SELF PORTRAIT THURSDAY!

SELF PORTRAIT THURSDAY!
6.9.11

Not in the best mood today for various reasons. Lame.

The shirt I’ve draped around myself to keep me warm in this hot apartment is by Nicholas K.

It was given to me by my pal Dugless C.

this is how: DGDGGG

On Friday when I was on the subway, I ran into this girl I haven't seen in about 6-7 years.
But we didn't get to talk to each other because I was sitting on the train and she was on the platform.

The train slowly started to pull away as I was looking out the window. I saw her and started tapping on the window, and then she saw me. But all we could do was mouth "OMG!"

Oh, wail.

On Saturday, my band Lazy Susan had its first show. It was a house show and barbecue in Williamsburg. Very fun.
We played in this concrete pit sorta thang below everyone else.

Here are photos:

Lazy Susan 7-19-08

lazy susan (instrument switch)

Lazy Susan

It was pretty hot and humid that night.
But I enjoyed it very much. And most of my friends (and a lot of other people I don't know) were able to show up.

Then on Sunday was that free Santogold show in Central Park.
Ben J. and I went together, but we left before Santogold performed because we were getting pretty tired. (There were a lot of opening DJ's and acts. AND it was SOOO effing hot outside. The sun really tires me out after awhile.)

I got some fun goodies this weekend, including a troll doll (he has green hair and wears a shirt that reads "I Love You!") and a switchblade comb.

Here are some other photos I took this weekend:

horseshoe crabs

table top

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in the mind of the bourgeois reader

Oh, dear, it's been five days since I've last written.
And for that I'm sorry.

But I've been pretty busy. And I've stopped working/writing on the weekends because I think it's better if I do that.

There's a lot to say, but I'll tell you in person.

Here's a photo David B. sent me on Friday:

cubist behead

Apparently he's had this for awhile.
What's that about?
I need to be told about these things as soon as possible.

I'm wearing that same shirt right now.
How 'bout that?

In other news, I've got a dumb farmer's tan right now.
Sarah J. keeps asking me why I'm so tan—but it really is just my face.

It's been really hot and humid here in NYC.
But tomorrow there are supposed to be storms that will bring some cooler weather.

On Friday I'm going to see Teenage Jesus and the Jerks (by myself, of course—I don't have any friends who listen to them). I'm really excited. It's their first and only reunion show.

At first I thought it was just Lydia Lunch performing until I was reading the Village Voice over breakfast with Meredith S.

My jaw dropped.

And I think a rat flew in.

P.S.
I have some friends who have died before.

P.P.S.
Jazz sent me this video that I like:

Santogold – L.E.S. Artistes [Official Music Video]

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digital cameras shooting cheap red wine

So…

Since Friday I've been house sitting for my older sister and her fiance, who are in Miami for a week. I like this place. It's very cozy and clean. And they have a treadmill. And two HDTV's. (Nice televisions make me want to watch television. And they make me cozy.)

This area of town is in the process of gentrification. There are lots of attractive condos being built, but there are also lots of houses like this:

Bonner Street

I am not sure what my thoughts about gentrification are…
I mean, on one hand, there are those Bratmobile lyrics playing in my head: "I've got a story 'bout D.C. to tell and I don't think yr gonna like it very well. It's about boys and girls and the rich and the poor. But what if no one can afford to live here anymore?"

But on the other hand, I think I've always wanted to live in a condo. A nice one. I've always wanted to be one of those well-off attractive white people that stay up late and dress casually and who are smart and always have booze on hand and snack food they forget about and a big screen tv with a remote they aren't really sure how to use and who are likable and crap like that.

(Please don't judge me.)

I dunno.
I think I just want money. I've never had it. I'm a fan of it.
 I'm always wanting something I can't have.

And I think I'm always wanting somebody else's lifestyle. Not that I try to do/act like those whose lifestyles I want… I guess I'm just sort of envious.

I come from a poor family. And the kids in elementary school used to make fun of my clothes.
What do you expect?

ALSO…
I'm feeling like the WORST e-seller on Earth.
This whole moving-from-my-two-bedroom-apartment-to-my-mother's-one-bedroom-apartment situation has really fucked me over. My sales aren't as frequent as they once were, and I have SO MANY ORDERS to mail out. I'm so behind. My inventory is still in storage. And I can't really drive there to go get it because I don't drive… And my mother (and every other fucking person) works all day long…

I can't concentrate when I'm living with somebody else.
It makes me insane and antsy and indecisive.

In the meantime, I spend most of my time making new things because I have to keep on making money so that I have some sort of income.

But then that makes me feel like a douche because I feel like I should be shipping out people's purchases instead.

Okay, honestly…

I don't know what I want.
And I don't know what I should do about anything.

Okay, honestly x2…

I wish I could quit school and move away. FAR.

I'm so exhausted.

I couldn't make it to my psychiatrist appointment this afternoon because I don't have any money to pay for it… =/
I had $35 a few days ago, but that was for my medication.

I didn't have enough to pay for some water while I was at Walgreen's, so I shoplifted it.
(I had a 20-30minute walk ahead of me… and it was really hot and humid here in Houston…)

Maybe one day when I have money I'll go back and give the $1.39 to Walgreen's.
Because I just feel guilty.
Shoplifting is not something I do anymore. It's unethical.

I need a person to take care of me.
I'm just not good with being practical.

Not at all.

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I miss her lots.

Amanda sent me a shirt and some other things from Scotland. Most important, however, is the giant letter she wrote me.

ribcage

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