I love

Thick, white bedsheets and pillowcases.
I finally own my own set, and I slept in them for the first time this week.

*Squirms in glee*

Begone, cheap see-through red sheets from Conway! Begone!

The easiest way

to avoid answering questions, of course, is to insult the inquirer until she stops asking.

Nope.

WHY bitch, WHY? You said a whole lot, but you haven't said shit!

You know

You use mean words and dark thoughts to heal a broken ego.

Only time can truly soothe a broken heart. Talking shit takes you nowhere if its real.

Don't think I'm not aware of what you've said about me, and don't think I don't know exactly what I meant to you. Your trailing shadow of curses betray your structured prose.

But it's okay, lol. Keep yapping like they don't know -- I won't tell. Karma's watching, and I know you've seen her around.

RIP, C.D.

One of my brother's close friends shot himself in the head last year, an hour after Father's Day.

Rest in peace, kiddo.

Don't do drugs.

Drama is,

with enough backbone and charm, avoidable with no suppressed resentment. Drama can, without having to trigger confrontation, be evaded with a simple and direct discussion.

Drama -- usually -- stays out of my way. I have a mean streak of steel. It is held in very, very close check.

Sigh.

In the case of the Unavoidable, Drama must, most certainly, be addressed with the swiftness. When your name -- especially your name -- is being handled with disrespect, it is your duty to yourself to repossess it before the scratches can do more damage to its skin.

Oh. But you, my dear, you would never meet me in person, would you. And I refuse to confront you online, why that's just bitchmade. "Facebook her," he says. "Keep it civil."

I ask him to put you on the phone, he refuses. I ask him to read you what I told him, but he deflects. Nobody wants to deal with your Drama.

"She is emotionally unstable," he says. "Just leave it alone. You don't understand."

Obviously I don't. Perhaps I should show a little more compassion. Or perhaps, in my effort to suppress the GetTheFuckOuttaHere leavening in my subconscious, I forgot How To Act. All I know is, at this moment, you are pressing MY name against your tongue like a fresh piece of bubble gum. "That's the one and only reason I hate her," you declare, almost triumphantly.

Lol.
I, am not, your bubble gum. Bitch.

So I insist. "Just let me speak to her," I coo, smiling. "I don't want drama. I just have something to say." And, with all my presence in the air tonight, I deserve a to get a few words in, no?

He sighs from my persistance, and holds the phone to you. I wait patiently, but hear no Hello.

How quaint, that you would refuse a simple conversation with someone you were JUST talking so intimately about. No? Not necessary to speak to me, you say? But weren't you just fighting for his phone, to hear my confirmation? Wasn't it oh so necessary then?

"Put her on," I say again. Colder. Once more, he hands the phone to you; once more, you push away the call.

I feel no shame when he tells me there's tears. You are not my friend, oh dear emotionally unstable Heather. What good will tears do, to one with no pity?

If you can't take shit, sweety, don't talk shit.

Don't put my name into your mouth until you are ready to spit it right back to me, do you understand? I am not participating in this grade school bullshit. You showed me what you are worth, and I refuse to deal with anything beneath my level. Don't let me catch wind of you yapping your gums in my direction again. You can let your friends know.

Fuck, what a waste of blood pressure. I'm done.

Omg.

Hahaha. Dude.

How to say "Chicken" in Chinese

Are you one of those people that believe if you hold onto a fortune cookie's prophecy, it comes true?

I'm used to getting some retarded ass fortunes. Like, "If you have to be a glow worm, glow the hardest." I've learned long ago to stop anticipating a cute phrase I could fit into my life like a sky-blue puzzle piece, only to crack open the shell and unroll yet another disappointing scroll. "Sometimes you just have to shrug and laugh." *Wraps hands around cookies throat*

This Tuesday past, after a satisfying dinner of Korean noodles

Which I'm sure looks far from appetitizing...
until you've tried it

Sharpshooter and I pick up fortune cookies on the way out. I crack mine open, with the prerequisite story of how I never get worthwhile fortunes... and laugh loudly (as I always laugh), appreciatively, as I read it.

"Friends long absent are coming back to you."

Well. Indeed they are. People I've had intense albeit brief friendships/flingships with in my past are knocking on my present door with gifts of confession, apology, or mere renewed company. They are still, after all this time, greeted with something resembling happy tears (Text doesn't cry, but her eyes do sting) and a smile. Most of them are far, far away, in places I can't touch (Afghanistan, California, Hawaii). These are people I was tight with anywhere between 6 months ago to 7 years ago. There are stories between us.

It's really overwhelming -- and extremely comforting -- to know that no matter how brief our friendship was, I was never forgotten. I was remembered fondly, maybe even respected. And all along, I had no idea. I didn't know how much I needed this.

I was just telling SS a story of the most recent collision between past and present, which always manages to leave me a little jarred. Normally I throw these fortunes out with the wrapper and forget about them the moment after (I do cast an obligatory glance at the chinese lessons on the other side --Chicken, I believe, is Jo Zhu). For some reason, while in conversation, I rolled this one into a tiny cylinder and slipped it into the zipper of my purse. I used to believe, once upon a time, that saving these words will strengthen their chances of occurance. I guess a small part of me still holds onto that thought.

I'm being revisited by my past for a reason. Either I'm to apply something I've learned to tie up loose ends (Karma, if you respect her, will always give you second chances), or I'm supposed to take this as a warning. Perhaps it is simply time for me to reconnect with those I've shaken off between phases, left behind for one reason or another. Regardless, I am looking forward to developing something with them; I truly hope I am ready. There's been a lot of loss lately.

Welcome back, everybody. It's so good to see you again.

All in all youre just another brick in the wall

Remember this post?

Well, another one bites the dust. A friend notifies us that he just got out of central bookings. When asked why, he responded with "1 part graffiti, 2 parts racism." I didn't know exactly what he meant until these photos arrived on my minifeed (shout out to facebook):

Where do we draw the line with police brutality?

I know a part of me speaks with bias -- I went to art school with this kid, and most artists tend to consider graffiti a form of expression and aesthetics, rather than a simple act of vandalism. Growing up in Brooklyn, it's easy to consider graffiti decoration; once the history and competition and purpose was explained to me, I also developed a fond appreciation for the culture as a whole.

What would justify that eye?

Without a badge number, he's got no trial.

Damn, b. Good luck.

Are you listening? This means You

Me: FW: Breaking News Alert, The New York Times
Friday, June 6, 2008 -- 4:16 PM ET
---------
Dow Plunges About 400 Points

The Dow Jones Industrial Average fell about 400 points,
driven by economic concerns and by oil prices that soared to
near $140 a barrel.

Read More:
http://www.nytimes.com/?emc=na

Inell: oh boy, there will be a lot of people jumping off buildings tonite...

Me: whats the world coming to =(

Inell: i dont know, but i read an article last month that the average person living in new york needs to make a salary of 35,ooo a year to survive not to live good but in order to survive... (eat)

Me: WOW ARE YOU SERIOUS?

Inell: that is why they increased rookie cops pay to 35,800 a year to start. dont you know that for years a rookie cop was only making 24,000 a year.... (so sad) but seriously i am scared because I am a single parent with 2 kids and i dont gross 35,ooo a year.

Me: What article?
im trying to google it
I cant find it but apparently its the same in san mateo


Inell: u c what i am talking about, a single mother with an infant and school age child needs to gross about 66,000 a year to live no luxury's to live....

Me:what the fuck inell that is so fucking sad
and theyre not doing anything to change this
is this all oils fault?

Inell: the war, that is why the oil prices are rising, all the natural resources in world (rice is going up because the main supplier (India) is not selling much because they need to eat. prices of flour went up( pure dough) that is why bread and pizza is going up, omg lets not talk about dairy products. milk is 5 dollars a gallon, eggs r 3 dollars a dozen and cheese you cant even afford to buy any. and the sad part about it is that this is food. basic things nothing fancy.) you get where i am going with this.

Inell:One more thing
dont mean to scare you but the average household consist on mother, father and at least two kids. if things dont change the average household will consist of (grandparents, aunts and uncle's husband and wife and kids.) and that will only be to live... (eat and rent) nothing else.

Turned off

By everything you do.

I've been nothing but nice to you, is this really just who you are?

Wow. Ew.

Stop it, China

an ad on my playlist site

Stop it this instant

The Reason

Ah. I understand now.

I painted the other day. I found myself with some time after work so I wandered over to Pearl Paint, a quiet, popular, art store nestled deep between street vendors and pedestrian traffic on Canal Street. In high school, this would have been a necessary trip at the start of every semester; with at least 2 separate lists of required supplies in hand, I would slowly tread the aisles and chew my lip over brands and practicality (did I really need Black? Wasn't it Cadmium Red and Hooker's Green that made a better shadow? How much of a palette could I afford on $30, and would a new brush fit into the budget?). I would grin sheepishly and lift my brows in a silent, faux-panicked greeting as I passed by new and familiar classmates, not yet willing to dive into a superficial or obligatory conversation.

After all these years, the feel was different. As much as I would have loved to run back upstairs, to trail my fingertip against rows and rows of striped tubes boasting quiet labels of color and name, I only had about 20 minutes before the store closed. Working until 6 every day makes you feel like the world is always fleeting. It's always closing time, you better come prepared with a list and a plan.

I made a mental note to go back and rummage (indeed -- being poor caused our family to develop packrat tendencies. Hey, you never know when you'll need that cardboard box full of shopping bags, wires, duct tape and sofa cushions) through the house for my old paints. If I'm lucky, maybe I'll uncover a brush or two; otherwise I'll have to return another night. I hopped downstairs to a floor I was almost unfamiliar with -- here, bathed in industrial gray flourescent light, were walls and walls of canvases varying in size, thickness, purpose and color. Momentarily overwhelmed, I blinked. I did not come with a list, nor a plan.

I had to pass the most appealing canvases wistfully -- girl does not have that kind of money -- and head to the thin stretched, lightweight canvases I used to purchase for Intro classes. It's been a very, very long time since I've bought one of my own. I borrowed these things in high school -- old artwork donated from friends, for me to paint over. I used the same two canvases for a couple of years. You make do with what you got, lol.

I splurged, maybe. I bought 2 low quality canvases and a pack of 3 canvas boards, and I trudged them through the rest of Chinatown to meet up with a friend. Admittedly I felt tres NYC, in my cork heels with white polka-dots over cornflower-blue fabric, tied around my ankles into a bow. *Flaunt*

After partaking in a hastily rolled joint and a few episodes of The Girls Next Door (not having cable allows me to appreciate the, ah, finer things in life), I got on the train for the long journey home. Drowsy, but not sleepy. I slipped through my doors, kicked off my shoes, lay the bag of canvases down in front of the mirror. I flopped into bed with my eyes closed.

Insomnia kicked in, right on time. Instead of lying still, waiting until the informercials on screen bored me enough to start dozing, I jumped up and poked around for my acrylics. Not wanting to waste hours looking for these paints, I pulled out a metal suitcase, one of those cheesy (this one was pretty hardcore, though) art kits dedicated to blossoming child prodigies. One side housed a rainbow of color pencils and sharpeners, the other displayed markers and a section of watercolors. Shrugging, I decided to try something new. The canvas will not absorb any of the watercolor, but hey, it's been about four years. Let's just play with shading, huh?


This is actually a color piece, in shades of pink, orange and yellow; there is also a watermark over the image. I'm too shy, or untrusting, to show you the real thing. Cheers :)


I stayed up till 6am dabbing at the canvas, reacquainting myself with the way colors formed when you layered purple over orange, pink over yellow. I didn't take this drawing seriously, because it was kind of a tester. Too bad it came out so nice.

It didn't feel the same for me, for many reasons. One, it was done on the floor of my tiny, dirty room. The carpet made a home in my ass, leaving wonderful imprints that took 2 days to disappear, deep after 3 hours of sitting. I had no easel, no chair. Two, it was done with watercolor and not acrylic; the colors faded dramatically after being laid down, the details withdrew and had to be layered heavily.

Most importantly, there wasn't the same level of release. I know why art doesn't do it for me anymore. I grew up, but my methods didn't update to reflect it.

Cause I'm doing better now, don't mean I never lost shit
I was married to a state of mind and I divorced it

Before, my release came from the joy in creation. I never knew what I was going to end up with when I first touched the pencil to the surface. My thoughts found a stillness that could not be emulated with drugs, sex, or sunlight. There was a different kind of focus that zeroed in on the line, the direction, the diagonal, the form; thus, the end product carried a delicious satisfaction, no matter how finished the drawing was. More often than not, it would remain a rendering, that was its final answer.

Even with my blogs, my poetry, my writing -- I'd dive in without outline, theme or character. I wouldn't look up or breathe until the bowels of my mind emptied. And the outcome was always amazing.

I lived that way. I dove in without pattern, plan or glance towards consequence. I merely lived, focused on the journey more than the destination, and ended up happy wherever I ran out of breath. While I still have that tendency, life is proving to me that I can no longer continue doing what I do. I have to have steps now. A goal to focus on.

I realized when painting that watercolor sketch that there wasn't the same level of satisfaction in the process. I was disgruntled, my hands tried to take the image into too many directions, I ended up doing too much and ruining the piece without finishing it first. There was no linear Blank to my thoughts, no escape, no relief. It became a project I wasn't ready for. I realized that I needed something more concrete -- a photo to work off of, to build off of, to remix. However, I know that I don't want to simply imitate someone else's image. I want to set up my own scenes, my own backgrounds, my own stories. My own human still lifes. And then I will paint them. I will give myself guidelines.

I do love how the sketch came out. There's nothing more I can do to it, because my mind has run out of suggestions. It is perfect the way it is. However, it is still incomplete, and that leaves me feeling unsettled. I have no more room for open endedness in my life, it's time to upgrade myself.

Karma?

I met this wonderful boy yesterday; we slipped into a conversation and left the building together. He was very skinny and full of wit; he had an easy personality that carried an undertow of No Bithchassness, automatically drawing you into his presence. It was his birthday that night. He was freshly legal, and he had no plans.

We took a walk around the area, he filled me in on his life. By 21, he was a retired model that had travelled the states. He had copious affairs and many heartbreaks, he is fiercely religious and the type that finds extroardinary beauty in the ordinary things. He currently works for one of the top companies in the media industry. Though he has been living on his own since 13 -- his mother kicked him out when she found out he was gay, and he's found ways to support himself luxuriously -- he now has next to nothing. He lives in an SRO (single room occupancy -- aka, shelter), and doesn't have much money to his name. His smile, however, remains infectious, his optimism unbreakable. His chin stays in the air, eyelashes splayed prettily with indifference.

We were standing at the counter of a pharmacy waiting for his medication. While explaining his most recent relationship, his voice broke. "When I found out about my status--" my brow raised -- "everything changed." The edges of his eyes tinged with emotion, he regained his composure and told me the rest of his story. He had HIV. Yet, the way he caught it had nothing to do with his homosexuality. It wasn't from when he worked for an escort service either, they require monthly testing and are adamant about protection. No, his story, it seemed, was more of an ironic twist of fate.

He was making a sandwhich at work. He cut his hand with the knife. At that same instant, he heard a BOOM! in the stairwell. He ran towards the sound and saw his friend lying on the floor in a puddle of blood. In sheer reaction he grabbed him, stayed with him until the ambulance came. A few days later he got a phone call from the hospital asking him to come in for testing, they had some news.

Hm.

Is there such thing as coincidence? The way my life has turned out, I've come to doubt magical "accidents." Even here, I feel that the timing of it was too uncanny.

It's only been a few months since he found out. He accepted my offer to a birthday drink, so we continued our conversation over Apple Martinis and curry chicken. His spirit may have cracked at times, but his will remains whole. He was telling me his countless blessings -- his best friend had returned from Iraq and was there to surprise him for his birthday; his mother had recently accepted his lifestyle and they'd formed a strong friendship; he met the president of the company (THE company!) he worked for face to face -- that strengthened his faith in life.

Even the way we met, on the night of his 21st, seemed planned. Our transition into... friendship, for lack of a better term, was too fluid for it not to be.

I'm wondering what his role in my life is, or vice versa. I'm itching to write his story, but I know that that's not the reason our paths crossed. I don't know how long I will keep in contact with him, and it seems our connection has already faded after the night we met -- I feel nothing inside me saying that we are to be solid in each others worlds. He lost his keys the night he met me, and I hope that isn't a sign of bad things to come.

Either way, I look forward to finding out why the stars aligned us. Stay tuned.

Stunned

My boy, whos been in Afghanistan since April, just caught me on aim. We had a very brief, passionate affair six years ago. He dropped out of high school and weve barely spoke since. I found out he was going to the army through an acquaintence. My heart broke when he told me. It's been years.

We had a very long, hard talk. I'll write about it all later. It's just a little too much to take in right now.

My.