Time and all of its missing pieces

I am one of those people who has a mental rolodex of ideas and impressions that need to get out when they occur, not filed away for later reference points. I find that if I do not write my shit down within a good 24 to 48 hour time span, be they stories ideas or bits of my life, that they lose some of the magic and freshness of a distinct clean perspective. I find myself funnier when I write on the day of than the day after when the crispy film of time has edged itself onto the plate. Like a thin skin on gravy, my writing loses a bit of punch if it doesn’t come out right away.

My weekend, in pieces.

Friday I decided after paying all of my bills that I needed to procure something appropriate to meet E’s friends and family. Something that wouldn’t overexpose the fact that I am almost too tattooed for some circles, but not be too hot to withstand the temperature variations of 200 people cramming and shoving into me.

I am one of those efficient turbo shoppers. People usually use food or some other vice to make themselves feel better, be it cigarettes or alcohol or candy bars. For me, it has always been shopping at points when I feel no control over my life or situation. I am good at it, and it’s always satisfying to get that perfect thing that’s suited for the occasion or to fill an invisible and non-existent hole in my wardrobe. I have hundreds of pieces in my room(s), yes rooms plural, as well as 13 30 gallon trash bags of shit I need to get rid of. Shopping is my comfort food, and being that I am entirely obsessed with fashion, it seems only appropriate that I would have spent all of my money on it when I did have it. I am somewhat of a reformed clothing obsesssed maniac. I used to spend at least a hundred dollars a week on clothes, but with my finances being so shitty and stupid for so long, I had no choice but to stop.

Aside from that, how many fucking pieces of clothing should a single girl have? I guess my obsession with clothing is similar to the ideas that women have about shoes. I get bored easily and change styles like crazy, having shifted into this new quasi indie Arden B look where I wear jeans and alternate shirts or sweaters.

Anyways, one thing I do not do is spend super extravagant amounts of time in the selection process. I have gotten very good at walking into a store, surveying the scene and will know within 2 minutes if it is somewhere I want to be. If it is a store I like, I can be in and out of the dressing room with choices with an average of one clothes change and fashion show in 5 minutes. Typically I will not be in a store longer than 20 or 30 minutes because of this. It is a talent, I consider, and although I have found myself overly disgusted with the sheer amount of money I have spent on clothes in my life, I am still proud enough to not waste insane amounts of time picking the thing I need to look good, as well as being the type of girl who takes an average of 25 minutes showering, drying my hair and putting it all on.

Anyhow, as I was saying before, if I had written this Friday it would have been entirely more entertaining, but I didn’t so whatever. I found my little sweater, got it, ran home, got ready for work, and rocked out.

I wore this sweater last night to the Fetus’s art opening as well as to E’s party.

Wow, my life really is exciting isn’t it?

I don’t like this writing about me junk. It seems selfish and stupid to spend a lot of time reliving my life on paper with situations that do not matter in the grand scheme of anyone’s consciousness. Feelings, yes, I don’t write a lot about emotional shit in clear and unsegregated lines, and not because I don’t have feelings, but because it just seems irrelevant. Unless it is, at which point I will write about it.

Sir Sean and I got into a discussion about me writing about my life, instead of other people’s and the previous paragraphs were a tribute to that. But this is the thing that I realize. I have always written what I see, and I am not so sure it is natural for me to point that mirror inwardly and try to make my life some fabulous non-fictionalized event worth remarking on on paper.

Yeah, I had three heart surgeries. Yeah they sucked, yeah I felt abused as a kid, yeah I’ve been raped. Yeah I feel bad about a lot of it. But how many times can you write about the same thing day in and out and remark on the same landmark occurrences in your life before you realize that not only are you redundant, you are totally boring–like twice, three strikes, and you are out.

So, this is my new thing. If I write anything that someone who knows someone that I know might have occasion to read (think about how screwed up that is, someone who knows someone that I know), I will lock it. Either to myself or just my friends. In that way I can make karmic peace with the world and stop feeling so fucking bad about writing what I see and know. Which is people. All I can say is this, in the two occasions where people saw shit of mine through someone else’s page that they recognized themselves in, they were not direct friends, nor were they invited to look at my page either through a direct link that I PERSONALLY sent them, or by being on my friend’s list. I won’t apologize for them seeing it, because it’s not really anyone else’s business what I write about. But I will not go out of my way to hurt the lurking eyes of these people that know the people that I know either, so in that respect I will be karmicaly clean.

So take that.

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