Saturday, July 30, 2011

Thursday, July 28, 2011

a rare post about actual fashion.

Topshop’s visions for Autumn/ Winter 2011 are broken down into four categories: ‘Prim & Polished’, ‘New Mod’, ‘Glam Underground’, and ‘Bavaria’. I’m definitely leaning towards the primped and primed end of the spectrum with a little influence from ‘Bavaria’. ‘New Mod’ seems too harsh and ‘Glam Underground’, while undeniably stylish, is not very practical for college and running around and the kind of tomfoolery that I get up to on a daily basis.

Here’s a few of my favourite of Topshop’s looks from each category:

Prim & Polished

Prim 1 Prim 2
Prim 3 Prim 4

This is without a doubt the most achievable look for me. It’s elegant and casual and quirky at the same time and I love it. I especially love the over-the-knee socks and the patterned blue trousers.

New Mod

Mod 1

The mod look, in general, I find to be very hard on the eyes. However, I think this particular outfit is actually quite visually appealing. I love the contrast between each piece and I especially approve of the leopard print dress – most of the other outfits were a trouser/ top combo but I think the dress gives the look a bit more femininity while still being true to the mod trend. And as for those boots and that gorgeously vibrant blue cardigan? I have fallen in love. Who knows? Maybe I could make this look work.

Glam Underground

Glam 1

This look is wonderful, right? I’m admiring it in the same way that I would admire a painting: it’s beautiful, but I can’t wear it. I absolutely know that some of you are the masters (or mistresses?) of the goth/ glam/ vampire/ rock-star look but I also absolutely know that I could not pull it off. And that’s okay. It doesn’t suit me and it doesn’t suit my lifestyle but, you know, it’s still pretty. No judgments made.

Bavaria

Bavaria 1

I love this look. I don’t know if it would work for me or my body-shape but I am dying to give it a try. I love the hat and headscarf combination and I’m slowly working up the courage to wear a maxi skirt. The velvet is definitely an incentive – it’s rich-looking and cosy and winterish and I am utterly besotted with it. Mainly because I have an ongoing love affair with thrift- and charity-shops and this entire outfit looks like it was plucked from the depths of some back-alley second-hand shop. Like I said – besotted. You know, Andy Warhol told us to ‘think rich, look poor’ and this is definitely an idea I can get on board with.

In terms of style staples for AW11, I’ve already made a list. Lucky I bought that black blazer because the tux is making an appearance this coming fashion season. Next on my list of things I need to equip myself with for the next few months is a pair of dotty trousers. Patterned trousers are going to be big – particularly those in bright colours – and I really love the Topshop ones in the first set of photos above. Fur is another thing I want to experiment with; I was mad for a faux fur jacket last year but my mother managed to put me off the idea by reminding me that our wet Irish winters will do a fur jacket no justice. But this year I plan to defy authority and purchase one anyway.

One final thing I am determined to get my hands on is a pair of T-bar red patent shoes, part of the 60s vibe that will once again be hitting the highstreet soon. Office has a pretty great selection at the moment so as soon as the moolah comes in, that’s where I’m headed. I’m liking the edginess of the studded pair – a nice twist.

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Images from Topshop and Office.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

miscellaneous and irrelevant chatter.

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Note to self: stop naming blog posts ‘yqrsdnqwdj’ and other random keyboard combinations. It’s getting very hard to keep track.

Tomorrow I plan to get up early and go for a walk/ jog. I went through a phase when I was about eleven of wanting to be really healthy so I used to go for a run every morning before school. This was primary school, mind you. I also became a vegetarian and was very committed to being skinny. Not surprisingly, I became anaemic and fainted all over the place, once outside Santa’s Grotto, which was sad. I lost an awful lot of weight. Eventually though, I began to miss chicken and sausages, after two years of surviving on veggie burgers and Quorn sausages (whatever the hell ‘Quorn’ is, I still don’t know to this day). Basically, I was very, very committed to being thin back then (a little too committed for such a young age – poor self-esteem, obviously) and I’m hoping that if I harness some of that energy and motivation now (you know, try to get access to those memories which I have mostly repressed), I’ll lose some lipids. Though hopefully not in such a dangerous manner. Then again, I do nothing in moderation so this could well be a downward spiral. But I am so unimaginably lazy, I might not have the mental energy in the morning, let alone the physical energy, to go running. Or my shuffling, lamb-like version of same. Whatever. This could go either way.

After my ‘run’, I’m going to eat a healthy breakfast and have a shower and paint my nails and do some laundry (did I just say ‘laundry’?) and go visit the Legion of Honor (where’s the ‘u’?) museum. The museum is currently hosting the Dutch and Flemish masterpieces. I’m hoping van Eyck will be there – it will be a nice blast from the past, not only from 15th century Belgium but also Leaving Cert art history – though I’m happy enough to settle for his contemporaries. Picasso was amazing and I reckon a little bit more culture can only do me good at this point.

If I can get up before noon tomorrow, it will be a miracle. My sleeping pattern has gone all wrong again. I say ‘wrong’, I mean ‘normal’. Normal for me. Abnormal according to my brother and probably the rest of the working world (except my sister-in-law, who works nights). I need to sort myself out. When I first arrived in the States, I was waking up at 8:30 am. Probably just out of nerves. Now I’m relaxed and listless and pretty much back to normal. Which is the problem. (And what is ‘normal’ anyway? My brother seems to think that if you disagree with him on anything, you’re as odd as the day is long. Which is why there is usually a good deal of tension between us: I am much too ‘different’, whatever that means.)

On a completely unrelated note, I have won a bid on eBay for a red flannel shirt. I never win bids on eBay. I never expect to win bids on eBay so I usually never have a way to pay for the items I do secure. Another thing to worry about. Although, it did only cost 99c. Bargain. Of course, it’s men’s XL so it may or may not have to go through the tumble dryer a couple of times. We’ll see.

That is all.

Au revoir, you beauties.

x

thrifting.

Yesterday, after meeting up with the adorable Tommy from TrustTommy.com, I went on my second thrifting expedition in San Francisco and I was greatly rewarded. Thrift Town at 2101 Mission Street is a large space crowded with interesting and fun items at exceptionally low prices. I Googled some thrift stores in San Fran beforehand and this was one of the first to come up. It is well worth a visit. My only complaint is that there are no fitting rooms – I had to guess if things would fit and subsequently left a beautiful, blue dress behind because I wasn’t sure. However, there’s a strong likelihood that there were actually fitting rooms and I just couldn’t locate them. Oh well. Anyway, a wonderful place full of vintage and retro goodies. Here’s my haul:

cardie

jumper

shoes

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DSC04471

DSC04472

Cardigan - $1.99
Jumper - $2.99
Shoes - $4.95
Blazer - $3.99
Striped t-shirt - $3.99
Sports t-shirt - $1.99

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

2yuwbgcdnh.

There comes a time when you look into the mirror and you realize that what you see is all that you will ever be. And then you accept it. Or you kill yourself. Or you stop looking in mirrors.

Tennessee Williams.

a sexy beverage.

Lately, I’m all about wine. Having been taught by my sister-in-law’s best friend how to actually appreciate good wine (or at least how to pretend to appreciate good wine), I’ve really taken hold of the idea. My wine of choice is a nice and sweet Gewürztraminer but it’s almost certain I’ll be delving into the cheaper and altogether less tasty wines come September when I’m back at college and struggling to purchase six cans of Strongbow. We’re talking €3 a bottle on a good day versus up to a tenner for a few cans and if you can get drunk for €3, more power to ya. Although, having said that, I’ve often headed out penniless and come home hammered. Such is the beauty of being Irish and persuasive and persistent and downright annoying – people have no choice but to pump you full of booze.

My sister gives me a lot of advice, most of which goes either unheeded or simply unnoticed. The only piece of advice I actually remember getting from her was,

“Don’t drink wine – you’ll be anybody’s.”

Well, there goes that. The only piece of advice I actually heard, I went along and violated. Oh well.

Get Drunk Text

Nipple Wine

Wine, Dine & Sixty-Nine

Wine V

All images from Piccsy.

Monday, July 25, 2011

a very non-sexual position.

Caution Dope Shit Happy Days Are Here Again I Will Be Happier It's Nice to See You Smile Smile More Please We Would Be Together

I like my steak medium. (I never used to like stake.) I like my tea sweet. I like being well hydrated. I like you. ‘Like’ seems like such a useless word. Like doesn’t even mean anything. It’s nothing compared to the way I feel about you. Ugh.

I was thinking that if I ever wrote my autobiography, it would be called The Magic Position. (I have no idea why I would ever need to write my autobiography – why anyone would want to read it is beyond me. And the chances of a Big Cheese wanting to publish my drivel are slim to non-existent.) A lot of people think that the title of this blog is sexual. It’s not. At least, not in my mind. Obviously I named it after that lovely and strange Patrick Wolf song: there was very little thought involved but I’m glad I chose it. It sort of means something to me now. My ‘magic position’ is usually horizontal – by which I mean sleeping in bed rather than, you know, sleeping with someone. Other magic positions are ones characterised by location – home, college, Limerick, the pub, San Francisco. Mainly the pub. And also Penneys on occasion. Being in someone’s arms or being somewhere else in my head or those times when my life has gone awry and I haven’t a clue where I am. Those are some good positions too. Not always good as such, but certainly always magical. Mostly in an ironic way, of course.

Currently my magic position is 37° 42' 20" north and 122° 27' 38" west (that’s Daly City to the rest of you). More specifically still, I’m positioned on my bed. Thinking. My position on life at the moment? I’m concerned with self-improvement right now. Unfortunately, I’m dealing with some pretty terrible raw materials (i.e. me) so that’s no mean feat. But we’ll see. I’m also thinking about love and feelings and nice things.

And that’s it.

All images from Tumblr.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

didn’t need these things.

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The above photographs are supposed to document the kinds of things that have been going on lately: me becoming a serious wine connoisseur, me baking a cake that fell apart almost instantaneously, a trip to the Japanese tea gardens in Golden Gate Park (a bit of a disappointment due to the sheer volume of tourists, I’m sorry to say) and a brief walk along Ocean Beach.

The rest of my life which is not worthy of my amazing photography skills (or, in the case of my face, is not feeling particularly photogenic at the moment) has been taken up with settling into my new room – a spacious yellow thing with a double bed and a closet and a bedside lamp. This is a serious promotion from the pathetic air mattress on which I spent the last six weeks. You should see this room. It is wonderful. It is exactly the kind of place I want to be with someone I love. This is terribly impossible right now but fret not: I can hear the Russians downstairs having sex so, you know, I’ll just get my kicks from that. Thankfully, I’m joking. That would be a very bleak thing to have to do – be a voyeur to the downstairs tenants’ sexcapades. Thankfully, things aren’t that bad yet.

On a brighter note, I’m really enjoying making people happy at the moment. But I sort of wish I was closer to the epicentre of things, closer to the people whom I want to cheer up. In other words, I sort of want to be at home. But another month here won’t kill me. Not when I have so much to do at any rate: write that essay, book my driving test, book my ticket home. Lots of things.

So I’ve been sort of thinking about love lately and I’ve sort of been wondering if you’d take care of me when I feel like shit. And I’m wondering if that would even matter.

Factually speaking, me and my favourite (and often deplorable) big brother went to see Bad Teacher tonight. It was pretty amusing, often vulgar. It made me hate Justin Timberlake just a bit. It also made me want to make violent love to Jason Segel. (I don’t know why I said ‘violent’. Just for effect, I suppose.) And Cameron Diaz has aged a bit, hasn’t she? Still completely hotcakes, of course. Good movie. I recommend it. Emma Norris Seal of Approval.

My lovely sister-in-law has denoted some of her old cameras to the cause that is Emma’s Quest for a Sense of Purpose. They’re the old type. You know, film. Think SLR’s great-grandparents. Yeah, retro. I have yet to to investigate them but I will keep you posted. I really adore how artsy my sister-in-law is. She’s very creative and very enthusiastic but she seems to lose interest pretty quickly too, which is why I ended up with her embroidery floss, her wool and knitting needles, her beads and now, her cameras. Talk about falling on your feet – I fell into a whole lot of art. And I am thrilled. (And did I mention we went to the Picasso exhibition at the de Young museum last week? I fangirl’d everywhere.)

Anyway, that is it for now. A good night’s sleep and maybe a drive tomorrow. Maybe even another blog post.

x

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

feelings.

So I’ve realised a few things about myself lately. Things that aren’t really a big deal but things that absolutely contrast with the characteristics of the type of person I want to be. I want to be a wanderer. I want to travel light and be breezy and spontaneous and adventurous. I want to be creative. I want to be talented. I imagine myself to be all of these things to some degree or other, but I’m not. And that’s not a bad thing. I’m just not that person.

I want to be able to pack up and go whenever the need arises but I can’t. I’m a planner. I like to pretend I’m not but unless I know exactly what I’m doing and when I’m doing it, I’m not content – I can’t relax. Sometimes I like to think I’m being spontaneous but it’s just an illusion. I wrap other people into my plans and while they might not know where we’re going, I have every step carefully calculated in my mind. I would like to be a spontaneous person but I’m just not.

I like familiarity. I like home. I miss home. I like having somewhere to put my things. To put myself. To settle down and close my eyes and be home. To feel secure, I need things around me. Not just material things (although we are living in a material world and I am a material girl) but also specific things, things I think I’ll need. Spare underwear, spot cream, hand sanitiser, hair curler though I never curl my hair, Bonjella in case a mouth ulcer erupts from nowhere. Things I won’t necessarily need but you never know. That’s the reason I was never able to travel home lightly from college at weekends. Because even though I’d only be spending two nights there, you never know. A spot might rear its ugly (black)head or I might get the strong desire to floss my teeth even though the latter only happens once in a blue moon.

I don’t use most (or any) of the things that I carry with me from place to place but I feel better knowing that they are available. I mean, in my regular, everyday bag I carry hand moisturiser, hand sanitiser, Vaseline, hairspray, a hairbrush, perfume and a compact mirror. I use the Vaseline regularly enough and the rest usually never see the light of day. I don’t know. It’s definitely a security thing.

I don’t like to think of myself as being anal but I am. I like to give the impression that I’m laid-back and carefree and in many respects I am, but certain things get to me and easily so. I am very easily wound up, for example. And if you know me, you will know how very true that is. I am an easy target for all of my friends because I react fiercely and immediately and they get a great kick out it.

I also worry a lot. I mean, not about everything and not unnecessarily, but I do worry. I pretend I don’t but I do. A lot. Right now, I’m worried about my new job. I’m waiting patiently for something to go wrong (my social security number has already thrown a spanner in the works and though it has resolved itself now, I’m sure it won’t be the last obstacle to come between me and employment). I’m also worried about booking a new flight home, filling out my insurance claim form and providing enough evidence to get me home in time to sit whatever farcical repeat exam Íde will have set for us. I’m worried about getting home before the exam and after I’ve seen Death Cab For Cutie. This will be a tight squeeze and I’m something close to petrified. I’m worried about the three- or four-thousand word essay I have to come up with for said exam. I’m worried about paying the deposit on next semester’s house. I’m worried about the money that I ended up inadvertently owing to the bank. I’m worried about my grant. I’m worried about things not working out love-wise. I’m worried about meeting my sister-in-law’s mother tomorrow. (I convinced myself for a while that she was a Mormon and even though I now know that she is far from it, I still can’t help feeling that she’ll frown upon my incomprehensible and sometimes vulgar sense of humour. And my hair. I’m worried she’ll hate my hair with the same passion that I do and think me very working-class. Which I am. And proud. But you know. She’s middle-class.)

The point of this post was me attempting to articulate that I am not the person I want to be. I am kidding myself. I’m not primed and primped like I want to be. I’m scruffy at best. I’m an idiot. I make very bad decisions on a regular basis and I rarely learn from them. Actually, that’s not true. One thing that can be said about me is that I learn from my mistakes. I learn what not to do ever again. But then I still go ahead and do that same thing again, make the same near-fatal mistakes two and three and four more times just to make sure, you know? I am constantly revolting against myself.

I’m very easily distracted. I have a terrible memory and I’m painfully slow at times, both physically and mentally. I lack motivation a lot of the time and I’m not nearly ambitious enough to follow my dreams. I have no idea what I want to do with the rest of my life. I’m fickle and illogical. I am one-hundred percent ruled by my heart; my head rarely gets a look-in. I have such pretty clothes but I generally end up in my pyjamas or track-suit bottoms. Usually bra-less. I am not who I want to be. I want to be the kind of girl who always looks fantastic – made up and couture. The kind of girl who knows what she wants and actually goes about getting it. Focused. Not distracted by boys or alcohol or shoes. But also the kind of girl who is spontaneous and adventurous and carefree? I’m a contradiction. How can I allow myself to want to be this person when this person is a complete contradiction? It’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy or something. I tell myself that I have to be a certain way but then I set my aspirations so askew that it just can’t happen.

I’m my own worst enemy at times. If only I could categorise myself. If I could compare myself to someone and know that I’m not a complete mistake of a human – a prototype that went wrong – then I’d feel a bit better about myself. But I don’t like having things in common with people – at least, not people I’m close to – so that sounds like a near impossibility.

But maybe I’m not all bad. I mean, there are definitely things I like about myself. I’m a very empathetic person. I’m very loving. I am a ‘feelings’ kind of person. I mean, I used to be. I still am. Deep down. But recent events like being dumped for something I have no control over and yet still being sidled with the blame, as well as a stint in hospital, and the fact that almost every boy I’ve shown interest in in the last six months has rejected me made me think that feelings were over-rated. Where have feelings gotten me before?

My feelings have just acted as a magnet for heartbreak since the age of fifteen when I had my first boyfriend. And as for the most recent fiasco of a relationship? Well, as it turned out, I was the only person in that relationship who had feelings and it ended pretty badly, my feelings getting crushed to a powder, the other half’s escaping unharmed. So it’s no surprise really that the conclusion I drew from that learning curve was that feelings are useless. They are futile. They do not assist you in any way and they hinder you in most. Feelings are what got me in hospital and feelings damn near threatened to put me back there when I was being shot down the length and breadth of UL. So I gave up on feelings. I told people that ‘feelings are gay’ (and of course I don’t mean ‘gay’ in the anti-homosexual way). It was almost easy for me to pretend that I didn’t care about emotions. So much so that I started to believe it myself. But it’s not true. I think my heart is still broken and I have just been pumping it full of morphine, trying to numb the pain (however tragically cliché that sounds). I’m a very thin-skinned person. It’s what allows me to understand other people’s feelings so easily – I can easily imagine myself feeling those same feelings. After all, I’ve had pretty much every feeling. Being on the verge of bipolar, I ricochet between them regularly.

So I’m a feelings person then. I’m ready to accept feelings again. I am ready to let them back into my life. I am a Born-Again Feeler. I have been doing that here in the States, that feeling malarkey: if I felt sad, I cried, and I’ve allowed myself to miss home and I’ve thought about love and I’ve thought about … everything.

I have a question though. I think my only talent is feelings – and not other people’s feelings, just my own – but how do I turn that into a career?

This has been a painfully honest albeit convoluted post about feelings.

low self-esteem 2k11.

Can I just mention that my concentration levels are way down right now thanks to the half glass of wine I just drank? Just putting that out there. Here’s a post about feelings:

I’m feeling very unattractive lately. It’s due to a multitude of things really. My hair is awful. A truly tragic colour with roots showing down to my ears (practically). But I’m waiting it out and I’m being good to it and not straightening it or dyeing it and rarely even blow-drying it. I’m being very saint-like when it comes to my hair but it doesn’t mean I don’t resent it with every fibre of my being. It makes me feel ugly and plain and ugh. It doesn’t do anything for my skin tone (which, let’s face it, leaves something to be desired anyway) and it makes me feel like a scummer. 

So here’s my hair lately, if you’re interested. Which of course you’re not. I’m the only person obsessing about my appearance. And rightly so. But then also wrongly so. Because why? Why am I obsessing? It doesn’t change anything. I’ve been trying for months to just accept the fact that I’m not attractive but it doesn’t work because I keep thinking that it’s just not fair. It’s not fair that some people – in fact, most people I know – are so beautiful and I look like a flippin’ goat. An ugly goat, at that. One that’s let herself go completely. I dunno. Basically, here’s my hair:

Actually, it doesn’t even look that bad there. Which is strange. Probably because it was clean. And my natural colour is sort of similar-ish to the unnatural colour that the rest of my hair is afflicted with. But it’s not blonde. And it’s short. Therefore it’s shit. But I don’t know why I’m so obsessed with having long hair – my hair hasn’t been properly long since I made my First Holy Communion at the age of eight and a half. And I hated my hair then. But my hair has been short for such a long time now – first in May ‘07 and then again in July ‘10 and then again two months ago. Of course the last time was through no fault of my own. Well, I mean, it was my fault. But I didn’t want to cut it. It was just my fault that it had to get cut. I damaged it beyond recognition and it was a small wonder for a while that I wasn’t rocking the skinhead look. But whatever. I have learned my lesson. I’m taking care of my hair. But I hate it something sinister. On the bright side, it is uber soft and healthy looking, despite the tragic colour(s). I don’t know. I think, with regards to my hair, I have to sit pretty for a bit.

Unfortunately, being the ogre that I am, this is an impossibility for me. My skin has gone to poo and merde and American water/ air/ fire/ everything is disagreeing with my system. And my eyebrows are just awful – I hate them with a passion both strong and rare. I sorted out one today and left the other cause I got lazy. So I’m half Tiny Eyebrow Girl and half Grizzly Adams which is, you know, fun.

Also, I’m a fat mess but I’ve been gymming it up lately so who knows? Maybe eventually I’ll stop being the Augustus Gloop of my group of friends. Maybe. But then again, maybe I was just destined to resemble a big red beach ball? Who knows? Life is strange.

The moral of the story is that I feel ugly and there’s not a thing anyone can say to change this. I just feel it and I’m waiting it out and I’m hoping this bout of melancholia and rock-bottom self-esteem will pass like everything else. Maybe sometime in the future I can feel pretty again? Maybe.

Apologies for this bleak post. I’m off to make a sandwich.

Friday, July 15, 2011

slowly.

Arms Back in Your Head Be With Me Forever Brings Me Back To You

I’m not really in any kind of particular mood today. Obviously, I’m feeling sentimental and nostalgic and lonely, but what’s new? I’m going to make art. I’m going to sort my head out. I want inspiration but I don’t know where to look.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

i think i’m turning japanese (and other asian nationalities).

A random trip downtown lead to a random trip to the Asian Art Museum, which was far more impressive than I’d imagined it would be. I went on a guided tour of the goddesses. It was so fascinating, listening to stories about Vishnu and Shiva and Parvati and their alter-egos as well as finding out where Ganesh actually came from. It was really amazing. I took a few photos, nothing worth writing home about. (Except that I am writing home. And you can press ‘Alt’ and ‘Home’ if you get bored reading this, okay? Okay.)

Monday, July 11, 2011

an update on the transatlantic life of emma norris.

“There may not be a Heaven, but there is a San Francisco.”
Ashleigh Brilliant.

“The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.”
Mark Twain.

“If you're alive, you can't be bored in San Francisco. If you're not alive, San Francisco will bring you to life.”
William Saroyan.

So my American life isn’t very different from my Irish life. I’m still a weirdo who sweats too much and over-analyses everything and who, most days, wants to crawl under the bed sheets and stay there forever. There are pros and cons to being here. I’m loving the sunshine and the babysitting of the beautiful children and the craft fairs and the experience of being away from home in a completely new way.  But I haven’t seen my mother in over a month. I haven’t seen my own bed in over a month. I miss my friends. I miss my bedroom. I miss the familiarity of being at home, of being in my own home. And I understand Irish people. Me and Americans just don’t get each other.

I’m enjoying learning how to drive though, though it is a stressful endeavour. After getting my California Learner’s Permit, my brother took it upon himself to teach me how to operate a stick-shift. This ended in disaster every time. And usually in my tears as well. Pretty traumatic. But then my very gorgeous Yankee sister-in-law decided that it would be decidedly less traumatic for her to instruct me in the art of road rage etcetera. So far, she’s right. Our driving lessons have ended in giggles and jokes and rewards in the form of chocolate and wine (of which I am now a connoisseur). So I’m making progress. And it’s nice, actually. To find something that I can work at and improve on.

I’m still jobless but working on it. It’s okay though. I’m not wanting for anything. I’m wealthier than I was at home at any rate, so I can’t complain. I’ve been babysitting some gorgeous children who have made me so happy. And the money I have earned has been sent straight home to pay off my various debts, which seem never-ending. I’ve got a job interview on Wednesday though and I’m earnestly hoping that it will put an end to my pitiful financial status. But whatever happens, I am still awful with money: it burns a hole in my wallet, dying to be spent. (My last couple of dollars went on a lovely type-writer key necklace from Rag Trader Vintage at the Renegade Craft Fair yesterday. I’m broke now but it was worth it. I think.)

Something about this city makes me feel so fantastically creative. Simple things. Knitting. Friendship bracelets. Cupcakes. Love notes. Stationery. Photographs. Art galleries. Everything. I wish I had photos but I don’t. Darn it. No, that’s lies – I have photos from the Asian Art Museum, which I’ll post at a later date. Actually, speaking of photos, I had some amazing ones from the San Francisco Pride celebrations when I volunteered but, stupid Emma, I accidentally deleted them from my camera. I cried for about a half an hour.

I’m still spending my nights on the floor of the office on my oh-so-uncomfortable blow-up bed. Which is, I can only imagine, not nearly as fun as a blow-up doll. But I’m surviving. However, old age and neck pains are beginning to kick in and I’m longing for the time when I can actually sleep in a real bed and have actual storage space for my actual clothes – I’m still living out of an actual suitcase at the moment. My clothes are clean though and sometimes even ironed. So it could be worse.

I’ve got a busy schedule over the next couple of weeks: more babysitting, job-hunting, adventuring. Going to see Death Cab for Cutie in Los Angeles, as well as the San Francisco Outlands music festival, and also, hopefully, going to Wine Country to experience wine and camping and more American banter. I’ve also volunteered to help out at the SF AIDS Walk next Sunday: a 5.30 am start but all for a good cause. I’m all about the good causes lately – I don’t know what’s come over me!

In other news, I miss everyone dearly. I hope you all miss me too. I’m going now to write you all some sexy love-letters.

Comment on this post, please. Let me know you’re all still alive. (Unsure how to comment? Here’s how!)

x

Tuesday, July 05, 2011

everything i can't be.

Maybe. I don't know. Maybe my emotions aren't in the right order. Maybe I'm confused. Maybe I'm lonely. But there's no 'maybe'. I am lonely. And I am confused. And my emotions are never in the right order. I want something that doesn't exist. And I want to flagellate myself for wanting that thing. You're not hurting me, I'm hurting me. And my eyes water because you're it - you're the only person I want. And you're purposely ignoring that. But I can't blame you. Because look at me: I am a mess. There are no words to describe what a fuck up I am. I can't do anything right. I can crochet, I can't cook, I can't drive. And I can't trick you into thinking you want me. No matter how much I try.

And I'm in a weird place now, mentally and physically. Physically, I'm far away. As far as possible, almost. But that doesn't matter. Because even when I'm in Carrick Beg, I'm still a million miles away from reality, a million miles away from getting what I want. And mentally? Well, I don't know. Mentally, I just can't accept it. Actually, no. I can accept it. In fact, I do. But I don't want to. So I refuse to. I will not allow myself to accept a world that doesn't have you in it. Because I'm a sap. Because although I might think myself low on options, on alternatives, I'm really not. I have options. I have alternatives. I sort of have this person who goes out of their way for me. But they're not you. And that's the only thing that matters. And it will forever be the only thing that matters because I will never, ever change it. I will never allow someone to be your substitute or your replacement or anything. And no matter how lonely I am now, or how sad or sexually frustrated, I won't let up. Because it's just you. And it will always be just you.

But I can't do anything right. Every thing I do wrong these days is just another in a long list. But now I'm drinking wine and I'm feeling sorry for myself and I'm just not caring what the world thinks. You're the only thing that matters and you're a million miles away and it's not going to work, is it? What I wouldn't give to have you here. To have anyone here. To curl up beside me and drink wine and sleep on my tiny air mattress with me and hug me and kiss me and tell me they love me. Why can't I be in love? I'm very good at being in love. It's about the only thing I am good at.

I want to do ridiculous things. I want to be at home. And despite everything, I want to be with you. Because you seem like my last hope. Hope, or something like it.