Fuck Bitches. Get Money.

We are taught you must blame your father, your sisters, your brothers, the school, the teachers - but never blame yourself. It's never your fault. But it's always your fault, because if you wanted to change you're the one who has got to change. 

Katharine Hepburn 

My mom, the hipster.

My mother is beautiful. And stylin'.
This is what I did instead of studying for exams.
CLICK ON IT. YA KNOW YOU WANT TO.
Jan, Mar, and Aug of 1989.

A Face Study

This is the newest page in my quote book. It turned out a little more bleak than expected but...what can you do?

THE BACK STORY:
This quote was torn from page 103 of the recent January issue of Vogue.
Spoken by Jeanine Lobell, founder of Stila Cosmetics, in an article showcasing actress Natalie Portman; the quote is less about her acting and more about her character.
I drew the man on the left late one night really sporadically. Apparently that's what I think about when I can't sleep on weekdays--apathetic Frenchmen...perhaps I'll name him Mersault. I don't know what I was going for with the extremely creepy mask of a woman on the right. Conject at will.

THOUGHTS:
It certainly made me think...is she right? Her argument is that as people get older and they're not good on the inside, it starts to show on the outside. I think I agree with her but I also think it's comforting that she's the founder of a high-end make-up line, meaning that where ever I should fall, I can change my fate and just apply a little powder. There. Good as beautiful.

Today I Took A Risk.

When I was in kindergarten, my parents wanted me to skip a grade.
When they told me, I cried.
When I was in first grade, my parents wanted me to skip a grade.
When they told me, I cried harder.
This happened every year until the third grade when I cried until I couldn't breathe and I allegedly turned purple. I cried until my parents turned mean and expectations fell unto anger.
I don't remember any of this, naturally. This is all told through the eyes of my parents.
What I do remember are my parents. I remember feeling very small. I remember my eyes growing very large. I remember their voices being very loud, a tag-team effort of attack. The word that comes to mind is 'looming.' Especially since I remember this conversation occuring in my dimly lit living room, where shadows seemed more real than people.
Long story short, I've never been apt to take risks. I've always been scared of jumping too high and falling into a rocky death. I've always been afraid of that critical moment when expectations turned into disppointments.
Today. I took a risk. And I fell.
But it seems I have risen(..if you read my last post, it's because I'm God, right? KIDDING). It seems I used this tragedy as a barometer for personal growth. And it seems I am really proud of myself for taking a risk and putting myself out there.
It must be true what they say. Cliches are cliches for a reason, aren't they? What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.
It seems every great fall leads to another great discovery and it seems as I become older the less afraid I am to take a risk, to put myself out there. And I am proud.
This time one year ago, I would've never had the balls to do what I did today. It's one thing to be nice and it's an entirely other thing to be a pussy. 6.5 times out of 10, I was a pussy. Today I was a bitch. I fell and it hurt...like a bitch, go figure. But it's ten hours later and I feel really good about myself. Besides, it was a much deserved fall; I was getting very spiteful and mean. And now that I'm content if not stoked about its outcome I'm starting to think maybe it wasn't because I jumped too high but not high enough (and if you're reading carefully, this translates into 'maybe I wasn't bitchy enough'...but we won't indulge in that.)
It seems I am beginning to gain confidence--that the coveted characteristic called composure is closer to being in my possession. And since I cannot think of any real triumphs, I will attribute this success to my greatest failures, in which my successes came from overcoming failure. Life is a sine curve: what goes up must come down, but more importantly, what goes down, must come up. Isn't that refreshing?

Soooo.... when do you think America's debt is going to reach it's relative minimum and start peddling up again?

I am God, if you did not realize.

Lately, everything seems just a little more pointless, a little more tedious, and a little more flat. Unfulfillment is swallowing me whole but my life feels empty.
And it is moments like these that remind me that people do in fact need God.
God, to give purpose, and meaning, and more importantly weight to one's life. The unbearable lightness of being. The unbearable lightness of being. The unbearable lightness of being.
For what reason am I supposed to do good things? For whom? To what end? Who is out there watching me when I choose to dissent from God?
When I am alone, what is stopping me from doing the reprehensible?
Nothing.
What is motivating me to do the laudable?
Nothing.
It seems self-fulfillment is not enough these days. I need to live for other people but today, I am alone. Yesterday, I was alone. Tomorrow I will probably be alone. I say probably because one must not lose hope. Even the hopeless must dream. But that too--dreams, that is--are not enough. I need to be loved. I need to be reminded that I am a perfectly acceptable human being.
And again at this point, the image of God pops back nto my head.
When all is lost, when you are subject to primordial solitude, you still have God. People need God. For purpose, meaning, weight, assuredness, and now love.
But what if people could find the will to live from within, void of outside influences? What if God is not an extrinsic being? What if He is an internal source of fulfillment? And when you have embodied Him, you have all of those things that are desired by people like me--people who are floating, drifting, flying--people who are permanently suspended in lime-flavored jello.
I guess what I'm trying to philosophize is that God may not be anything more than an extension of ourselves, from ourselves. God is our self-worth, our purpose, our value. God comes from within. When you have lost yourself, you simultaneously lose God...
So the next logical question is do I believe in God? And the only logical response is of course. Of course, I believe in God.
BUT. I do not embody him. I have not found or built what I want to live for...yet. Right now, I still depend on everything else for significance and justifiable substance
I believe there is a god but I am not sure what is my own. And this is confusing. This is hard to articulate. "What" is my god? Don't don't don't get confused. God does not have to be a "what." God is something entirely tangible. Yes, He is real but he does not exist. What is the dust of dreams? Or the shape of love, lust, sorrow, anger? What is God? These thing are all real. But they do not exist.
So did I reach a conclusion? What kind of ideology does this fall into? Give me a category and a place to belong.
Perhaps I've been reading too much Salinger. Perhaps I've been doing more than reading Salinger.

If you're happy and you know it....

" I believe there are monsters born in the world to human parents. Some you can see, misshapen and horrible, with huge heads or tiny bodies. They are accidents and no one's fault... And just as there are physical monsters, can there not be mental or psychic monsters born? The face and body may be perfect, but if a twisted gene or a malformed egg can produce physical monsters, may not the same process produce a malformed soul?"
-John Steinbeck, East of Eden



It's hard to find something that makes you Happy. It's hard to remember Happy once it's gone. And we all know that Happy, although always welcome, often comes uninvited and leaves unexpectedly.

She said: "I don't remember what it's like to be happy. Maybe I've never been happy."

It really bothered me. It bothered me more when she asked me the last time I was happy and I didn't have an answer already sitting on my tongue just waiting to be brought into the world of audibility. When was the last time I was happy? Have I ever been truly happy? What is happiness?
According to Shakespeare, and reiterated by Shania Twain, happiness is wanting what you have and not having what you want. So does that mean happiness is lacking the desire to change? To become better? To be void of dreams and aspirations? That in itself seems an impossible feat for man, whose cornerstone is the ability to create and build and improve. Thus, if we are basing happiness off of the testament of good ol' Willy, happiness, if it is possible, can never occur simultaneously with success. And true happiness can only be reached by the listless and the vapid extremities of our species.....
No. This is ridiculous. I just don't agree. Perhaps this is the romantic in me but I don't view happiness as that.
Happiness is laughter. Friendship. Fun. Whatever. Happiness is not complicated. It is a feeling of ease and contentedness and being entirely comfortable with who you are and what you have. It is not this unreachable thing that is taped to the ceiling, dangling on a string that is just out of our reach, mocking us as it swings left and right. No. That is the wrong outlook on happiness. Happiness is waiting to be picked up like....I don't know, an eager puppy. Sometimes it is just sitting there amidst it all, floating all around and surrounding the atmosphere with warmth and multiplying exponentially, readily available to all. Sometimes it is hidden like buried treasure and takes considerable strength and patience to procure. But it's there. It is waiting. You just have to take the time to find it. If you are not happy, you are not letting yourself be happy. And it is time you crawl out of yourself and see the world and breathe in the fresh air and all its glory of new beginnings and potential laughter. Happiness is not complicated. It is the simplest idea out there.
And in truth that's all happiness is nothing but a state of mind. It is a state in the present as we face our challenges and revel in our triumphs and accept our defeats. Happiness is confidence and assuredness and composure and love.

Okay. So I'm happy and apparently it's reachable. Then what am I working towards now? If I'm already happy, what else do I want? So maybe I'm not happy, or I would already be dead or basically dead, which brings back that earlier picture of someone who is "happy" and doesn't do anything because of it...........which again makes me think that productivity and happiness do not go hand in hand.
If happiness means being content with what you have, than happiness is not stunted by settling, in fact happiness would be synonymous to settling and being completely...happy with settling.

Ugh. This is torturous. What is happiness? Was my sister right? Have none of us ever been happy?
Is it ironic that the idea of happiness is plaguing me?

Death.

You can cover the floors with plastic wood paneling, you can paint the walls bright colors, you can hang up photographs and paintings of sunrises and plants, but hospitals still smell like death.

I am incredibly depressing. I almost put this as my facebook status, but thought against it. Just a little too dark for the facebook community.

I haven't slept at all this week.
My grandpa has been in the hospital due to kidney failure since Wednesday.
He is getting an artificial kidney. An artificial, extrinsic kidney.
Cold. Hard. Plastic.
Attached to the outside of his body, to keep him alive.
He will have this for the rest of his life.
He has to change it every three weeks.
Cold. Hard. Plastic.
I haven't slept at all this week but I'm not sure the two events are related. Something about this week has been unnaturally awful. Failed interviews, threatened detentions, unpredictable futures, unpredictable lives. It's enough to lose sleep over.

Today I visited the hospital. And the only thing I could think of was my aunt. I really hate hospitals. Who doesn't? Everything is shoved inside this giant institution, covered by this veneer of cheerfulness. It feels like I'm walking into an airport until I get a whiff of the air. Until I listen to the noises and the announcements. Beeping moniters, whirring breathing machines, the Sunday news in the background, painfully light small talk with your family, painfully sensitive small talk with your family. Nobody wants to talk about your condition. Nobody wants to mention the word "death". Everybody is always tired. I hate hospitals.

I hate seeing people so useless. So incapable. Tangled up in plastic, the wires and the machines are no longer an extension of the patient, but the patient is an extension of them. Parasitic in nature, feeding on it to cling onto dear life. Dear life.

And what am I supposed to say? What could I possibly say?
Hey Grandpa, try your best not to die. I'll see you tomorrow. I'll see you tonight. I got into college. Hey Grandpa, feel better. Get well soon. Smile. I love you?
Are you hot? Are you cold? Did you eat? How's the food? Did you sleep? How did you sleep? Should I turn on the television? Should I open a window?
Do you need anything?
What could you possibly need that I could possibly provide for you?

I've only been to one funeral in my entire life and it wasn't even for someone I knew. It wasn't even for my aunt. It was for some random acquaintance of my mom's. It was held in a small funeral home with sterile white stucco walls and wine red almost shag carpet. There were lots of doors and rooms. People were either making too much noise or not enough. It was eerie.
I spent a lot of time in the bathroom.
I cried for this woman I never knew, never heard of, never seen.

How are we supposed to deal with death? People don't die. I'm a teenager. I'm invincible. Didn't you know that? Isn't that common knowledge? Nothing can touch me or the people around me. People don't die.

I'm not sad right now. My grandpa is better. His "condition" is stabilizing. I'm not sad. I'm indifferent. I'm uncomfortable. I'm not feeling much of anything.

I am as empty as a grave full of dust.

When I die--if I die--I want to be ready. If not willing, then at ease. Am I asking too much?