I feel so guilty after trolling Pinterest for hours on end. It’s my domestic jerk-off I cant cleanse myself of. I clear my history to spare the embarassment of my boyfriend wondering why I looked at 40 images of “Money saving wedding tricks using twine, mason jars and dirt”. Do I need to know how to make champagne glass charms out of twist ties? NO. I DONT GIVE A FUCK. Yet, these soft lit images and fanciful typography lure me in every goddamn time.
I want to be something other than your Tuesday night fuck buddy.
Re-runs of breaking bad, taco wrappers on the bed-
get me out of here.
Mismatched socks, too impatient to tie my laces-
-dodging faces as i walk back to my car, down the block
Hop inside, head home to shower -let the guilt set in with every turning light,
I can’t wait to do this again, I keep doing this to myself-
oh, it sucks so bad
Banging B list actors that I met outside the improv, crushing boba cups and sunglasses
in the front seat of your car - ducking everyone that passes
This is fucking awesome, just two fuck buddies in Austin
I tell myself i won’t do it again, my phone lights up and you’re back in my head
-and I’m back in your hands
Let’s pick up where we left off, the part where I play it off so cool
I’m just so fucking casual about this, you don’t mean anything to me
Its amazing to think of all of these great musicians from back in the day having achieved success at such a young age. Here I am, just about the same age as they were then, sitting on a trail of Doritos crumbs watching CNN and praying to God my horoscope for June comes true.
What am I doing with my life?
I’m headed back to Cali in a week due to personal shit, and it’s rather bittersweet. As much as I’ll miss the beautiful people and places of Austin, it will be good to be back home. I’ll miss how green it is here, how clean the air is and most definitely driving around with the windows down feeling the warm Texan nights….but I also look forward to slipping into some heels and hitting up Hollywood with my better half (ms. Naomi Christie, duh.) oh Hollywood, how I missed you. I miss the blur of blunt bangs, walking MAC canvases and torn fishnets.
Austin, I look forward to settling down with you someday and releasing my kin to burn it all down.
Now, to work off all this celery I just ate. Gotta be LA ready….
So i figured I’d hop on and let you all know that I’m not dead. I am, however still just as cold, clammy and bitter on the inside as usual and you know you miss me to pieces. I’ve spent the better half of my day so far self- medicating myself with some Neil Young, vodka and corn nuts. Don’t give me that look. I’m going to out-live you all. Although maybe not- I did call out of work sick today because my stomach hurt all night… so here I am on my couch with my cat wishing I had something more interesting to tell you about. I’ve been on an emotional roller-coaster the past few days, for various reasons. Life is kicking my ass but I’d like to think I’m putting up a good fight. I did however find out my ex moved to Portland to be with the girl he left me for a few years ago, and all he did was talk shit about her for years after and convince me that she was crazy. So there is that little tidbit of bullshit, and honestly it still kind of sucks because as a woman, no matter how “over” someone you may be, when you find out that your ex went back to the same bimbo he broke your heart for in the past, you can’t help but want to feed his balls to the vultures.
BTW this whole not eating thing I’ve been on has worked wonders for my figure. Really.
I haven’t been able to eat in days without getting sick.
I wake up everyday feeling like the luckiest girl in the world. Hey guys, I think I’m in love.
Bust out the plaid shirts an bearded men! This is the greatest month for us chicks who love our rugged menz. I love beards. Now, while men get to have all the fun, the ladies still suffer.
I’m kind of bummed no-shave november is non applicable to women, but it’s understandable because it’s kind of gross.
There are very few who can get away with it. There was the recent Sports Illustrated model who didn’t shave her legs and she was HOT. There are the select few pixie cut model-esque women who can rock the Euro underarms even, but me? No.
I will continue to dump serious $ on razors month after month. I will continue to miss the spot on my knees, and cry when I slice my ankles by mistake. I will hate myself when I get goosebumps and feel all stubbly again.
I’m moving to Europe.
You are not a writer, a poet, a model nor a photographer. You are a Tumblr spamming, hipstamatic addict with a webcam and are about as deep as a kiddie pool. You are not your fucking fashion frames, you are not your “vintage” oxfords….
Where have I been? I don’t even know. My mind has been running a mile a minute and I haven’t even gotten anywhere.
It takes a miracle to get me out anywhere. It’s like pulling teeth to pry me from my “cave” to do much anything.
I remember looking forward to going out on nights like this, nights so cold and crisp my leggings would catch on goosebumps- but I’d be dammned if I let it stop me. “Fuck pants.” we’d say as we huddled together and braved the cold, my girls and I; simply unstoppable. I spend my days confined to my room for the most part, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.
I lay in bed and watch the morning news. I drink my coffee. I shower, I get dressed. I send out job applications. I read my eBooks, I’ll paint from time to time, I’ll spend the afternoon moping over some shitty things I’ve said. I’ll fuck around & occupy my mind with stupid little tasks to fill the time, counting down the hours until I can climb back into bed to repeat the process all over again.
And here I lay, sick [AS ALWAYS- go me! I can barely walk or lift my arms this week. No big deal.] under a heating blanket, pouring what’s left of my indifferent heart onto all of you. Victims at best, you read my bullshit, and “like” my posts. Chances are I’ve flaked on all of you who know me multiple times, and I wish I could say I’m sorry.
I need to get the fuck out of LA.
I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
I am a lascivious little treat, a lecherous little fucker; clawing, begging, calling out for more. Bogged down with an insatiable appetite for all that I cannot call my own, I crave skin-on-skin, bitten-lip nights underneath the city lights. I found home 2,803.9 miles away from where I sit at this very moment. New York, New York.