Thursday, June 30, 2005
Dating and MatingI am an awesome first date. This is a recent epiphany. I suppose reflecting on my friends dating lives has caused me to reflect on my own. And this is what I've come up with.
I rock out on first dates.
I'm spontaneous, funny, charming, free, exciting, energetic, passionate, and easy going. I am game for most outings, and tend to be enthusiastic, even about the mundane. It's a gift really. Post-first dates are followed by calls, emails, text messages. I've never had a date and not heard back- and usually it's the next day. Flowers after a first date, notes on my car, plans for the weekend, or sooner. There seems to be a fascination with me, post first date.
The second date is usually a good time too. The second date is where I make my judgements on if there will be a future. I give people the benifit of the doubt on the first date. They're nervous. And frankly, there's only so much interest that can be generated by small talk and alcohol- both are musts on any first date. The second date is when they need to wow me. And if they do, it brings me to the third date.
The third date is my cross roads. It is usually at this point where the new has worn off and when people start to see me for who I really am. I am exposed by this point. The news is out. Behind my outgoing and crazy self lies a girl who is always a little afraid of being rejected. Once this is out in the open my dates have a decision to make: they either buy the farm or head for the hills. This is the way it goes.
I love me on a first date. I have fun. I allow myself to be free and open and honest and wild. Then once emotions get involved it all goes to shit. I become more obsessive and insecure and all of the things that most people are on first dates.
Why do I do everything backwards?
It takes a lot for me to invest in a person. So I guess once I do, I am desperately afraid that they will decide that perhaps I am not worth the mutual investment that I require them to give to me. I'm trying to incorporate first date Kellie into every day Kellie. I like being first date Kellie- she has way more fun. And there are a lot less tears on a first date.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
What I NeededToday I woke up sad. Lonely. Missing.
So when the invitation came up for coffee, I accepted. The day ended with... familiar. Which was good.
I needed that.
I needed to listen to mix CDs while admiring houses on Meridian.
I needed to be made fun of.
I needed to make fun.
I needed to be told I was an idiot.
I needed to know that just because he didn't email doesn't mean he doesn't care.
I needed to know that others do.
I needed to laugh all day.
I needed you to stay until the storm passed, talking about music and movies and people we knew once upon a time.
I needed to dance like a fool.
I needed that friendship that I had been missing for years now.
I needed to listen to that song we both know on repeat.
I needed to make plans to get excited about.
I needed to talk about his return.
I needed someone to tell me he's lucky.
I needed to remember... that a lot of people love me... for more than one reason.
Monday, June 27, 2005
All Mixed UpOne of the best gifts a girl (or guy maybe?) can receive it a mix tape. Well, I take that back... if I still had my Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme that still had a tape player in it, then a mix tape would be an awesome gift. Today it's a mix CD. I received such a gift from a friend recently.
Whenever I am given a mix CD (it actually happens a lot- I guess because my friends know how much I love music) I go through a variety of emotions. When some people, such as a stalker (I've also had a few of these) give one to me, I freak out. I don't know what to say, I don't want to listen to it and I just feel completely out of sorts- not knowing how to react. I, of course, say thank yous and exchange hugs, then procede to get rid of the CD- because this is what I do in life- I am a pro at avoidance.
If a friend, such as in this case, gives me a mix CD I am usually a little skeptical. Because this truly could go two ways... It could be a thoughtful gift, as in "hey I like this song, I bet Kellie would too- let's put it on!" The mix tape could be a symbol of friendship, knowing my love for music and wanting to introduce me to some cool new songs, along with some old ones they know I love. This option is always best. Or it could be... the "let's be more than friends but I'm too chicken shit to tell you that's what this is so I'll disguise it in a mix tape" sort of... tape. er. CD. Whatever.
The issue here is that the truth is never clear. Without asking what the CD means, which is a) ridiculously awkward and b) something I would never do because I don't want to know the answer. So instead I choose the think the best- the friendship option, but questions always linger in my mind. Is this a way to profess love for me? I mean seriously, if you profess your feelings for me via mix CD- it will just be awkward and weird and frankly, I will, again, avoid you. Because I am mature. I know this about myself though and am totally open with my friends about it as well. But somehow it never seems to sink in because no one seems to listen.
The latest mix CD is great. The music is great. The composition great too. An awesome mix of upbeat and slow, a splash of old school rap, and a hint pop- it's good stuff.
But when I'm driving down the road and I hear this:
"Cause it's you and me
and all of the people with nothing to do
Nothing to prove
And it's you and me and all of the people
And I don't know why, I can't keep my eyes off of you"
Followed three songs later by:
"I can't take my eyes off of you..." repeated a million times... as in the cool, yet somehow creepy song from the movie "Closer."
Which brings me to my next point... if you are in a relationship and I am getting married, DO NOT USE A SONG FROM "CLOSER", a movie that filled to the max with cheating. It's just not a good connotation. Because now when I see the advertisement for "Closer" and they play that song, I think of you. And now that's weird.
Now, to be fair, some other songs appear on this CD which are just good fun... Baby Got Back, Boom, and Marvin Gaye. But still...
One song on the CD which my friend told me ever since it's release brought me to mind is Maroon 5's "She Will Be Loved." I have never been a fan of Maroon 5, so I usually switch stations if this ever comes on the radio. But listening to it on my mix CD I enjoyed it. The lyrics made me nervous being on this mix CD, but at the same time, I felt like they really were appropriate.
The girl with the broken smile.
I guess that's me.
"It’s not always rainbows and butterflies
It’s compromise that moves us along.
My heart is full and my door’s always open
You can come anytime you want"
Beautiful lyrics. And somehow I just let go of my worries. No matter what the CD meant to the maker, it should mean something to me that someone thinks so much of me to put time and effort into a gift for me. Am I so self centered that all I saw was the possible motivation behind it, rather than the obvious love, be is platonic or otherwise, that went into it? Yes I was. And I need to work on that.
So now I restart the CD, take a deep breath, relax for once, and smile...
my broken smile.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Paint Me Beautiful IISo after I wrote Paint Me Beautiful this afternoon it has since inspired (as always) another bad poem.
If I lay myself down
and close my eyes tight
would you sketch me a story?
I'll be your canvas,
draw what you like,
just use bright colors
and don't paint any flowers
or happy endings.
Paint what you see.
Make up my me.
I want you to paint me-
paint me beautiful.
Make me see what you see.
Open my eyes with your brush strokes
and then paint them purple.
Make me have long hair
and then color it sparkles.
Don't tell me that's not a color.
Make it one.
Then kiss in on my hair.
Make my skin darker than yours
and paint on a thick skin.
Make it at least an inch-
maybe even two-
make it so thick that
no one gets through.
Or leave one thinner spot
reserved only for you.
Paint what you like
and fill in the rest
with my flaws-
make them real.
Don't forget the bump on my nose
and my ugly feet.
Add on the scars from surgery-
there's three so you know.
Put this all together and
make me art.
I want to be created.
I want to be adored.
I want to be painted beautiful.
Paint Me BeautifulBoney.
I was called boney last night. I don't know that I have ever been called boney. I have been called "portly" by a woman fitting me for a dance costume. "The portly girls will have to wear these" she said to the other seamstress. She obviously operated under the assumption that our "portliness" crept into our chubby ear canals, causing deafness. As if standing half naked wasn't bad enough at age 12... it felt like a scene from a TBS movie- the girl pledging the sorority, standing naked while her sisters circled the fat on her body with a sharpy.
I never joined a sorority.
I lucked out in junior high to not develop a nickname, like some of the other fat girls. No one made jokes about an earthquake coming down the hall, or tease me about what I ate for lunch. This was because I was well liked. Funny and popular. But this didn't stop my girlfriends from singing "1-800-94-Jenny" to me whenever they decided I was not cool for a week. I hated those weeks. I was banished to the table of too fat girls. Or too skinny girls. Too smart girls sat at the table next to us. Too poor girls next to them. But they all had one thing in common... they were all too something to be anything. I spent most of junior high hoping one of my so called friends would develop a thyroid condition causing them to balloon into the good year blimp, thus cementing my position in the "in" crowd.
High School I was "average." Medium. I would hear that the average size of a woman in America is a size 10. I was a size 10. I was normal. No one called me portly. Jenny Craig's theme song didn't ring in my ears. But no one called my thin either. Never petite, but at least I had a boyfriend. And having a boyfriend in high school is a must have accessory and any girl who denies it is lying or single.
College brought freedom and pizza. Friendship and China Express at 2am. Hook ups and Hot Dog Man. And then I got fat again. But of course no one called me anything at this time. But we all knew the facts. I was the fat girl again. Beautiful girls always have a token fat friend. That way they can go out and be assured that they will get all of the attention. Wingmen look at the fat friend and cringe a little. They know their fate for the night is with that porky girl. Entertaining her and making her forget her fatness, melting it away with his flirting and allowing her inner thin, confident woman to emerge. The illusion is ruined when she goes home alone, or, if enough alcohol was involved in the evening, goes home with her suitor, only to wake up to an empty bed. This is the way of the 20 somethings. And please don't hatemail me, random chubby girl who found my page. I'm not saying it's right. I'm saying it's true.
The truth... sucks. Hurts too. But mostly sucks.
Now, I was lucky enough to have a boyfriend in college as well. I have always had a boyfriend. I have not been single for 10 years. This is not the rants of a girl desperate for a boy to like her. However, had I been single when I turned 21 and began to go to the bar scene, the above would have been my fate. I felt it. I felt the looks when we went to a party and the dancing began. My friends had a line behind them of guys who wanted to dance with them. All I can say is thank god for black men at these parties. They danced with me because girl can dance. They didn't try to hook up with me, but I never failed for dance partners either. It was nice. I loved the Ball State football team for that very reason.
So none of my friends commented on my weight. My professors did. They told me I was fat. They just phrased it differntly. As I gained weight my dance teacher urged me to come to the studio more for workouts on my technique. They suggested trips to the gym because I just didn't "Look like I felt confident" in my body. They forced me to take off my baggy sweats in dance class, to look at my body in my leotard and tights in the mirror every day. Suggestions about a diet were made. I knew they thought I was fat. They just didn't want to be mean. They might as well have been.
I remember going to the gym and getting on the scale there. As I read the number 185lbs I felt lightheaded. How did this happen? Where was the medium 135lbs girl I had come to college inhabiting? Apparently she was sitting at her table at Greeks Pizzaria inhailing food. The fat girl was out again. And she was on a roll... with extra butter please.
I suck at dieting. I don't know how to do it. I either restrict to ridiculous proportions or I binge and purge. And the worst thing someone with an Eating Disorder can do is find a partner in crime. And I found one... I can remember so vividly my roommate and I restricting our food... 10 grapes. 1 bite of pasta salad. No dressing. No mayo. And then night came...
"Do you want to get ice cream and then throw it up?" Not kidding. Spoken many times. Just delete "ice cream" and insert such words as "pizza," "Chick Filet" or "chinese." And the answer was always yes. This was our life. Our secret that no one knew about but us, sort of like our joint cyber sex experiments. It was fun, in a way. I felt normal. Like what we were doing was okay. My weight began to drop and I saw results. Fast results. And that's what we all like. Get the job done, no matter what it takes. That's the way of the world.
Then my worst nightmare happened... my roommate went into recovery. The dreaded world of healthy eating and excercise. This person who knew my secrets-my partner in deception- was trying to recover. I was terrified. Would she tell? Would she pressure me to do the same? No. And yes. She urged me to stop, told me she would tell... All she did really was force me to be more discreet. I'd eat, then lie and say I was going to visit a friend's room, but secretly search for a place to get rid of it. She probably knew what was going on, but how do you stop someone from doing what they want to do? You can't. No one could stop me.
I entered my therapy program 2 years later. Intense and difficult I began taking my steps towards recovery. Carrie was my couselor and I adored her. At this point people called me "thin." Not too thin though. But at least it wasn't portly, or even average. I was finally down to 130lbs and on a 5'6 frame I suppose that is thin...ner. But I've never looked unhealthily thin. For a long time that was just another failure. To have an eating disorder and not even do that right. It only fed my insecurities.
So to hear the word "boney" as I sat in my size four pants last night come out of my friends mouth was... I can't think of an adjective. It felt like a lie. Like when a fat girl asks you if she looks fat. You always say no. Even when it's a yes. And calling me boney felt like a lie. My friend that I hadn't seen in years asked me if I was eating. Again, it felt like a lie. I hope that someday I can look at my body in the mirror and not feel like I am in the fun house at the state fair, looking in the stretchy mirrors that makes your body look wider than it is. I'd like to love what I see reflected there.
I'd like to see me through others eyes. Because I truly have no idea what I look like. A blank canvas for you to paint me beautiful.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Too tired to have a good title.I will regret writing this post tomorrow morning.
Not because of the content, but because I should be sleeping right now. It is currently 11:30 p.m. My bedtime is 11:00. One might laugh at this bedtime, and I understand the amusement. Bedtime is for children, the time when parents read them stories and tuck them in, kiss them good nights, say your prayers and amen good night.
Bedtime is also for people who get very grouchy when they do not have at least 8 hours of sleep. I am one of those people.
I love to sleep.
I love to drift into blissful dreams, allowing my imagination to take me all of the places I want to go, whether it be into my past, flying, or even into a lover's bed. Dreamland is truly a sacred realm that I look forward to entering every night. My inhibitions are left at my bedroom door as I undress for bed. I even try to trick myself into a dream sometimes... I lay down and concentrate very hard on what I want to dream about. I curl up with my doll (yes I sleep with a doll- get over it) and pretend she's human and snuggle myself to sleep.
Yes. I'm aware this is pathetic.
I don't care.
My therapist gave me my doll when I was only 6 years old. (again- aware that I was in therapy at 6- again- get over it). And ever since she entered my world she has been in bed with me. She's gotten kicked out a few times when I wanted to make room for someone new, but, like an amazing lover, I always welcome her back into my bed. She doesn't have a name, but she is stained from years of crying, laughing, drooling, kissing- admittedly, I practiced on her when I was young, and make up. Half of her hair is gone, but I have it pulled back into a stylish pony, so the other dolls don't mock her when I am gone. Her hair is red (like mine) and braided like an African queen (like I always wanted to be). Huge green eyes, lined by black permanent marker, when I thought i was the most amazing make up artist ever.
She is beautiful.
She wears her scars openly. Honestly. Hides nothing and still smiles. She knows who she is. Wiser than she appears, she hides all of my secrets. She keeps them safe, behind her smile and in her balding head. She's heard whispers in the dark, heavy breathing silenced by the parents in the next room, the sobs of broken hearts, and the happiness of love. She's watched me grow from a girl into a *gulp* adult.
And now I have kept her waiting.
I must to bed- with my lady love. My doll.
Oh what a woman she is.
A "Humdinger" of a PartyThis weekend I went to a sex toy party.
The years of tupperware and Pampered Chef are over. These women what they want. Forget the pizza bricks- pass us the Silver Bullet and the "Great Head." The party started off a bit slow. I felt uneasy, being the only person who was not either related to the bachelorette or from the same sorority and college. I wandered the apartment, helping set up and trying to be useful. More than anything, I was trying to avoid becoming a decorative pillow on the couch while the rest of the party went on without me. After everyone had arrived we sat and prepared ourselves for the festivities. The uptightness of some party goers was overwhelming.
It was as if some girls had never been to a bachelorette party before. Let alone seen a penis. So I broke out the jello shots. Filling my dixie cups to the max with jello (I used a 5th of Vodka in this thank you very much) I passed them out, hoping to take the edge off of the crowd. After a few, it seemed to work. Broke out the beer and let the good times roll.
We tasted, smelled and felt most of April (our pure romance consultant)'s products. The more the girls drank, the more they got into it. I am pretty sure that April made out like a bandit from the party. Pent up sexual aggression in women equals a hell of a lot of vibrators purchased in an evening.
Which brings me to my point. Why are we, as women, so embarrassed and meek and mild about sex? Or maybe I mean being sexual. Most women today are pretty open about the fact that they have sex. At least by the time you reach any age of adulthood, it's assumed. However, why are women so ashamed of being a sexual person? Some might argue with me on this point. Fine. I'll take on your argument.
Have you ever faked an orgasm?
I thought so. We all have. There are some women who fake all the time. Being this sexual being without truly experiencing anything. And that saddens me. I mean I might fake things. I fake knowledge at my job every day. I can fake confidence in uncomfortable situations like an all star. But I don't fake sex. That's serious business.
Not saying I never did. I can fake an orgasm like an all star. However, there came a point in my life where I asked myself why I was doing it. Because I wanted to be sexy. And I wanted to be the best they'd ever had. And women having an orgasm is sexy right? I was so caught up in trying to be what my partner wanted, I realized I was no longer allowing myself to enjoy it. I didn't even know how to anymore. And in the end... well... that sucks.
Society puts these pressures on women today. Look hot, but not like a whore. Be sexy, but not slutty. A lady in the street but a freak in the bed. It's hard to be a woman today wondering how her urges fit into the status quo. And the party was a perfect example of this... When April was setting up the sex toys all of the girls at the party were giggling and making fun of them. However, after inhibitions were lowered those same girls were gripping the Humdinger with amazment, ready to go home for the night with their new B.O.B. (battery operated boyfriend).
I'd like to urge all of my female counterparts to let lose a little. And go to a sex toy party.
Or host one yourself.
And stop faking orgasms. You're perpetuating bad sex.
Friday, June 17, 2005
This is my life."No food tastes as good as being thin feels."
Ah, my old motto. I heard it today pass from the lips of a nameless stranger in the liquor store. It escaped this womans collagened lips and passed through the air, finally settling in the pit of my aching stomach. As I turned the words over in my head I realized at some point that this could never have been my motto... because it's never been true for me.
I adore food. I love to eat. And I have never felt thin. No matter how slim my body may ever appear, I don't think I will ever feel thin. I truly believe in my heart of hearts that I will always feel fat. I don't know how to fix that. And I don't know that any amount of therapy, food, starvation, binging or purging can ever change the way my mind works.
I know that you, my dear reader, may tire of me constantly discussing such boring and trivial subjects as food and my body image. However, what's even more tiresome is that these are the thoughts that invade my mind at any given moment of the day. Food- or lack thereof- controls my life. My universe revolves around it.
I now invite you to share a day in the brain of Kellie:
Wake up. What will I eat for breakfast? I think about this as I do my morning sit ups. Staring at my stomach I vow it will be egg whites and whole wheat toast. Maybe an apple. No- scratch that- apple=carbs=my fat stomach. Protein please. It's been decided. I shower.
Post shower I lather my body with every ridiculous beauty product and then I examine. I look thin in clothes, but I look fat in nothing. I've discovered this as of late. I would like a tummy tuck. This has been decided as well. I like the way I look in a thong and a bra. I hate my dry skin in the summer. I like my tan. I hate growing my hair out. And so it continues.
After I dress I eat breakfast. Breakfast at this point depends on what I am having for lunch. If it will be carby- no carby for breakfast. Never sugar. I love/hate sugar.
Go to work.
Insert hours of thinking about when I can eat. And if I should eat what I brought (90% I bring my lunch- I can't handle the temptation of going out to eat) or... go out to eat. I always choose to eat what I brought- boiled chicken and brown rice, cousous and chicken, salad, who knows... If I forgot/didn't have time to bring my lunch, I then resort to the trusty internet. On the internet I can look up the nutritional value of every fast food item. This is why I order taco supremes at taco bell- no meat- no sour cream. Yes folks I eat a crunchy taco shell (less calories than the soft) filled with lettuce, cheese and tomatos. Usually Subway wins- turkey with no cheese, lettuce, pickles, and banana peppers- no dressing. Are you kidding me?
I call home after lunch to find out what's for dinner. Dinner is the hardest meal. It's home cooked under my family's watchful eye. I eat what's served. I think about what it's going to be all day until I get there- vowing to eat a spoonful of the things that I shouldn't be eating- mashed potatos, stuffing, etc. I'm a sucker for dinner.
The rest of the night is spent trying not to snack. I love snacking while I watch whatever reality television show is on the idiot box. After this battle is over (I generally lose) I go to bed.
And then start all over again.
That. is. pathetic.
This is my life. Post-ED and all recovered.
This is so not normal.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Good Night for a DriveI had dinner last night with an old friend... one of the unicorns, of course. She was beautiful as always... her hair lighter than I remembered it, but her smile as warm as always. Familiar. It was good.
If I'd have felt better I might have made a night of it with my dear Katherine, but seeing as how my stomach has been turning cartwheels for days now, I declined and went home.
I took a detour on the way.
Not sure why, but sitting at a stoplight and "Wonderwall" came on the radio and I was making that familiar right turn onto 136th, headed towards my past. I thought of him and wondered if he was home. Had he returned and just not told me?
I sat at the four way stop.
The crossroads of more nights that I can truly remember. If I continued on, there was
High school parties, drinking, the first time I ever saw porn, best friends.
Facing me now was Ryans.
I thought of Notre Dame, pathways to success, a gold ring, secret wishful kisses, and an accident.
To my right- Lindsey.
Popularity, football games, prom, graduation, deception and in the end: betrayal.
I thought about driving past any of these houses, to see in their windows and peer into my past.
Instead I chose, as usual, the left hand turn. I took the short cut down the most familiar path of them all. At the end of the street I stopped and looked at Mike's house.
All the lights were all, a white, glowing beacon it had been in my darkest hour. As I drove by I tapped my horn, as always, and continued on my way. I knew he wasn't home, and why I thought he would have returned without letting me know is, again, an example of my complete and utter ridiculousness that can invade even my friendships.
It was an enjoyable drive. Thinking of these ghosts from my past and remembering all of the good with each of them. A little of the bad too, but those times seem less important now. I don't particularly always miss these people I used to know. But I'm glad they were a part of my life. They helped weave the fabric of who I am today. They left their impressions on me and I've journeyed on without them. But every now and then I like to reflect back and remember my friends.
And in the oddly cool air of an Indian(a) summer night- it was a good night for a drive.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
The RideAnd then he climbed in next to me,
bucked me in first,
He slid the safety bar down over our laps.
"I like roller coasters" he said with a smile.
then we took off again.
Monday, June 06, 2005
beautiful disasterThis feeling can go away anytime now.
My stomach is twisted into knots and my breathing is shallow. My eyes are teary and my heart beat irregular. I try to occupy my thoughts with work, with anything other than wonder and worry. Even my old standard thoughts of food is worthless right now.
The distance between us is always there. But lately you've felt far away. I don't know why. Maybe because of me. Probably because of me. Pushing people away is something I've been mastering through my lifetime.
As a little girl I learned that those who claim to "love" you, especially men, are the ones who hurt you the most. This lesson was engraved in my mind and chiseled on my heart so deep I was never sure anyone could fill in the gaps. Someone to pour their cement of love in and fill it up, making me forget the past, and allow them to love me. Who could look at me and see more than a scary roller coaster of emotions and feelings, and instead see the thrill of the ride. Rather than someone to put me in the seat, lock the bar down, and waving me on as they stood at the side while I rode away- I want someone to get in beside me. Share the fear and the laughter. The ups and the downs.
God this is so cliche.
I truly don't know why I'm feeling this way (aside from the lack of communication I've been getting as of late). Most of all, I don't know why I have this fear of losing you. I want you to be the person on the roller coaster with me. And I'm trying really hard to make it more of a train track... or maybe even bumper cars.
A few small collisions, but at least we'd be on even ground.
Friday, June 03, 2005
Gun Safety"Good bye. I love you."
"I love you, too."
The click of the receiver is a sure fire trigger for the tears to begin. They roll down my face with no care or concern for their inappropriate presence in my work place. They refuse to listen to my reasonings. They evacuate my eyes, making their long awaited escape from my mind. I sit in the dark, blinking them away, trying to pull myself together to re-enter the room, dressed in a pink shirt and a smile, my favorite disguise.
I regret what I've said. I watch my words float from my mouth, hurtful and angry, a dark cloud, they dissapear into the phone evaporating into your ears. I wanted to gulp them back down. Swallow them into the pit my stomach, which has ached ever since the day you left. But I'm too proud to stop them. My instinct to lash out rather than admit my wound is, as always, my greatest downfall.
I want to kiss my I'm Sorries into your mouth. To reassure you of my love. To be reassured of yours.
I'm sorry I react the way I do. I say what I think. I don't hold back. I shoot to kill. The trouble with me is I'm trigger happy.
Next time I'll keep the safety on.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
A Beige Kind of DayI write better when I am depressed.
When I am drowning in an ocean of my tears I can write until dawn. When I am lonely or melancholy, words spin my head until I think my brain will explode unless I get them out. Throw in a splash of anger and a dash of despair, and I am Maya Angilou.
Minus that whole black thing.
My entire vision in blurred by common, every day happiness. I'm not referring to true, honest, layed-all-day-in-bed-with-Josh-and-the-dog Happiness. No, no. That inspires me in the same way desperation does. I'm talking plain content. Nothing great. Nothing bad. Content. Being content reeks havic on my creative spirit. When I sit down to write I stare at the blank screen, or piece of paper, and never know what to say. There's the obvious... my obsession with my body, with food, with Josh, my dog, my fabulous friends. But that's so cliche. So boring. So... beige.
I fucking hate beige.
I need colors. Any one would do right now... instead I sit here. in. Beige.