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Not exactly friends only, but... [17 May 2015|10:45 pm]
Ἀρετή
What may be blatant may be veiled, and what may be lost in vague adjectives may be conveyed as literally as seen fit.

If I were afraid of the world reading what I write, I wouldn't put it on the Internet. Please heed this standard as you traverse my entries. If qualms arise regarding my archives, especially if heavily buried, please take the evolution of my past to present state into account.

With this disclaimer in mind, feel free to proceed.

Comment here to be added.
link1 raver| raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [16 Mar 2013|02:05 am]
Ἀρετή
I need more friends closer to my age, or at least closer to my amount of life experience.
link raise your glowsticks

I like anime. [19 Feb 2013|12:20 am]
Ἀρετή
That has been such a hard thing not to necessarily admit, but to have emphatic passion about: I like anime. I have liked anime since I was eight years old, but in all of my crude attempts at rounding myself off as a "serious artist", I shunned anime and all of its pseudo-influence. I felt like it would stunt my growth, both as an artist and as a budding teenager, since it allowed me to express and channel a lot of childlike hyperactivity. I wanted to be taken seriously, so I sought to put away childish things.

However, in these last few months of rewatching Neon Genesis Evangelion—a series I hadn't thought about in ten years—I rediscovered the unbridled happiness and enthusiasm that talking about and watching anime brings me. It could be the tie-in nostalgia of revisiting an experience with new eyes, or it could be the liberation in being able to feel strongly and openly excited about something I like with other people.  I have been able to better connect with friends new and old through anime as a common interest, and I'm often surprised by the size of the smile on my face when the conversation takes off.

I am also surprised at the depth of anime influence in my life. I grew up watching a lot of series, but Evangelion specifically helped me confront and access a lot of feelings that didn't have names in my nubile "tween" mind. I heavily identified with Asuka and admired her. I had thought to myself at that age, "I want to be like Asuka by the time I'm fourteen." She was sharp, confident (to a fault), beautiful, fun, and did her job well. She didn't let anyone boss her around, and if she wanted something, she went for it. She also got to hang out with an older guy, Ryoji Kaji, which I found admirable at the time.

As my viewing of the series went on, a lot of incidents in my life ended up paralleling Asuka's, especially concerning Kaji. I finally made it to The End of Evangelion, which I remember borrowing from a friend in my 7th grade art class, and let out a massive exhale as it came to a close. I vividly remember watching the epileptic glitching of photographs and messages of dissonance and rejection barrage me halfway through the film, bringing me to choking sobs. Many consider Evangelion a pertinent exception to the rule that anime is all sweat drops and silliness, and after that moment I had never been more sure of it. The events at that time in my life forced me to grow up fast, and it was as if the series had caught up with me. I liked most anime, but for the impact it left on my life at that tender age, I cherished Evangelion. I had learned that the world was a painful place, but Evangelion taught me that, through loving myself and others, it could be beautiful.

It is true that my affinity for anime bordered on obsession at that age, but it stimulated me. At ten years old I taught myself to read katakana off of Pokémon cards and eventually branched out to hiragana and some first level kanji. My whiteness gravitated me toward hopping on the weeaboo train for a few years, where I eventually realized that I was alienating myself. I mistook cultural fetishization and appropriation for simply enjoying anime and cut off my hand instead of removing the splinter; that is, I gave up anime altogether to conclude my ignorant behavior. Unfortunately, as is the case with many ex-otaku, I developed a holier-than-thou judgment toward those who were passionate about anime, regardless of their behavior. And it wasn't a matter of being cool; I was still a nerd, just a different kind. Even other circles of nerds disown anime fans, so I resigned anime to "a phase" yet continued to watch it in secret to maintain an image nobody cares about. In my own mind, I knew that I grew up and wasn't being an ignorant Mary-Sue Deviantart-tracing yaoi-fan-girl art-thief weeaboo. I was going to be a REAL ARTIST and make REAL ART. (That hasn't happened yet.)

While it's true that all of those things unfortunately exist and can seriously inhibit personal development if left unchecked, there was no reason for them to keep me from enjoying something I genuinely like. I was never about to become any of those things, but I feared being mistaken for them because of what I liked. Now I am close to graduating college and it's taken me this long to finally admit to myself and others that yes, I unabashedly like anime, and if you have a problem with it, it's probably because you haven't seriously watched any. Or you've watched some and didn't like it. But to say you dislike all anime because "they're cartoons" or "the voices" is just as foolish as saying you dislike all movies because "the actors" or "Hollywood". Anime is just as varied as any other media—movies, music, books, art, video games—and, in my opinion, is not in the same realm as western animation. To compare a western animated series to an anime series is nearly as foreign as comparing a song to a book; anime and western animation carry themselves quite differently, no matter the genre or message. Fritz the Cat is not comparable to The Little Mermaid, and neither are to Spirited Away. It is within its own macrocosm, fluid in its influence to other mediums of expression and ever-developing in its own.

The long and short of it is that anime makes me happy. I no longer want to repress what I enjoy for fear of being mistaken for something I'm not. Besides, I'm still a big nerd either way, so who cares


image

Art by KC Green.
link1 raver| raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [18 Jan 2013|12:45 am]
Ἀρετή
Last night, or I suppose early this morning, I had a panic attack while in the company of my very close friends. Completely unwarranted and unfounded, as usual. We'd been laughing for hours; I was well-fed and well-rested; I was with some of the people I care about most. It didn't matter. There was no discernible reason why I could have possibly felt unsafe.
Someone was in the kitchen. A headcount. K, G, Flapjack, Secrets, Toki, Dayglow. Who's that other one? 
Everyone else had gone home. There was no one else here.

But there is. 
But there isn't, idiot. No one else could be here.
But there is. There are shadows moving in the kitchen.
It's your half-blind eyes in the dark. No one is there. 
Then why do I hear screaming? 

You're tired, I tell myself. Just tired. It's 5:30AM. You checked. Close your eyes, go to sleep. Your friends are here.

High pitched whistling, screaming. Pounding.
Idiot.
I'm whimpering. I feel myself being dragged away. Dragged into darkness. My body is but a membrane. My viscous soul is seeping out like a wound. Dragged by hooks-for-hands.

I am crying and screaming and shaking. My body feels so hot and my head so heavy, a hundred pounds. It's as if it takes all my strength just to hold it up. I want to go outside, into cool, fresh air. Away from here.

I have a hard time understanding what's going on. Diego is trying to sit me upright. My whole body is cracking mud and stone. My face is covered with my hands. I'm shaking and crying. I couldn't hear anything but screaming.

I really don't want to die. I am being so loud. People are trying to sleep.

I'm sorry, I say again and again, as if it even means anything anymore. I'm so sorry.

All I feel is blackness. I don't want to die.

I don't know how long it went on. It felt like hours. My friends help me back.

I check the clock. 5:21AM. It can't be. It was 5:30. It was...

I love my friends so much. It's 9:40AM. I've had trouble sleeping, as I always do after these things. I'm very embarrassed. I don't ever want anyone to see me like that. That is my most vulnerable. That is my least human state. It is wallowing, narcissistic, and uncontrollable. It is shameful for me. I know I can depend on my friends, but it is a state in which I feel I am always asking too much. It feels that, every time, I've got to wring myself free of the Grim Reaper's grasp. To ask my friends to help me with that, to reach out and wrestle me free, feels I am asking too much. It is not their place, and I am mortified that they must come to my aid against a completely unprovoked situation time and again.

I have a big mouth about my personal problems. I feel that if I speak of them out in the open, they aren't so enigmatic and humongous as they appear looming over my head. But, last night I realized that no matter how prepared I think I am, no matter how much I flippantly talk of all this like it really doesn't matter to me or it's no big deal, the greater a deal it becomes. I was not prepared to have a panic attack—no one ever is—but I most certainly was not prepared to subject my friends to such an indiscreet window into my verbally-dwarfed issues.

All I can think about now is how thankful and lucky I am to have such supportive, loving, and understanding friends. No one told me to shut up. No one told me to just go to bed. No one told me to go outside. No one chastised me for being loud. No one even cast a sarcastic aside once it was all over, like "Guess we're not getting any sleep after all".

I might end up being very quiet today, which is unlike me. Lesson learned: speak softly and carry a big stick.
link1 raver| raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [24 Nov 2012|04:11 pm]
Ἀρετή
I am a halfway house of a woman.

Men come to me, broken and battered with shattered hearts, and I am the oxygen that resuscitates them. I pick up the shards of their selves and piece them together as best as I can, looking over them with eyes like wine. It is all very autumn and pitying; I never have sprung into love. I do not confidently grip his large and sometimes hairy hands and bound off into greenery and sunshine. My hands struggle to envelop one of his—tenderly, like a mother—and I run my fingertips over his veins and bitten fingernails. Although, to be fair, I fail to see the elegant “piano hands” my family says I possess, unpainted and pallid and square.

Love for me has been both of us shuddering under itchy yarn blankets, clutching the other for some semblance of warmth. It is more intimate than camaraderie, yet more estranged than sharing a table with another caste. They could be all etiquette and cummerbunds and there I sit in ripped jeans jabbing at some deep-fried microwaved meat medley with a plastic fork. Or, in shoes that fit and washed hair, I can have the privilege of eating until I’m full rather than broke. Yet there we sit and eat together, different but the same. Stuck.

There are glimmers of strength and fortitude while I am in a relationship, but they quickly wane with the impermanence of infatuation. I’ll feel impenetrable, powerful, locked arms with a winner. Not this time, I mutter, breaking my arm to set myself free. What is all that noise? But, with half a hand I caress their face and dab the dirt off their skinned knees. It’s always the same.

A thing to be utilized; a mannequin, posed and positioned and standing guard. Here, bend this way. On your knees. Up straight! All the time gnarled and contorted and folding in on myself, fetal and frightened. What about my insides? Here, I’ll feel them. To your limit. Wear this for me. Don’t wear this for me. Take that off. Put this on. Brush it this way. No, not like that. A different color, maybe?

Bleak and malleable. My eyelids twitch unless I force them closed with my fingers. On their own, they shiver and dare not to. Can’t miss a beat. Don’t miss a step. Everything is watching.

Everything is watching.

They’ve got red pens, all of them. I’m walking through a lifelong critique. Perform for us! The audience cries out with missing eyes. Perform for us.

Please, don’t make me…
Don’t make me… I don’t want to.

You’ll feel good! You’ll look good! You’ll be good! You’ll be a good person! You’ll be a good girl!

Veiny hands seize me. Spittle in my face. Can’t you see that this is a good thing? Why are you so sad about something so good? Are you that selfish? You’re doing a good thing! His burnt face is wrinkled and pinched in frustration. All of theirs were. All of them, all fissure foreheads and beady eyes and hot breath and flared nostrils. All of them, like bile-belching grim-toothed dragons, staring at their meek and frail prey to throw onto the hoard. A gaze that cuts like glass.

Just another one on the pile. A Christmas present for volume, not value. Quantity over quality. So what do you care if I’m fun for you or not? Just move on to the next one. Throw away the broken toy. Spit me out; unhinge your jaw and swallow somebody else whole.

And so they do. Serpentine eyes leering, tight lips snarling, their backs face me and they slither off all claws and scales like a monitor to do just that, to monitor. Go watch someone else on your silver screens. My puppet show is too low-class and obsolete for you. Why listen to my wood clack when someone sleek and chrome is silent, just like you like?

Fucking idiot can’t even do the right thing. It was fun while it lasted though, right? Built you up nice and strong to go for the brass ring. A foothold and stepping stone through a churning sea just to make it to the other side. Right. I’ll drown you, right? Hold you down. You can’t live under here with me.

Back to the deep with me. Into my cave I crawl.
link raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [21 Jul 2012|04:38 am]
Ἀρετή
You wake up in a hundreds-years-old town with limestone snow you have to chisel off the cars in the morning, and in mine I’ve got a metallic sky with a ring of soap scum. Our noses in books, always did what we were told, got all these ideas and all this trepidation, and now we tiptoe and peek out into this rock we have to inherit in scorn and chaos and madness. They call the creatures folklore, but they’re dancing right in front of our faces. Wrapped around telephone poles, serpentine; claws rising out of the mud in a backstroke; glassy eyes watching from afar.

You talk of games of flattery, and it is surely no game, but let’s say for a moment that it’s the only saving grace of structure in our otherwise abysmal and sparking, tripped wires we have the nerve to call socializing. I’d be accused of perversion and blasphemy of what’s sacred, yet it’s the most innocent thing I’ve got. And the Lord tells us judge not lest we be, but all those staring eyes and gaping mouths would whisper unspeakable things of us when, in reality, we barely have any idea what’s going on. All we know is that it works, and we are happy, and nobody has to know. My own fat creature tells me that again and again.

We’d both wear jackboots and shave our heads cockatoo if it weren’t a costume for the both of us. Thick-padded work gloves and leather pants and adorning a bunch of holes in our cheesy heads, hands on our hips, surveying the arsonist wreck of our society and the soggy cardboard messes of our own lives. We’ve had it pretty good, but we could have had it better. Direction helps, and there’s no sign in sight.

Life is precious and aye, we know that, we’ve gazed into its reeking maw. It is so much easier to turn to orcs and ponies and the knowledge in dusty journals that chalks up to nothing. We’re both fairly intelligent, I’d argue, so what the fuck is being an adult other than a veneer of suits and cigarettes? Is it a contest of denying our natures as long as possible? It must be the id, it’s Satan, it’s primeval, it’s sacrilegious, it’s xenophobia, it’s immature, childish, and now tell me what the fuck a child ever did wrong unless an adult said it was so? Children have empathy—they know when they’ve truly wronged—or perhaps it’s just the ones with intuition? So we drink from the honey of bad excuses under the guise of civility all this time, being judged, being ransacked of pride and foresight, and finally, as we are forced to inherit the world as our own, we realize we’re starved on junk food and there just isn’t a niche carved thin enough for us.

I have a feeling that, somehow, all this time, we’ve been larvae nobody could tell was any different (save for a few this-n-thats), and now we’ve grown up to be wasps in a beehive. The drones don’t know what to do about it, but neither do we. We’ve been cultivated to keep this society going, yet it is in our nature to tear you all apart.

All mandibles and wings flying, savage buzzing, frothing and screeching, tearing you all apart.
link2 ravers | raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [11 Feb 2012|09:49 pm]
Ἀρετή
can't do it

I'm so sick of staring at my face. It's scarring more and more with each passing day. I keep getting cysts and I can't get them to go away. I've done it all, guys.

Clean'n'Clear, Clearasil, Proactiv, Neutrogena, St. Ives, Skin ID, tea tree oil, witch hazel, doxycycline, birth control. Everything but Accutane and just ripping the skin off of my face.

I get exercise; not profusely, but enough. I walk about 3-5 miles every day, and if I don't then I go on thirty minute walks or exercise any other way I can.

I don't have the best diet, especially at school. I don't have a stove and all of the food in the dining hall makes me vomit or gives me the runs, and I mean every single time. I have eaten there for four years, though very little this fourth year, and the result is the same without fail, no matter what I eat. So I'm confined to eating within the walls of my dorm, which restricts me to easy-fix foods like peanut butter and jelly, ramen, carbohydrates, and frozen meals. I don't have a car, and the buses are unreliable, so I walk a mile to the market every week and a half or so. I have a small fridge, which means I don't have room for things like fresh produce. I try to get real fruit smoothies on campus at least once a week.

Sometimes that smoothie will be my lunch. Sometimes it's a CLIF/Power bar. I have meal replacement shakes or a muffin for breakfast, sometimes both. When I have time, I eat cereal. The opportunity to enjoy oven-fresh food is rare for me, and always greatly appreciated.

I wonder if the main problem is sleep. I struggle to fall asleep soundly. It is nearly impossible for me. Even when I am beyond exhausted, my body claws at me to stay awake, conjuring up shadow people, auditory hallucinations, existential anguish, anguish-turned-panic-attack, hypnagogic twitches and jerks, and so on. A roulette of images spins in my head and stops randomly, and what a lucky winner I am when it does: horrifying disfigures stare with vacant eyes right back at me, shrouded in darkness. Even when I'm with Ray, it still becomes incredibly hard to fall asleep. More than several times I've woken up next to him screaming in terror or gasping in fright, to which he awakens as well. Once—and I was so sure of it too—something was kicking down the door, trying to get in, rattling the doorknob. After a loud thud I sat up and screamed, and Ray held me and said, "It's okay, it's just the wind. Don't worry, I'm here." It literally was the wind, and I listened to it howl violently outside the window.

When I'm alone, it's a miracle I fall asleep at all. I've woken up on the floor of my dorm probably about twenty times in the three years I've lived here. I put on music to fall asleep at night and wake up to the computer open and muted, indicated that I must have shut it off in the middle of the night. I wake up from horrible nightmares that I'm positive were reality, groggy as I'm bitchslapped by the intense sunlight drenching my room. What time is it? What day is it? What year is it? What world is it? I once had a nightmare so intense that I was convinced I was back in my first year of high school and suffering all of freshman year again, and it took what felt like an hour to realize where I was, in life and on the planet.

They say acne is caused by stress and I just don't get where all of this stress is coming from. I have so much anxiety that sometimes I find it hard to face the day, and especially to face myself. I hate staring at myself in the mirror. I spend a maximum of 3 minutes in front of the mirror, and that's if I'm brushing my hair. I hate looking at myself. I hate seeing pictures of myself. I hate seeing my face. I hate seeing myself on video. I hate hearing the sound of my own voice. I absolutely hate the physical form that represents me in this planet because I feel like it's just not... me. I look at that person and I don't know who she is.



This is who I am. This is what I look like, to me. I just hate that I have to represent myself with my flesh. It feels like only flesh to me, not me. If I happen to look in the mirror and smile at myself and think, "Hey, it's me!", I blink, put on my headphones, and dash out the door with a frown on my face, and cherish what I can of my "little world" before I'm forced to smother it in class. I can't be myself, it feels like. I can't do what I like. I can't be appreciated by people, and if I try to give something they can appreciate, I'm annoying, or a know-it-all, or a "chatty Cathy", or weird, dork, trying too hard, immature, ugly loud obnoxious stupid It's pointless. If I agree with something, I'm being a "kiss ass" or passive. If I disagree, I'm jaded and cynical. If I don't have an opinion, I'm heartless.

Eh, this whole thing is rendered pointless now that my mind's crossed over a happy thought. I'm trying so hard to make my teachers proud, to give them what they want so that I can get a good grade, that I'm failing to let myself grow as an artist. I'm narrowing myself to fit their desires and really, in the end they're just teachers. I'll pass the class. But I can't get down on myself. I'm not a fine artist, I'm not going to be that lady meticulously dotting Is and crossing Ts with a Sableine on a miniature with egg whites. It's all very fancy and admirable, but it's just not me. Maybe once all this energy is sapped up and I end up turning to those "finer things" I might stay put in front of that canvas, but for now I've got too much running through my head and too much to say and not enough time to do it to devote forty hours to getting that perfect glaze. I draw comics. I make sketches. I doodle. They may not be the best things ever, but once I get it all purged onto paper I go over it in ink and make that shit permanent, and that takes time. I want to draw monsters and demons and ponies and crazy expressions and unkempt hair and dirty faces and gnarled hands and crooked teeth and by golly oil just ain't the medium for all of that. Accept defeat, you silly artist, you! If your self-portrait doesn't look like you, well, hey—you don't really look like you anyway.
link raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [04 Dec 2011|01:55 pm]
Ἀρετή

After eight years, I not only got to see Neophyte perform live but got to meet him and get his autograph. My 13 year old self would be proud.

link raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [16 Nov 2011|01:35 am]
Ἀρετή
what the fuck is with everyone dying?

Last week was so marbled with ups and downs... with "hats in the pants"...

Worked my buns off on three different midterm projects the whole weekend. Monday, had class from 1pm to 10pm as usual. Tuesday's class is substituted with my Friday class, meaning I have to make a 9am class. Around 2pm I leave for the Valley. I finally make it into Ray's arms.

I had to skip Typography that Wednesday to get ready for the trip to Arizona. I told my teacher it was because I was going to attend a memorial. I wanted to, but I didn't think one was held. I wanted to stay in Long Beach on Wednesday because I was wondering if there would be a memorial for Ginny's two-decade boyfriend in lieu of Morris dancing, but there wasn't (to my knowledge).

Thursday, we don't leave for Arizona until 9pm and get there at 6am. Shenanigans ensue. Kandieland was so-so. I went for the journey, not the destination. I absolutely adore Nathan and Sabrina, and Tyler's always a delight. I feel like I don't know Brittany that well, but I like what I know of her. She likes to laugh and so do I. I'm glad I can make her laugh too.

Saturday consisted of recovery, leaving the hotel, and visiting Blyth. I missed her a lot. She seems to be doing very well in Arizona and the guys she's befriended seem nice too. We dicked around for a few hours before heading to Peter Piper's Pizza to celebrate Super K's godson's birthday. Before we walk into Fry's just to browse, Nathan discovers that Susanna Lee, a.k.a. Silence, has taken her own life.

I didn't know her at all. I won't claim to have ever known her. If I'd ever spoken to her, I don't remember it at all. But she was very young, and today is her birthday. That is extremely fucked. I read her suicide note and started to cry. I will never understand how much pain someone could be in that they would want to rush the inevitable. I just don't understand it.

I was afraid I had been dosed at Kandieland. My body felt numb and heavy like I'd slept on it wrong, the lights were too bright, and I felt delirious. You-know-who sat next to me on the couch. It has been several months since I'd heard a peep from him. Knowing he was there made me more worried that I had been slipped something. But I hadn't had any water to drink or anything to eat or any oral contact with anyone. Unless I was splashed with liquid LSD and didn't feel it, there was no way I could have been dosed.

I realized I was having a panic attack. It was a number of things. The stress, the death (only one, since we found out about Susanna afterward), the lack of sleep, dehydration, the confusion in feeling I was in some odd parallel universe of Los Angeles. Despite being in a completely separate state, everyone I knew was there. I felt like I had already died and my soul had slipped out of my body, and I was just watching the rave go on without me. I looked at Nathan and Sabrina, heard them talking, and thought "I wonder if they ever really liked me." I held on to Tyler's fur pants hoping I'd come back down to earth, as it were. I laid there on the couch in the VIP room staring up at the ceiling, afraid to move lest my soul slosh out of me like a liquid. Who was I kidding? I was dead and gone.

"Wow, you look dead."
"You look dead tired!"
"Whoa, Rabbit's dead to the world."

They knew it. They knew I was dead. I didn't want to bother anybody, so I stayed quiet.

Kitten had introduced me to a girl earlier. It could have been that the music was too loud, but I could have sworn she said, "This is Creature." She looked like Sunny Rae. I didn't know Sunny either. I had seen her around, but we never exchanged words. But I know she is dead too after taking her own life in a very violent manner. Her name was Kreature. I don't think anyone else should have that name.

I just shook this girl's hand and nodded, using every fiber of my being to bite back the urge to say "I knew of someone named Kreature, but she's since commit suicide." "Hey" would have to do.

Kitten sat near me in the VIP room and asked if I was okay. I rolled my eyes toward her and saw "Creature" again. I immediately started bawling. "No," I managed. Kitten immediately asked what I took. Nothing, nothing. I haven't taken anything in my entire life. Then the "oh shit" hit me when I thought I could have been dosed. I panicked before I reasoned and just left the VIP room, running straight to Pyro. He had showed me the tab of acid on his tongue earlier, and my mind started racing: Oh god, acid is transferable through the skin. This is partially true, but it's not as if Pyro put the tab on my sweaty body. Occam's Razor came into play when I drew the conclusion that Pyro's LSD sweat must have sweat onto my body when we hugged and was absorbed into my skin. Reasonable minds recognize that this is, for the most part, impossible.

I cried and whimpered against Pyro, who immediately got me a Gatorade. We went outside to the concessions/dubstep area and I don't know how or when but Tyler, Sabrina, and Nathan were there with me. Pyro said a lot of things that I don't remember, but then said: "You're here with people who care about you, you're outside in the fresh air... listening to... bad Skrillex music." A terrible remix of the already-horrible Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites sputtered out of the speakers. It was then that I came to. Yes, I was outside with my good friends. And it was bad Skrillex music indeed.

The rest of the party went off without a hitch and I felt fine. That is, until I got thirsty and irritable at the end of the party. We went to Denny's and I was too exhausted to even eat. So hungry I couldn't muster the energy to eat. I tried to keep my chin off my plate, tempted to just mush my face into the pancakes and chew in different directions. We slept hard.

Returning to Saturday, I was in the shower. Lots of ravers were weaving in and out of our hotel room as we were packing up to leave, saying their goodbyes. BluesClues, a raver I hadn't seen since I was a wee lass in 2004, barged into the bathroom. I stuck my head out from behind the curtain for an irritated "bye", as I was obviously not comfortable with the breach in my privacy. Because he hadn't yet scored the top rank in Douchebaggery, BluesClues reached out, pulled the shower curtain away, and treated himself to a gaze at my body. "Oooh, nice," he smirked while I tried to cover myself with my hands. I was a bit too stunned to react within those seconds, so I'm sure he saw everything. I was mortified.

I got dressed in the clothes I'd brought in the bathroom and left to see BluesClues waiting for me. "Where's my hug? I don't know when I'll see you again." I grimaced. "I think you've already seen quite enough of me. I'm pretty offended that you pulled the shower curtain open on me." I called him out in front of everyone in the tiny, crowded hotel room. "Aww, c'mon, I'll make it up to you. I'll take you out to dinner."

"I have a thirty-one year old boyfriend." He smiled at this, over thirty himself.
"Well I guess it works out then!" Or something along those lines, insinuating that I was referencing him.
"No, you're thirty-two. I really do have a thirty-one year old boyfriend, and he can kick your fucking ass."
"So? It's not like that. Just as friends. If I were to take Flapjack out to dinner, does that mean I want him to suck my dick afterward?"
Nathan chimes in: "Actually a lot of people have tried that with me so I'm probably not the best example."
Yeah, fuck you BluesClues.

We leave Peter Piper's Pizza around 9pm after exhausting all of our tickets and tokens. I get back on campus around 6:30am. I sleep hard, well into Sunday afternoon, then nap again. I wake up after 5pm. Shit, I need food. I shower, make myself a little presentable, then head over to the market around 6. On the way there I see a man loitering in the darkness by some cars talking enthusiastically. Later I see he's by himself. I assume he's high or bored or waiting for someone or maybe on a Bluetooth I couldn't see or homeless or crazy or some mixture of those, but ultimately think nothing of it. Like a fucking idiot, I walk the same way home after getting my groceries.

The man immediately acknowledges me with his arms in the air, like he's spent all this time waiting for me and hasn't seen me in years. I am over fifty feet away. I continue on, still thinking nothing of it, until he stops me.
"Hey, I need a big favor from you."
"I'm sorry, I don't have any money." I lied. This is one of the few times I actually do have cash on me, but I'm not giving it to this bum.
"No, no, all I want is a hug," he says, throwing his arms around me with a lit cigarette in one hand. My mind goes into chaos, wary of a million things at once. Don't touch my breasts. Don't touch my butt. Don't grab my hair. Don't grab my groceries from my bag. Don't put the cigarette near me. Don't come any closer. Get me out of here. Let go of me. You're hugging too tight. I can't get out. Don't put something on me. Don't inject me. You idiot, no one really does that. Get your hands off my back.
He leans in and kisses me on the neck, where I have just enough time to pull away. He offers some stock phrase like "Have a good day," and I just mumble "Thanks," trying to walk as nonchalantly but quickly away as possible. I put my headphones in like it was no big deal and wipe the kiss off my neck. Through my headphones I hear him yell something angrily but I'm not sure what. I pause my music but calmly keep walking as if nothing happened. A safe enough distance away, I turn around and see he's still in the same place. He isn't following me. When he's no longer in sight, I take off my sweater to make sure nothing's on it and count my groceries.

I had a long deliberation with myself over reporting the incident. I cried and felt like I was overreacting. Maybe he was just being flirty. But I didn't want him to do that. I didn't want him to hug me and especially not kiss me. He was disgusting and filthy. Before I realized exactly what I was doing, I called the campus police and reported the event. An officer came straight to my dorm to interview me, revealing that this was indeed a case of sexual assault. I almost didn't press charges, but thought about how I wouldn't ever want to see that man again. I decided to press charges.

I really want to see Ray so I can feel clean and loved again. I feel like that kiss is still on my neck. It's irritating the shit out of me. The one time I didn't bring my x-acto knife or my Morris stick like I always, always do. The one time.

Fuck, and people wonder why I have sexual insecurity. This shit keeps fucking happening.
link7 ravers | raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [01 Nov 2011|05:00 pm]
Ἀρετή
Right now I'd rather be making art than studying for my midterm in a few hours, but my fingernails have been ground to the nubs from drawing with charcoal sticks, also worn down to nubs and dust. My midterm for Anatomy for the Artist is the front and back of a skeleton, half of each covered in muscles. In addition to the skeletons, we need to create our own creature by combining different elements of already existing creatures, more like a chimera than just slapping wings on something like a pegasus. It can also be anthropomorphic. I have no idea what I'm doing for that, and both the skeletons and the creature are due on Monday.

My midterm assignment for rendering is "Charlie's Room", a child's bedroom drawn according to technical rules of perspective. Everything from the edges of the objects to the cast shadows line up with the vanishing points. Our sketches need to be transferred onto coquille paper and then shaded appropriately to match the ambient lighting from the tall window in the room. Not hard work necessarily, but extremely tedious.

My midterm for Typography was a test, which I got 93% on. However, there is also a "typography treasure hunt" that will require lots of time and research, also due Monday. We need to identify different the 5 font types (slab, sans serif, old style, transitional, and modern) and various font faces in print, meaning I have to essentially compile a collage from newspaper and magazine clippings and throw it all into a neatly labeled binder. The precise measuring enforced by the teacher has helped me improve my craftsmanship and generally devote more time to my projects (well, for his class anyway). I am a very, very messy artist, and a lot of the time it's more crippling than expressive.

My art history midterm is tonight at 6pm. I'm not sure how I'll do. I keep wavering back and forth between studying ("studying") and becoming distracted. I meant to work on my projects much more over the weekend, but Ray came to visit and I was preoccupied trying to find some way to celebrate Halloween. He took me to see Paranormal Activity 3 which was so-so in comparison to the other films (the original remains my favorite). We couldn't find anything to do on Saturday night so we just stayed at my dorm. I did get my homework done that was due Monday, but I didn't work on any additional assignments. I needed graphite paper to transfer my rendering assignment and didn't have any, so I didn't work on it at all. Sunday we went to the Aquarium of the Pacific and walked around the lighthouse. It was really pleasant to get out and walk around, especially with the weather so nice. In four years of living on campus and going to school in Long Beach, I hadn't visited the aquarium because I had no one to go with. It was nice to finally see it. We pet all kinds of creatures: jellies, rays, sharks, and lorikeets. We caught the shark feeding right as we came out of the lorikeet forest, which was good timing on our part considering they're only fed once a day.

Anatomy class is supposed to go until 9:45pm but she let us out early to go celebrate Halloween. I stayed longer than most to work on my skeletons more, then finally went back to my dorm. I ate candy by myself in my room, played what I consider to be Halloween music (a bunch of villain songs), then went to bed. Happy fucking Halloween. AGAIN. And next year, Halloween will be on a Wednesday!> Even worse. I hope I'll at least have a costume next year. Halloween is my favorite Holiday and I haven't been able to celebrate it properly since I was a teenager. I counted maybe six people who had costumes on my entire campus, and only two of them were full costumes. The rest were just silly wigs, mishmashes of clothing, or painting whiskers on their faces and saying they were a cat. Fuck that.

Aside from my usual setbacks of anxiety from my self-professed Hamlet syndrome, life is pretty dandy. What I really, really, really want to focus on this winter break is learning to drive. It's been so long that my permit actually expired, meaning I have to go back to the DMV with all my stupid documents and re-take the written test. Yuck. I need more practice at the wheel before I try the driving test to get my license. My mom signed me and my brother up for classes, but we're supposed to do practice driving in between the lessons (which we never got around to doing, since we needed a licensed driver over 25 with us in the car). Ray offered to help me too, which will be really nice. I'm thinking of asking my friend Nick as well, since I know he's really kind and patient. It's 5PM now so I'd better get back to studying. Here's hoping I don't completely fuck up on this exam.
link1 raver| raise your glowsticks

oh my precious weary mind [23 Sep 2011|07:34 am]
Ἀρετή
I just dreamed of a delicate universe and the most amazing flavor of hot chocolate. The packet for the instructions said, "Add hot water and stir occasionally. Keep in mind that a second before making this it was still a joke. If we hadn't made it we wouldn't be where we are today, we'd still be laughing about this joke in the back of our cars."

It was some sort of crumbly hot cocoa with bits of dark chocolate similar to one of those "dirt and worms" cupcakes with the crumbled cookies and gummy worms, except I'm not sure what the crumbles were made of. Instead of gummy worms, it had those dinosaurs from the dinosaur eggs oatmeal that you pour hot water over and then they melt, "hatching" the egg. Except these were straight up dinosaurs so they'd melt right into the chocolate, making it easy to stir (and swallow). I don't think the bits of cookie or whatever would go down well though, especially because I don't know what they were. Come to think of it, they looked more like bits of chocolate cake. They were very dark, almost black.

I dreamed the whole thing. I dreamed of choosing the right mug and washing it out in the sink. It was one of my tan-colored mugs from home, but there was some weird tin interior I'd never seen before. When I put my ear up against it and listened, it played some kind of minimal tribal techno. And it was rainy outside. The whole sidewalk was wet and covered by the rainfall, and students outside my dorm window were laughing on the way to class.

That would have been such an energizer for today, both the rain and the hot cocoa. It's still foggy right now but it's only 7am, so who knows if it'll stay...

Please, just let me get through today.
link2 ravers | raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [20 Sep 2011|11:39 am]
Ἀρετή
Spending too long on the Internet, on sites like tumblr, turns me into a very aggravated person. I can't deal with this incredibly self-absorbed youth that's being cultivated. A bit contradictory for me to say, considering I'm posting in an online journal all about me, me, me, but this is a journal. What happens in this journal stays on this journal for the most part, unlike tumblr where it can spread like a fungus or wildfire with a mere click of the "reblog" button.

I recently purchased a book called Epic Win for Anonymous: How 4chan's Army Conquered the Web. I'm looking forward to reading it in hopes that it has succinctly documented 4chan's history and its influence on pop culture. It's exciting to live in an era in which tangible information is published in the real world regarding entirely virtual, nebulous phenomena that happens online. It's almost like getting to the bottom of a big mystery, or a "tip of the iceberg" kind of deal, where you can trace the aftermath of things like "Don't Mess with Football" or Jessie Slaughter or even slang like win, fail, epic, and facepalm— things that have happened in the 'real' world— to the messy void of the Internet. An entire underground network is hidden beneath its few moles on the surface.

I feel I have "moved on" from Internet culture. I felt I was always a bit of a follower anyway. I don't play video games (and don't really enjoy most video games on the market right now) but I know all the jokes, since I have friends that do. 4chan was an interesting experiment to be part of, but I feel its ship of experimenting has sailed since being exploited by the public. This goes for all the messageboards that emulate 4chan, or even the ones that preceded it like SomethingAwful, YTMND, and, dare I say it, Ebaumsworld. The concept of 4chan and this underground Internet culture is no longer a secret. It'll take something quite extreme to top the depravity of 4chan. I have exhausted my time and interest on those boards.

World of Warcraft feels like my high school experience: amazing while it lasted, but I have to move on. It practically was my high school experience, since I spent most of those years hanging out in Azeroth instead of Earth. I very much enjoyed roleplaying and exploring the worlds and the music tugs at my heartstrings. I still have people begging me to come back, attempting to tantalize me with the features of the new expansion, but it will never be the WoW I knew and loved from vanilla up to Wrath of the Lich King. I don't want a freeway running through Azshara. To me, it's a bit like visiting your old elementary school and seeing the new jungle gym equipment they've installed: you wish you had it when you were there, but you're not about to run up and play on it (especially because it's much too small).

I spent most of my time online because I felt like no one here wanted me. There was no one here, outside my family, that wanted to spend time with me or that I could connect with. When I was 13, it was stuff like "nobody listens to gabber" (which I never would have found without the Internet anyway). Hell, even as young as ten years old I had my own e-mail and website I created myself, where I put up crappy MSPaint drawings and fan art for webcomics. It was almost unheard of that I had a scanner, considering a lot of people didn't have them back then. I would go on Geocities websites about anime I liked, which blew my mind when it came to Pokémon. I remember scrolling down Pojo and looking at the new 150 Pokémon to be added in Gold and Silver, and thumbing my way around Japanese by comparing the Romanji to the characters on the trading card. Girafarig (Kirinriki) was the card that gave me my epiphany, since the Katakana was a palindrome (キリンリキ). I thought the Internet was amazing because I could learn so much outside of my general schooling, and at the same time I could connect to and talk with people without them seeing what I look like or judging me based on my age. It just seemed that nobody at home shared my interests and so I had to look elsewhere. Were I to confine my networking just to my college it would still be the same way, but I've luckily made many friends within the rave scene. They are all sober and they all love me for who I am, and I couldn't ask for more than that.

I guess being out and about helped me realize what I was missing. I love Azeroth, but this world is amazing too. Just because someone doesn't share my taste in music doesn't mean I should dismiss them as someone that could be my friend. The Internet is still enthralling and I use it daily, but I'm not so reliant on it for a social life anymore, which feels very liberating.

In other news, my classes are awesome this semester aside from rendering, in which I'm already a little behind. It's a required course for my major, so as long as I pass I don't really care about the grade. I know I'll learn a lot in it though. Anatomy for the Artist is an amazing course, and Typography is actually interesting because the teacher is so passionate about type. My art history course has a fun, entertaining, and well-spoken teacher, and the material's taught well enough that I don't think I'll have trouble on the exams. I've got my work cut out for me, I just have to survive.

My boyfriend Ray and I are getting along very well. I spent most of the summer practically living with him and I've gone home to see him every weekend since school started. I can't get enough of him it seems like. Because he has more life experience than I do he's able to protect and guide me without being condescending, and at the same time I don't feel lesser to him or belittled. It's just great to know I don't have to be a mother to my boyfriends anymore; instead of needing me, he wants me. I can entrust the room I leave him in to remain in one piece if I'm gone for a couple hours. He's employed full time (to my dad, lol) and doesn't "wash" dishes by rubbing them with the bottom of his shirt. Part of the reason why I felt comfortable talking to him was that he established that he was done with women, and I considered myself outside his threshold of interest anyway. So when he took me under his wing as his raver apprentice, promising to drag me to every hardcore event possible, I felt like he was doing it for the music and the scene, not to get into my pants. And he was doing it for the music, but the more time we spent together the harder it was for either of us to pull apart. I realized how much I liked him and it was a huge relief to know he felt the same way. He could no longer force himself to stay single and asked me to be his girlfriend. Neither of us thought we'd be in a relationship, especially with each other, but since the first day we hung out we liked each other and here we are. Of course, sharing an interest in gabber definitely helped.

We balance each other well, as he's more of a practical realist and debater whereas I see myself as being much more of a spiritual humanitarian and mediator. To drag MBTI into it, he tested ENTX (J/P cusp), and I am INFJ. I'm moderately intuitive and introverted, heavily feeling, and only slightly judging. It's just a fucking online quiz though, so I don't really care what the results are either way. I know Ray just as Ray, not as a bunch of stupid letters supposedly determining his personality. It's the same as horoscopes: sure he's got some Leo traits, but everyone does. I find I'm very much a Pisces, but that's probably because it's what I want to believe. Although there was a girl in my painting class who talked to me for a little bit and then asked, "You're a Pisces, aren't you?" Then she asked what sign my moon was in and I told her I had no idea (I know now that my moon is in Gemini). I find astrology interesting. I find most human attempts toward spiritual attunement interesting, and Ray very much enjoys social experiments. However, I see humans as kindred spirits connected to something greater like an energy, and in his experiments he sees human beings as specimens. He humbles and reminds me that I am but an animal, and in turn I try to remind him that he's anything but.

What can I say? I'm following the path of the muse, and with creativity comes irrationality...
link raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [29 Jul 2011|10:21 am]
Ἀρετή
"I see where you're coming from, but I just don't understand it," he said. "You don't want pleasure?"

"No," I said, holding my knees and facing the wall. "I don't need it. It hurts."

"How can pleasure be painful?" He held me from behind.

"Because it just feels wrong," I said, not fully understanding my own false logic. "There are so many better, nicer ways to get pleasure. I could be doing something better with my time. It's animalistic and it's... it just feels stupid."

"Rita, let's face it, we're animals. You can't really get around that."

"It just feels like I should be doing something more worthwhile, something productive. I should be putting my energy into something better than that."

"Do you think you're being productive right now, sitting here and crying instead?" He rubbed my leg and rested his head on my shoulder, his facial hair prickling me.

"No," I managed.

"It's just frustrating for me. It's been like this every night. Things seem to be going so well and then you end up in tears. Can you imagine what it'd be like to push you away every time you wanted to give me pleasure? It feels like you don't trust me. It's like I can't help you or make you feel good. I just want to make you happy. I'm not going to hurt you or take advantage of you."

"I know," I sniffed. "That's a new concept for me. You have to realize that these last two months have been chipping away a mindset that's been ingrained in me my whole life and repeatedly enforced every time it was challenged. Every time I thought I could bring my walls down—thought it was safe—I was abused again. Every time, the scab's been ripped off. Just as I thought I was ready to give my trust, I was humiliated and made fun of and belittled and hurt."

"You act like I haven't been hurt. I've been through a lot of pain too. I didn't even want to be in a relationship because I'm still afraid of women. I kept fighting it and fighting it but I wanted to be around you more and more and I liked you more and more. It's something about you. After your freakout I had to realize what I was doing. And at the party on Saturday they kept asking me, 'so are you guys official?' and without really thinking I said yes. Then I said, 'Yeah, we're officially dating.' Then when you wanted to put your sweater away, I told Roger you were my lady. I said, 'I have to take my lady to the car really quick.' You're my lady. You're my girlfriend, and I'm your boyfriend, and I'd never do anything to hurt you in any way, shape, or form. I just want to be able to return that pleasure to you."

"I've just been so accustomed to not wanting it. Any time it was 'my turn' I just felt better passing, since I knew nothing would come of it. They'd get bored and stop, or tell me I was being too loud, or complain about my [pubic] hair, or laugh because of the noises my body made. I was with a guy that I thought could have been right for me, and we did the whole 'just the tip' thing, and he put on a condom and barely got inside before it hurt and I freaked out and asked him to stop. Then when I sat up, it had been stretched out and air got inside so I made a noise, and he laughed at me. I was really embarrassed because it'd never happened before. He still makes fun of me about it and laughs about it even though he's now married with a child."

"You can't be ashamed of what your body does. It's out of your control. And you've got to remember that you were with a bunch of boys before; you're with a man now, someone who has experience. I'm not going to make fun of you, I'm not going to hurt you, and I'll stop if you ask me to. I want you to be able to just relax and let go, no matter what happens, and to get to know yourself so that if you're willing to choose me as your first, it can be something where you're comfortable and controlled and happy to take with you and remember for the rest of your life. I want to have that experience with you. I'm completely into you. I had this mental block of staying single and away from all women until I met you."

"You opened up a part of me too. I'm just happy that you're willing to be patient, since it's a part of me that's been sealed off for so long it's covered in cobwebs."

"I think I'm falling for you, Rita."

Yet I look into the piercing violet eyes of albino model Stephen Thompson under the guise of my muse and have trouble removing our relationship status from Facebook.
link3 ravers | raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [22 Jun 2011|02:54 am]
Ἀρετή
I hate being on the computer and typing all the time. I want to be with people. I want to hear their voices from their lips straight to my ears, no digital middleman. I'd like to go hiking, to get back to nature, and to go camping again. Maybe the forest this time.

I hope going to June Lake again this year will do me some good. The problem is that I'll be alone. Again. Lots of trails to go hiking on but no one to go with. Lots of lakes to fish in, though it'll just be me and my dad. Maybe my brother. I'm all right with that.
I don't want to abandon art, but I keep feeling like it isn't for me. I like the tactile process of art more than the subject or end result of creating something. I just like making lines on paper, watching ink bleed into the pulp, or dragging a paintbrush across a canvas, studying the way it leaves the bristles and enters the contours of the canvas' texture. I like watching the paint come together. I like mixing it, adding liquin and experimenting with brush thicknesses and other painting implements. But then I need to use it, and it is here that I am lost.

It is beyond frustrating. I stare at white papers, white walls, blank slates, clean spaces, and I want to dirty and color it all, to fill every inch of it with... something. It's a compulsion I cannot fight and have never tried to. The problem arises in that I have no idea what to fill it all with. There's nothing of value, expression, strength, message, beauty, or skill that I can think to fill it with. I feel that compulsion so deeply but no ideas to feed it, so I bow my head and pass on the opportunity to someone much more skilled and inventive than I.

There's no point in me creating art. My art doesn't say anything. It doesn't even profess a keen knowledge of anatomy or composition or perspective... all of the technicalities of art have been lost to me. They're sloppy and haphazard. I just don't "get" it. I feel like my spatial knowledge is dwindling because I've spent the last five years in front of a two dimensional screen, touching no one, feeling no one, speaking to no one except those who call on me. School consists of walking in straight lines, head down, on my way to class where I sit and stare and stare and stare and stare and try to translate this foreign dimension into one of disgusting familiarity. I'm sick of it. I'm told that I should make art about these feelings, these whiny, worthless feelings about being lonely and disconnected from the planet and the pulse of life that everyone seems to draw from. I don't want to sit at home making a piece about how I'm disconnected from people. I want to connect to people.

Maybe I'm just not scared enough anymore to make art. I used to draw because I had no friends and no one liked me, so I sat in the tree wells and imagined a world where things were better. I was a little bit better at drawing than my peers and they praised me for it, so I did what I thought people liked me for. I got pleasure from drawing because it was validated and because I liked making things that people liked. Not only did I find something I liked doing, but people liked me for doing it. Now all I focus on every night is that I'm another tick closer to death and that I can't spend my limited time on the planet fucking wishing things were better or making up imaginary places where they're better. I have to actually, actively, make things better. Actively make friends and go places and see things that already exist here and now. The only times I get an inkling to draw are when I'm bored to tears or confronted with a blank space. Nothing in my environment screams "Draw me!" anymore. Well, except for you know who.

Of course this all ties in to how I can't just sit around wishing I were a better artist: I have to actively do so. My core problem remains, however, that even if I sharpen these skills to a daunting point, what do I do with them? I guess just commissions. You know, commissions would really fucking help because it'd at least be a push for something, knowing that someone was willing to pay for or even just wanted something I made. Ugh, it's all this stupid shit about how I have to put myself out there and all that, yet it just feels so pointless. Half of the reason why I still pursue this anymore is because I feel like I'm meant to do it. That is, it is both my calling and my obligation. I have absolutely nothing else going for me.

I don't know where I'm going with this; what else is new? I don't know where I'm going at all any more.
link20 ravers | raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [27 May 2011|03:03 pm]
Ἀρετή
Please, take a moment to write what your[sic] have gotten out of this course for yourself. What insights did you have? What skills did you develop? What will you take away with you for the future?

Despite my life-long enthrallment with the world of animation, by forces both within and beyond my control I have realized my dreams and fascination have been driven to a soul-shattering dead end.
Perhaps I'm just not skilled or advanced enough in my artistic career, which I fear is indeed the case. Animation to me is a top tier skill, much like calculus in mathematics, that requires the lower rungs of knowledge in order to be successful. Anatomy, persepctive, composition, emotion, and the way objects move in space are all required knowledge in animating. I believe it is, aptly, back to the drawing board for me.
I got a C in animation. I am so fucking pissed off that this is the third course I've gotten a fucking C in. Abnormal Psychology was understandable since it was a very hard course and I rarely studied. I think the bullshit about my final paper needing print resources (as opposed to digital-only psychiatric journals via JStor) was a bit unfair, but I accepted it since it's just a GE. But I got a C in my horrible Foundation Drawing course too, to my chagrin. And now I have a C in my animation course.

Why didn't I request transcripts before this semester was over? I knew I wouldn't do well in animation and now I'm stuck with a shitty looking set of grades before I apply to Hamburg. I couldn't apply at the end of the year because I ran out of time and now I may not even get to go. I'm really pissed off. Maybe it's for the best, who knows. I'm still fucking pissed off. I feel like I'm paying all this money just to be tarnished and to look like shit and do perform like shit and to be cut off from people and things I care about for further shit. Really eloquent there, eh?

But I am thankful for my illustration teacher, David Hadlock. At first I thought he hated me, but it was me hating myself. I was worried about whether or not I would perform to his standards. I surprisingly got an A in his class even though I felt my work was lackluster (though I was proud of the Beauty and the Beast project). Things will be a lot easier without friendship obligations this semester. I won't have to worry about Ryan calling me up and when I get to eat or not. I can just go if I feel like it or get food if I feel like it and not have to live according to his flaky schedule. He deleted me from Facebook and refused contact with me after I "ditched" him one night. He had flaked on eating dinner when the dining hall was open so we agreed to get food later, around 1am. I got a pretty important call on Skype from Jamie, so that was dominating importance. I told Ryan I was going to go back to my room to get a drink and ended up losing track of time, and the next morning I saw that Ryan had posted on my Facebook around 4am:


Like, really dude? I'm sorry, I was comforting one of my best friends about a fucking mysterious lump in his testes, I think that's a little more crucial than sitting and watching a Simpsons or Colbert Report rerun with you. Christ. It's not like I was driving him somewhere and physically ditched him out in the fucking desert; I just went back to my dorm 300 feet away and he didn't even bother to call. So whatever. I could have slipped and fallen down the stairs unconscious and wake up to him linking me videos of cats being dismembered on Facebook. What a faggot. I don't even know why I bothered to censor his last name.

Also, despite reserving a locker for next semester and over the summer, I found out that the lockers are being emptied June 10th. Though I got all my crucial stuff like my newsprint and drawing pads out, I still have a few paintings and over $100 of art supplies still inside. I got out all of my oil paints but there's still a huge stack of animation paper, my glass palette, a big can of OMS, and other miscellaneous things I'd rather not have thrown away.

I think I'm all ranted out now, but I'm still pretty fucking mad.
link1 raver| raise your glowsticks

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