonderful, magical idea.  That's an homage to Harry Potter. 

Most of you know my love for HP.  I'm a total nerd, and I don't care who knows it.  The Harry Potter series is like a patronus charm for the dementors in my life.  So, it's only natural that if I ever get a tattoo, it'll be Harry Potter based. 

Not a lightning bolt or even a Deathly Hallows sign.  No, I'd have an owl.  Delivering my letter.  A massive chest piece of a barn owl in flight, wings stretching from shoulder to shoulder, my Salem letter clutched in one claw.  Salem School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  I'm not European, so obviously I wouldn't have gone to Hogwarts. 

 



It would done in black and gray.  I love the aesthetic of black and gray, just so seemingly simple.  But not at all.  And it would have green eyes.  Another homage to the books, something the movies couldn't do.  

I also love simplistic versions of the Voldemort's Horcruxes, themselves.  Professor Quirrell (his soul, anyway), Tom Riddle's Diary, Marvolo Gaunt's Ring, Salazar Slytherin's Locket, Helga Hufflepuff's Cup, Rowena Ravenclaw's Diadem, and finally Harry Potter himself.  A small symbol to represent the mission through each year of the series.

Regarding the artist, I don't know who I'd choose.  I don't know any, personally.  What I do know, is they'd better be proficient in kitten-licked ink.

On Disappointment

"Hard not to feel just a little bit disappointed and passed over."

I don't handle rejection well.  Something I'm going to have to get over if I really intend to finish writing my novel and then seek to publish it.  I take it too personally, whether it's professionally or romantically.  It just breaks my heart. Every. Single. Time.  I can't seem to separate myself from the disappointment of not being perfect for everything I attempt.

So I don't.  I don't put myself out there often, because the very notion of rejection is crippling.

I applied for a job that I'm qualified to do in my sleep.  Overall, the hiring supervisor advised that the job would be given to either me or a former teammate of mine.  She got the job.  I'm in no way angry about her getting it, she deserves it.  I'm really happy that she's getting out of the service center.  I just feel stuck, and I have for a very long time.

So, not getting this job was a massive, crushing blow.  Oh, and they haven't even bothered to tell me that I'm not the one getting the job.  I learned from asking her if she had heard anything yet.  They were supposed to tell us three days ago.

This is a fresh wound for me.  Seriously, I wrote most of this between calls on scraps of paper shortly after learning that I'd been passed over.  Fuck. Me.

It's been a whole-Misfits-catalog kind of day.

When I started my job four years ago, it was an entirely different life that I was leading.  I had the intention to move to Portland, OR with a job waiting for me at the center there.  About a year later, that center closed.  Two moves, several job rejections, and one terrible break up later, here I am. I've let go of the idea that move to Portland is at all a possibility or would make a difference in my life. Disappointment would follow.

I just feel stuck.  Really, really stuck.  I feel like I'm going to live and die in the same small city that I was born in.  The town that I both love and despise.  I do see the melodrama in taking a job rejection to rejection from the rest of the world.  That's how I handle disappointment. 

A cloud so dark and thick and ominous, that I don't see how the sun will ever shine again.  Disappointment apocalypse.

Today, I am the embodiment of Forever Alone.  I get the guts to say how I feel, but that hanging shadow of disappointment is never too far way.  I chicken out.  I want to say everything, but I can't.  Because I can't take another disappointment just yet.

I am Not a Tattooed Dream Girl

This is just me airing how I feel about an assumption that I've made up, and now can't get away from.

I am not this girl.  I will never be this girl. Radeo Suicide is unconventionally gorgeous.  I feel like in the kind of life that I want, she is ideal.  We'll talk about the Suicide Girls later.  This is about me.

 



This is about who I thought I'd be.  A tattooed dream girl.  I thought, as an angsty teenager, that I'd grow up and be some kind of an artist.  Some kind of a girl who'd defy the norms and somehow earn the love and attention (because that's what's really important, right? No. It's not) that I deserve.  That tattooed girl is who I am inside my chubby body.  It's who I long to be.

 

So here I am, 28 years old and still holding on to the disgusting idea that I'm not worth the attention of any of my objects of desire because I can't be the person I want to be.  Though, if I showed up anywhere with victory rolls and cherry lips, I'd feel like a fucking poser. Please never let me say the word "poser" again. 

 

I admire those girls, because they had the courage to be themselves. If they are being themselves.  They're seen as the cool girls.  But really, do "cool girls" exist?  I watch football and actually know what's going on, I read for fun, I can hold deep conversations about things other than celebrities and fashion.  Doesn't that make me "cool" enough?  I can pretend to be laid back, but I'm a control freak. Sorry.  Not really.

 

If I had tattoos, if I had black hair, if I had Dita von Teese's pale skin, would I then be enough?  That to me, is ideal.  I want to be vampire skinned. But I'm pink.  I'm piggy fucking pink, and there's not a damned thing I can do about it.  I want to look amazing with jet black hair, but I don't. 

 

What now?  I'm hoping one day to accept that this body is who I am.   Except for extensive surgery, I can never be like Radeo Suicide or Dita von Teese.  That kills me.  I can't be the girl you see in the front row of the indie rock show that all the boys-in-bands adore.  The groupie you can't have.

 

This is really about letting go of ideals.  This is really about me finding love in myself.  It's hard.  Really hard for me.  I hope that I'm not the only one who feels like this.  Like you'll never love me, because I'm not this girl.  I am me.  And really, that's all that I have to offer.  

Random Post: Secret Celebrity Crushes

I'm in the middle of yet another binge marathon.  Having just finished Breaking Bad (seriously, guys), Weeds was recommended to me.  I just found out that the dude who is Huck in Scandal is also Guillermo in Weeds (Guillermo Diaz), and I was half inspired by seeing an actor who is just so perfect for one role playing quite another.  The other half was a quick Google search of "Secret Celebrity Crushes".  The "secrets" that people are confessing, they're not so secret.  These people are attractive.  Not just subjectively, but Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom (the sole reasons I watch Pirates of the Caribbean beyond the first film) aren't exactly surprises.

I decided to air my secret celebrity crush dirty laundry.  Because I'm transparent that way.  This will definitely expose my weird ass taste in dudes.  I'm okay with that.  Again, I'm transparent.

                                         Sam Rockwell

 
 

 

 



Let's choose to ignore the teeth he had to wear as "Wild Bill" Wharton in The Green Mile.  Sam Rockwell chooses roles that are unique, and frankly, fucking bad ass.  Choke and Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.  Yes. All of it.  Again, ignore those fucking teeth.












                                                Scandal's Huck

Okay, understand me here.   Huck is crazy.  Batshit, PTSD, homeless crazy.  At some point in Season Three, he finds sexual excitement in torturing the woman he's secretly in love with.  That's kind of hot.  Hear me out.  He's dangerous.  He's raw.  He knows how to hack the Pentagon network and pull out someone's teeth like pulling a knife out of soft butter.   Don't judge me, huh?




                                                     Mark Ruffalo

Hello, Dr. Banner.  Matt Flamhaff.  Mark Ruffalo gets better with age.  This one isn't quite a secret or a surprise, I suppose. But another dude who isn't conventionally attractive that is completely gorgeous to me.



                                                  

                                             Harry Styles

     

  

  
   Something is seriously wrong with me.  This dude is probably a fucking douche.  And he can't write his own music.  Whatever.  THOSE DIMPLES





                                      Louis CK

Louis CK is hilarious.  Hilariously sexy? Sexily hilarious?  I don't know.

 

 

                                                    

     Kevin Spacey



 



Because, you know, Kevin Spacey.

 

 

 

 

And boys and girls, that's all you're getting out of me today!  Never you mind that I offered these up freely.   Please comment below (I adore comments!) and tell me who YOUR secret celebrity crushes are!

 

 

 

 

 

 



For the Love of Mugs

As I've previously mentioned, I have a small mug collection.  So, here it is!



Denver Zoo, August 2012

How to Live Alone

I've lived alone for almost a year, now. I guess, I lived in my shitty Sherman Hill slum for about four months. Six years ago. You know, The Navarre.  I didn't have a refrigerator for most of the time, but my landlord never came to collect rent.  I guess that's balanced.

Alone again, I am the most free I've ever been.  I can not wear pants all day.  A freedom I most definitely take advantage of, except when taking The Mogs outside.  I'm guessing the neighbors won't like that too much.

So, since I'm such a pro at living solo, I came up with some handy tips:

• Don't be afraid to sing.  Loud.  Like you're Taylor Swift at a sold out show.  To Taylor Swift.  Who's judging you?  You can go back to loving The Misfits in a few minutes.  Right now, it's Sparks Fly. Motherfuckers.
• Don't keep a shameful house.  If you have to have someone stand outside so you have hurriedly throw away your micro-meal boxes and disguise your dirty dishes, you aren't going to have many friends.  I'll admit to maybe not being the neatest person in the world, but I do occasionally do the dishes. 
• Do keep more than beer in your fridge.  The first grocery items I places in my new home's fridge were both apple and strawberry ciders.  That was it.  I don't think I used a plate or fork for a month.  The pizza guy was my bestie for that first very lonely month.
• Don't drink TOO much.  Remember that there's no one to hold your hair back when you're puking or help you take your dogs outside.  This is really more my own rule, you can ignore it if you don't have dogs or hair to hold back when you're puking.
• Do binge watch.  Who the fuck are you waiting for?  Watch the SHIT out that series you've been putting off.  I just devoured Breaking Bad in a week. A WEEK!  Because I can. Right now, Weeds.  I'm the boss of my TV and I thoroughly enjoy it.
• Do decorate. Justin Bieber poster?  I'll judge the fuck out of you, but it's your house. 

Living alone is awesome.  I don't have cups, I have my amazing mug collection.  I didn't have a couch for a REEALLLY long time.  Which sucked, but I love the one I have now.  You get to buy the food you want without worried about someone else eating it or complaining about it.

Any more tips?  What do YOU think is awesome about living alone?

There Will Never Be Another Beyonce

I had an appointment with my doctor today, ultimately cancelled. On my way home, I absent-mindedly listened to the radio.  Something I rarely do, opting for the song I've selected for my Spotify account instead, is listen to the radio.  Especially Top 40 stations, but today I just didn't care.  So I drove while KISS 107.5 warbled out its Charli XCX and Demi Lovato.  And I wondered to myself, when did we begin to accept mediocrity as talent?

The answer to that question is Britney Spears.


In 1999, the little Southern tart, with her belly shirts and pretty face stormed airwaves and apparently the hearts of Americans.  And started a trend.  One in which you don't need any discernible talent, just a pretty face and toned tummy.  And one hell of a production team.

At the same time, Destiny's Child was also spouting about "places I ain't ever been" and "pay my bills" in a fashion (so to speak, see The House of Dereon") that was urban and relatable.  I guess.  From Destiny's Child grew the superstar and Goddess named Beyoncé.


Beyoncé's a powerhouse. The last true, talented star we will probably ever see.  Because in the reign of mediocrity, sex sells.  And Beyoncé sells enough sex to liberate even the most ridged of zippers. Also, that voice.

From Britney Spears grew an age of young girls who sell their bodies and nothing else.  We now have Charli XCX, Demi Lovato, Selena Gomez, Ariana Grande, Katy Perry, Ke$ha.  Gorgeous women, but couldn't out talent a singing goat. 

It's not just the ladies who are repping for mediocrity.   Avicii, Justin Beiber, Austin Mahone (who's so forgettable, I thought his name was Kyle), Pitbull.  If you have abs and a pretty face, I guess the rule goes for both sexes.

My point is that in this era where laptops and tablets are considered legitimate musical instruments, we've lost something.  We've lost that soul that used to be so abundant.  We lost that MoTown soul that was undeniable and pure.  Today, if you can Autotune it, it sells. 

There are the few bright spots, shining beacons of talent that make me hopeful for the future of music.  However, with the current trend, it seems that the soul that was once thrived inside each song will die. 

Rebecca Black will be a Grammy winner one day.

P.S. - If someone could get Ariana Grande to stop fucking shouting, that one song wouldn't be quite as terrible.

P.S.S - If someone could get P!nk to stop writing incredibly stupid songs, I'd love her.  What a voice on that woman.
Also, just for fun: