Bryan, darling, you are very much a part of me. I cannot remove your influence or the part you took in shaping me- we grew together during the time we spent together- and I would never want to. I see you reflected in every aspect of my personality, of my lifestyle, of my decisions; if my life were a pond I feel you'd be one of the few trees sitting beside and floating above, forever lending your visage to the surface of the water. So many things that I prefer and adore and cannot live without were things I found only by your introduction, and in turn I simply cannot live without you. You and I were once lovers. I mean this in a way that surpasses any single dimension or type of relationship: we were once lovers, we are now dear friends, colleagues, peers; we have become each other's family. I am no more capable of lessening your importance in my life than a tree is capable of changing it's grain or removing one of its rings. I couldn't be happier with this; despite any nativity shenanigans you decide to orchestrate, I will always respect and admire your integrity, dignity, and honesty. I will forever hold you in my memories and in my mind. You are so very dear to my heart, darling, and regardless of where life may take us, what lovers we take on, what changes befall us, or what distance lies between us, dear to my heart you shall stay. 

TO DO:

-find Karen Dalton's "It's so hard to tell who's going to love you the best" album.

-check out Mara Carlyle

Beautifully, refreshingly, freely, fabulously drunk. Listening to some of Nikka Costa’s better stuff, with Nicole Atkins and Meiko sprinkled pleasantly in between.

Currently finished with Ben, starting- for reasons unbeknownst to myself- something with an old Whirlpool coworker, still currently infatuated with Matt, it seems. That damn boy calls me out of the blue, sending my heart a flutter, sending me straight back to July, the bastard. I swear he collects the women he’s refused as friends.

All of these things, however, are a harmless, amusing blur once I’ve gotten a couple in me. I’m drowning myself in good whiskey and good music, floating back and forth to the kitchen for refills, utterly content. I’m only moderately annoyed with Matt. I’m only slightly confused with others. Everything is so benign in this state. Everything.

I don’t think I should settle. My chances of ending up happy would skyrocket if I did, but I don’t think I will. I’ll resign myself to something passionate; someone like Matt.  I’ll follow passion and be miserable and frustrated, but I’ll be passionate all the same. I want someone without whom I cannot breathe, without whom I cannot sleep, without whom I cannot be happy, whose very presence robs me of my independence and ability to live without them. I want to drink them in the way I do my whiskey, and I want to feel as distant and content and scandalously edified as a result. I want to fret over him the way most girls fret over their men; I want to give a shit for once. I want to be swept off my feet, I want to be changed by his very existence, I want to change drastically enough to be surprised and resent him for it.

I’ll have that or nothing, I’ve decided. I’ll putz about in the meantime, sure, but ultimately, if a man doesn’t make me feel the way I just described then I’ll carry on by myself. 

I walked through the lobby of the paltry hotel, weaving through furniture decades past its prime and tasteless holiday décor hung sloppily and thoughtlessly, looking left to right for sign of the ladies’ restroom. It was remarkable, I noted as my eyes glided over the sorry sight, what a couple of drinks does to the look of the place.

I trotted down a winding hallway to the bathroom, pleasantly surprised by the warmth of the facilities. I was feeling merry; I had just completed my last day of my internship for Whirlpool and tonight was my last night in St Joseph. I was celebrating with an unusually boisterous and intoxicated happy hour. I was half way through my third drink of the evening at this point in time, and though not drunk I was definitely good and tipsy.

I don’t know why I behave in a way so unfitting for the person I wish to be. I don’t know why I enable a perception of myself that solicits such crushing, demeaning judgment. I don’t want to be seen this way; I don’t want to be this way. I wouldn’t be able to tell you exactly what I wish to be, though I have those lofty, general descriptors everyone would claim to strive towards: honest, hardworking, respectable. What I want specifically still manages to elude me. There have been situations that have occurred, much to my dismay, more and more often as of late, that alert me to exactly the things I do not wish to be.

I’ve discovered that I crave attention. Perhaps I don’t crave it, per say, but I enjoy it too much to ever turn it down, no matter how inappropriate, or unrespectable, or harmful to individuals I care about and respect. I behave without integrity because I am simply too apathetic to proactively dissuade attention I should consider myself above.

I can play this game. I’m articulate and persuasive enough to rationalize and justify anything to myself. I can dress this up as some sort of ironically poetic disorder, some sort of holy apathy instilled by my elite cynicism or disconnection or intellect.

There is nothing elite about the way I act during these times. If anything, it is a trait shared amongst many types of women I hate so fervently: deep down, something base and disgusting about me loves the flattery.   

“Mom, really.”

“What?” She asked, acting oblivious.

“That wasn’t necessary at all. You could have gotten that girl in trouble. You were trying to get that girl in trouble.”

“You never say ‘I don’t know’. That’s not good service. She wasn’t being helpful at all. And then she told me to walk across the store to customer service, and my feet hurt,” My mum replied as she continued to browse the shelves. I rolled my eyes. She had just been incredibly rude to a grocery store employee who couldn’t tell us where to find bean curd tofu. The employee worked in the deli.

“I know it’s not good service. You don’t have to be rude about it.” My mum turned to me and opened her mouth to retort.

“Just not very Christ-like, you know. I can’t see Jesus doing that,” I continued. God, I love it. As an atheist with no god to answer to, I have carte blanche. Holier-than-thou Mormons, however, do not. Poor gal. Rightfully, she hates it when I play this card.

She paused.

“Jesus had sandals,” she said irritably. “I’m wearing uncomfortable shoes.”

I should most certainly be sleeping. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in only god knows how long, and today has certainly been a confusing, tiring day. I feel a need to write, however, and sort things out.

Matt is a studio mate of mine that I’ve had a crush on for sometime now. He’s one of the most talented students in the classroom- thanks to the fact that his hobbies and passions all revolve around concept art and other productive, beneficial interests related to our field- and his desk sits diagonally across from mine. I suppose we’ve been aware of each other’s existence since fall of last year when we entered the program as sophomores, but it wasn’t until the quarter before coop that I noticed him for the first time and developed a very silly, typical crush.

Perhaps it’s his utter dorkiness– his love of comic books, the batman shirts, the endless quotation of random movies, his sharp but good-natured wit– or his dark hair, hazel eyes and the ideal way his lean frame stands at six feet even. His sense of humor is simultaneously childish and profoundly observant, and no matter the day or my mood, always able to make me laugh.

We rarely talked prior to this quarter- we were in different studios prior to coop and then off in different cities for our jobs- but we’ve come to know each other a bit now that we’re in the same studio and sit next to one another. At times our conversations were flirtatious and at times completely platonic, depending on the day and our current situation, and now that I look back upon the last month I realize how indecisive and fickle his behavior has been. Though I’ve decided that I don’t want to date anyone exclusively or engage in any type of long distance relationship until I’ve finished school, my absolute adoration of him and desire to casually spend time with him hasn’t waned. He, on the other hand, flits back and forth from instigating blatantly flirtatious interaction to mindlessly asking me advice about other girls he considers pursuing. Instead of taking a cautionary step back and distancing myself from the uncertain situation, I did what I do best and dove straight into the mess.

I think it was a week or a week and a half into the quarter when I really talked to him for the first time. We had our first assignment due in our Industrial Design studio- an image board and task analysis of the powertool we had chosen to redesign- and I was adding final touches to my work late in studio when he walked in to hang up what he had prepared for the following day. My productivity, as always, took a nose-dive the moment he showed up. We chatted for a moment or two as he hung up his boards and I pretended to continue working. After he had pinned his work to the wall and shuffled various things about his desk he asked me an unexpected question:

“So what’s going on between you and Jason? Is there something there?” He said, somehow managing to prevent the question from sounding as awkward as it was. I was a bit startled to hear this; Jason and I are good friends, and though many individuals have assumed over the course of the past year that we are more than just friends, we’re not. Normally the assumption is unspoken, however, and I was surprised by his boldly admitted curiosity.

“No, we’re not.” I said, probably while grinning bashfully and stupidly.

“Is there no interest, or …” He probed, encouraging an explanation.

“There is a plethora of reasons. I’ve tried the older guy scenario and think I’ll look for someone closer to my own age next time around.”

He asked a couple more questions, all extremely straightforward yet delivered comfortably and confidently. I discovered many things about him that surprised me during that conversation: in regards to relationships he is extremely conservative and inexperienced, and somewhat charming in his desire for a woman “who can take care of herself but will allow herself to be taken care of”. We talked about past relationships; he admitted to being somewhat smitten with a girl in our studio, I mentioned Ben. He declared that he prefers serious relationships and alluded to the fact that he currently doesn’t want to be too physical with a woman, and I rather bluntly told him that though I’m seeing a couple of people I have no intention of really caring for someone until I’ve finished school and have the time to invest. Things were going along swimmingly; it appeared that we were totally and undeniably incompatible.

A studio romance, you see, is tragedy waiting to happen. It makes an office romance look like an idealistic fairytale. There is no way imaginable for such a situation to do anything other than deteriorate into a bitter, awkward mess; there are less than 20 students in our studio, which is probably about 700 square feet and organized in an open layout. There is no place to hide and no way to distance oneself from any one classmate. One is fated to spend, at the very least, 50 hours a week with one’s peers for five years. All of them. On top of this there are also social complications of dating a classmate. If things don’t work out, or more realistically speaking, when things don’t work out, one is forced to spend years worrying about whether or not the second party is discussing personal topics with friends and coworkers. The design world, being as miniscule as it is, forgets nothing. Memories of embarrassing situations do not fade upon graduation; at this time your peers become fellow employees of the industry. All in all, dating a fellow student is a bad, bad idea.

Oh, and by the way: due to co-op, we spend every other three months in different cities. That, too, may complicate things a wee bit.

For some inexplicable, astounding reason this didn’t bother me in the slightest. I knew fully well what a vexing mess such a relationship would inevitably become, and I knew it was careless of me to jeopardize my ability to comfortably focus in class, yet I didn’t care. I didn’t care one bit. It wasn’t a passionate obsession that lead me to forsake better judgment; I just felt like going along and seeing what came of it. At that moment in time I was perfectly content being his friend but for some reason I didn’t have the discipline to rule out anything more. Seeing our vastly different ideals and interests, however, it seemed that things were to stay platonic, and I was happy with this.

We talked a while in studio while putzing about. I was working on an assignment that wasn’t due for ages, and it appeared he had come to studio just to hang his work up. I began packing up my things and offered him a ride home. He accepted, and as we drove to his place he asked if I would like to see an episode of Batman Begins he had talked about in studio. Though our opinions about relationships and significant others vary greatly, we agree on batman. I hadn’t seen Batman Begins; I couldn’t imagine anything living up to the glory years of batman TAS, but he insisted I approach the series with an open mind and give it a try. It was late by this time- probably close to midnight- and we had critique at nine the next morning, yet of course what little pragmatism I had went out the window the moment he offered.

While up in his room the tone changed dramatically. Gone was discussion of other romantic endeavors and logical relationships; the conversation grew progressively more flirtatious, he ran a finger down my calf at times and asked if going to see the Dark Knight would be a date. I was somewhat surprised by it all, though I’m sure I instigated just as much as he did. I told him “sure” when he asked about the movie (yes, yes I know. I'm a slick casanova, aren't I). When 2:30 rolled around we decided to call it a night and I drove back to my apartment.

Though I had been absolutely smitten with this boy for ages, I wasn’t ecstatic at this, the first sign of romantic interest. The entire Matt ordeal has been a peculiar one in that I’ve felt distanced from it even as it happened. I watched these scenes unfold with the same concern with which one would watch a movie; yes, you have expectations and hopes for what will happen, but regardless of the story’s events you still get up and walk away after the two hours have run its course.

Perhaps this is why I didn’t think through the logic of the situation or get up in arms over anything that was happening; I sat in my theater chair, popcorn in hand, gasping in horror when Matt spoke of how much he liked Erin and “aaawing” when he insinuated that he wanted to go on a date. There was no jumping up and down upon my return to the apartment, no giddy girlish squeals, nothing of the sort. Those who know me well would contest that I’m simply not prone to such behavior, but I have been known to act frivolously when in private. I simply went home and went to bed.

The weeks that followed showed little of the flirtation that had been so apparent that evening. There were hints, here and there, that were direct and undeniable, but they were sprinkled between spouts of behavior that would suggest otherwise. We went to go see the movie with a group of fifteen other people and only spent time alone together when chance found the two of us in studio late at night.

At this moment in time I was in the middle of training for PF Changs, which required an intense time investment and a lot of studying. Between school, work, friends and family I had little time to fret about what had happened to the attraction that had previously surfaced. A couple of weeks passed, and I came to the conclusion that little would ever happen between Matt and I. My reaction, as I mentioned before, was muffled and understated; for some strange reason none of this struck me as tragic, just mildly unfortunate.

Early last week I made plans to go see the Dark Knight again with a small handful of students that had been unable to see it the week before. I extended the invitation to everyone in studio, including Matt. We originally planned to go see it Tuesday, then changed it to Thursday, then considered seeing it sometime over the weekend due to scheduling conflicts. As our plans shuffled about and became increasingly uncertain our group’s number dwindled until Jon, Matt and I were the only ones still planning to attend. Later in the week at studio I attempted to nail down a time only to be hushed by Matt, who once again wanted us to go see it alone. I obliged, and plans were made for Sunday afternoon.

Even then, alone at the levee’s Barnes and Noble and the movie theater, things were primarily friendly. He went off to go look at comic books while I bought the coffee I desperately needed- I had stayed out late at a party the night before- and we each paid for our movie tickets separately. I ate my bagel as quietly as possible, sipped my coffee, and halfway through the bank scene at the beginning of the movie he put his arm around my shoulder. He smelled nice. I was happy.

Afterwards he invited me yet again up to his room to see an episode we had discussed during the course of the afternoon. The flirtation heightened, the conversation grew more suggestive, tickling ensued. The situation was playful, charming and certain. We went for food, joked around, he walked me to my car, and there, on the west bank of Vine’s wide boulevard, swimming in the benign breeze of a soft summer day, we kissed.

Even as I think the words I feel how maudlin this sounds. These sentiments are so predictable and expected, especially from a woman. I hate the cliche, I hate it, but it's true: I have never melted as I melted then.

The precursory fumbling was momentary. It was short enough to be charming instead of awkward, and the kiss that followed was slow, comfortable, and lingering though not prolonged. As I pulled away from him and started for my car door I told him:

“Yes, this will definitely need talking about”. I was still confused; his flip-flopping had left me skeptical. I was skeptical, but I was content. I wasn’t worried, I wasn’t unsure; I was just floating along watching the show, happy with the blissful turn of events. Upon my return to my apartment, a grin spread to my lips as I fell to my bed. That was a spectacular first kiss.

My reminiscing was cut short by the schoolwork I had neglected all weekend. Not only did I have a considerable amount of work I needed to complete for school, but I also had a PF Chang’s bar exam scheduled for Tuesday afternoon. It may sound like a simple restaurant test, but it was brutal; for example, one of the questions asked was “name the five different types of cognac we carry, the corresponding prices, and a flavor profile of each”. Imagine having to memorize such information for every liquor, spirit, cocktail and wine sold at PF Changs. I had to know three bottles of wine for every type of wine sold (and we’re not just talking the basics. I had to know this information for obscure wines such as pinot gris, petit sirah, and Monostrell). I had to know how the cocktails were made, the ingredients and the exact brand of liquor in them, and the garnish (PF Chang’s offers over 40 cocktails). I hadn’t even begun to study for it yet, and it was already Sunday evening. I decided to focus on the school work that was due Monday and study for the exam Monday afternoon. I stayed up until three trying to perfect the 3D model of my floor edger, and woke up four hours later to get ready for class.

I was tired, but I was elated. I had wasted an entire weekend that should have been spent in the dreary confines of studio, but that kiss dissolved any worry or doubt. Not only were my worries of work and class shoved away and neglected, but any apprehension I probably should have felt regarding this situation with Matt was nonexistent. I surprised myself with the light step and silly grin with which I walked to school the following morning.

Nothing unusual happened during studio the next morning; no silly grins flashed back and forth between Matt and I, no awkward blushing or stuttering or fumbling could be seen in either of us. Things were cheerfully flirtatious as they had been before, but we focused on the work we needed to focus on instead of one another. It wasn’t until later that evening, when once again we were alone in studio together, that anything romantic happened.

Much to my surprise, he kissed me in the middle of studio, the door flung wide open to the hallway’s several passersby. I kissed him back and pulled him to a more discreet corner of the room. He kissed with a fervor I would have never expected from a chaste, idealistic family man. His five-o-clock shadow cut into my skin and I tasted sunscreen on his neck.

For some reason I feel no desire to relive this scene as I do the kiss of the previous day; it was too heavy too quickly and sensual in a way I hadn’t expected. The making out was hot and flawless but misplaced and cut short by the embarrassing, awkward arrival of a classmate.

I was pressed against the wall behind a column and didn’t see her walk into the room, but I heard her book bag hit her desk as Matt reflexively let go and walked towards his desk. It was impossible to play dumb or stupidly pretend as if we had been inspecting the grain of the column she saw us against. We had, plain and simple, been caught making out in studio.

We walked the 15-foot walk of shame back to our desks as we laughed in embarrassment. Emily, the unfortunate girl who had walked in on us, turned and left the room as soon as she possibly could. Matt and I, blushing madly and laughing scurried out of the room to escape the suffocating embarrassment.

We didn’t walk next to one another; I walked briskly a couple of paces in front of him down the hallway, through the building and to the lawn. I couldn’t stop blushing and laughed nervously as I walked. We sat down in the grass and fell into a final fit of laughter. I buried my head in my hands, my face hot to the touch and still bright red. We glanced at each other and continued to laugh.

I can only vaguely remember that conversation. Too much time has passed to do justice with dialogue, though I can remember what was said. Matt asked me whether or not I thought Emily would tell anyone, and I replied that there wasn’t a chance in hell that she wouldn’t. That’s simply not how women are built, I told him. It’s physically impossible for us to keep such juicy gossip a secret. We then discussed, for the first time, what in the hell we were doing. We agreed to something casual- we both had feelings for individuals we met during coop- and then mulled over various dating technicalities. I had very little to say; technically speaking, the whole thing was a horrible, horrible idea. Nothing could change our unfavorable schedule or proximity. I remember noting how much I disliked having that unpleasant conversation with him; kissing was much more fun.

“Just be reckless for once”, I said, grinning. “Worry about these thing as they come”.

We returned to our studio, and much to my surprise he kissed me in the hallway. Bizarrely, the normally busy hallway was completely empty and the kiss went unnoticed. Though my satisfaction with our situation wasn’t as carefree and giddy as it had been the evening before, I was still happy and not worried in the slightest. I simply adored him.

I stayed late and woke early to work. I worked at home- I was dreading the inevitable reaction from my classmates- and arrived at studio an hour before class. I glanced over at the table at which Emily sat, along with her two good friends Emily and Erin. It was impossible to tell by listening to those damned girls whether or not Emily had said anything. They were always giggling.

Matt arrived half and hour later. After setting his bag down he walked to my desk and told me quietly that he needed to speak with me. I obliged and followed him out of the classroom. We walked much as we had the evening before: not side by side as one walks during a comfortable, leisurely conversation, but rather he walked a pace or two ahead of me, looking back as he talked.

“I was up thinking about this all last night and this morning, and I wanted to just get to the point before I choked out.”

Oh dear, I thought to myself. How on earth had I not seen this coming? I was completely oblivious to this possibility right up until this moment. Dear god, I’m an idiot. I silently chastised myself as I followed him blindly, dumbly.

We turned the corner and stopped at a ledge overlooking the grand staircase. He hopped up and sat on the ledge, which was waist-high, but I remained standing, rested my elbows on the ledge and looked up at him.

“I can’t.” He said.

Of course, I thought. I had known exactly what was happening the moment he had asked to speak with me, and other than that initial shock my reaction was entirely muted. I was relaxed in my mysterious theater chair, after all, distant and barely concerned. I didn’t at all like what was happening and I felt enormously apprehensive, but I was helpless. Class started in 15 minutes and I had an unbelievable amount of schoolwork to do. I couldn’t let anything slow me down or set me even farther back. Little or no emotion seeped through my expression, which was silent and pensive, or at least I believe none did. He may have seen or sensed something of which I was entirely unaware.

“It’s not that I don’t like you, it’s not that I’m not attracted to you, it’s just that I’m not okay with not being 100% in a relationship, even if you are.”

I employed a surprisingly successful poker face to carry me through the rest of the conversation. I wasn’t hiding any sort of heartbreak from him; we hadn’t spent enough time together to be emotionally invested and I’m much to proud to cry or even admit to such a thing in face of rejection. It was still miserable to hear these words come from a man I was completely infatuated with. What I hated the most about the entire ordeal was the public venue. Though he was speaking quietly and no one could possibly figure out what was happening, I hated the wretched words he was uttering and felt as if everyone in the world could hear him.

“You know there are other people I have feelings for, one of which is back at Hasbro…”

Another of which happens to be in our own fucking studio, I thought to myself bitterly. So help me God, if he macks on Erin in front of me I’ll castrate him while he sleeps….

“…And it’s just not fair to you,” He finished.

“Those are all things I would have liked to know a couple of days ago, Matt,” I responded.

“I know, and I’m sorry. Hey, man.” He looked up and addressed a fellow daap student who was walking towards us. It was Travis, who one of my roommates and apparently a friend of Matt’s. I jumped at the opportunity to escape and asked him some bullshit question about the utilities bill while we began walking back towards class. He answered, I thanked him, and he left Matt and I to walk down the ID corridor alone, side-by-side, awkward and uncomfortable. Whatever had transpired between Matt and I evaporated the instant we walked into studio, and things went back to what they had been before. We chatted meaninglessly during class and joked about the same old things during studio, and never again acknowledged that we had ever been anything more than classmates.

I have always dismissed advice given by strangers at the gym as pompous attempts to hit on me, but after an 85-year-old man interrupted my workout today to tell me that I was using the machine completely incorrectly I realized that I must be completely retarded at using the gym. Huh.

I prefer to think that all those body builders were just trying to mack on me.

All is well. I have 25 sketches due on Wednesday that I should probably start tonight. I think I’ll go do that. I went to Taco Bell today, by the way, and it was the best meal I’ve had in ages. Seriously.

Jesus Christ. No love, no love at all for the tattoo idea thus far. God. You’d think that one might find support for such an idea from the creative counter-culture that is design, but alas, I have yet to find any. Today I was told by a man with a mohawk and a batman tee that I would taint myself with a large tattoo. What the hell.

I am beginning to have my doubts. I can’t decide which would be worse: looking back at age 65 and regretting that I never had the balls to get a tattoo that I always wanted, or looking down at age 65 and seeing a stretched, out-of-place blight that covers a third of my torso. Hmmmm… decisions, decisions. I simply love the idea of a pretty, conservatively dressed young professional who beneath the banana republic cardigan and darling heels has Russian literature tattooed all over her body. Surely there is someone out there who also finds that amusing and awesome. Speak up, you illusive tattoo-condoning individuals! Where are you?

Today was successful. At 11:00 I went to brunch with Dennis, my dear friend and previous regional manager at Chart House, at Honey, an awesome indy restaurant over in Northside. I like Dennis immensely; he’s intelligent and pleasant while unapologetically goofy at times. We live in separate worlds, he and I; I spend 70 hours a week in the dork bizarro bubble that is DAAP, whereas his time is spent in a world of restaurants, wine tasting and actually having money. He turns 30 next week and invited me to a celebratory soiree:

D: “What are you doing on the 18th?

Me: “ Oh my god, BATMAN!”

D: “Come again?”

Me: “Dude, The Dark Knight comes out on the 18th, and I made plans to go see it EIGHT months ago. We even planned a batman marathon in preparation. BATMAN. That is what I’m doing on the 18th.”

D: “…..”

Me: “Does that make me even more of a dork?”

D: “That makes you even more awesome”.

I agreed to stop by after the film and help him celebrate his being old, and I look forward to meeting his friends and family. I also look forward to Batman, obviously. I’m going with my studio friend Matt, the aforementioned tattoo-hater who is currently sporting a mohawk. He’s an even bigger batman fan than I am, so his presence, hopefully, will make me feel somewhat normal. I cannot contain my excitement for the movie; the trailers look downright spectacular. Though I was initially suspicious of Heath Ledger’s Joker, my worries were banished the moment I saw his demented makeup and that menacing Chelsea smile. It’s going to be creepy. It’s going to be fantastic.

On a side note, I’ve been going to the gym daily since school started, and it’s starting to show. While on coop I spent almost every weekend in Chicago with Ben, during which time we went out to eat for every meal. I, er, returned to Cincinnati significantly plumper than I had left it, and was unhappy with the state of affairs. I dragged my chubby little ass to the gym and have worked out an hour a day since then, and will soon be the walking ball of hotness I aspire to be. Things are looking up.

*Disclaimer: all images unceremoniously stolen from flickr. Don't sue me, y'all.

Just a couple examples of typographic tattoos, some more successful than others. The first is a good display of how small the type can be.

Tattoos done by Nigel Palmer. His work is absolutely extraordinary.

Dear God, I feel completely brain-dead. The weekend that held such promise has been pissed away by my sloth and adoration of my couch. Though things began somewhat social- I went out Thursday evening with my father’s friends and attempted a grill-out Friday afternoon- I have, for the past two days, spent the entire time in my pajamas indoors. For example, I am currently wearing my pajamas. At 8:05 on a Saturday evening.

To my defense, however, the quarter is bound to get unbearably busy any moment now, so I suppose if there were ever a time to slip into a Seinfeld/beer-induced coma, this is it. I’ve enjoyed myself, I suppose, with the exception of that horrible dizzy feeling one gets after sitting and staring at screens too long.

Hey, I mowed the lawn today. I saw the sun. Don’t hate.

Next week I begin training for a server position at P.F Chang’s. The job is the most ideal I could hope for and probably the most lucrative available, but is quite a commitment for the three months that I’ll be in Cincinnati. Training will take a couple of weeks, at the very least, and I need money now. I needed money last week. Things are getting dicey. Though I realize I’ve spoken of monetary woes many a time on this blog before, my bills have always been minimal. So minimal they hardly classify as bills. Now, however, I have rent to pay, as well as medical bills for a Jameson-induced ordeal that occurred while I was on co-op. It’s actually an enormously amusing story that I will tell in depth sometime later, provided everyone promises to suspend their judgment, well, indefinitely.

Classes are off to an abnormally slow start. We had been told that summer classes were noticeably more lax than conventional terms, and indeed the rumors are true. We’re designing a power tool, and I’m very excited with my idea. After watching my mum attempt to use floor edgers on multiple occasions, I’ve decided it’s finally time that they were improved. I have many ideas for the redesign, some reasonable and some completely out there, so I’m not too worried about the project at this moment in time. My floor edger will be awesome.

I think I want a tattoo. At least I have begun the process of contemplating one. I adore typographic tattoos and am considering getting one of the Dostoevsky passage I posted earlier this year. Both my father and Cindy think it’s a horrible idea, which is not too surprising, what with them being parents and all. The gears in my little head have begun to turn, and the thought of a huge passage on the side of my torso intrigues me.

This post is scatter-brained and sloppily written, but I must settle for whatever absent-minded dross I am able to force out of myself. I haven’t written in quite a while. Eloquence will follow with time.

It’s been a while since I was last here, in front of my once-beloved blank screen and blinking cursor. I haven’t written in ages, and I’m sad for this; as I look back over my blog this afternoon I realize how valuable this journal is to me. I’m sad that I don’t have the past two years catalogued and documented as well as the previous two. Oh well. I’ve been busy.

So much has changed. So much. Rereading my posts from 2004 and 2005 is a surreal activity; I can’t believe my situation was once so radically different from what it is now, and I can’t believe that I was so radically different from what I am today. The changes, though, are for the best, I believe, and I am happy.

Damn, I was a pretentious motherfucker. Dear God. I’ve chilled out a ton. Nowadays I rejoice in things that are blue-collared rather than blue blooded; I enjoy a cheap beer on the patio on a hot summer’s day and affordable clothing, and have adopted an attitude that is inclusive rather than exclusive. I think abandoning the pursuit of “poetic” writing for poetry’s sake will leave me with a lot less bullshit and a lot more substance.

I am back in school after my three-month internship at whirlpool, living in a dumpy yet charming apartment next to school with two architecture students. I’m seeing Ben, an industrial designer who also works at whirlpool and lives in Chicago, and I’ll see him in two weeks time at an Al Green concert in Chi town (I am SO excited. Al Green is, well, there are no adjectives. He’s Al Green. Enough said). I have yet to find a job and I am DEAD broke, but not too worried about it.

Thus is the status quo. Summer in Cincinnati is lazy, exquisite and full of subtle pleasures.

I have so many things to say that I don’t know how to go about saying them. I’ve never felt so miserable in my life, and this misery manifests itself in a sluggishness that further encourages my depression. I don’t know what to think, I don’t know what to do, and every time I sit down to write about my confusion I just feel an unyielding desire to sleep. I am impatient and frustrated with everyone in my life, with the exception of Bryan and my mother. I don’t want to say goodbye to Bryan, I don’t want to unpack my things, I don’t want to go to Michigan. I want nothing other than to cry myself to a dreamless, thoughtless sleep. Even though sleep is my only solace, I am terrified I will reach for his arm while lost in my dormancy, wishing to be held, just to wake and find that I am alone on a couch and not in my bed with him.

I didn’t know I would miss him this much.

Rachael (interior monologue): “And I’ll just pop out that gradient there a bit, just to highlight the edge of the side window...”

Computer: “You want to use a WHAT size brush after running photoshop and illustrator simultaneously for nine hours straight? Cute, real cute.”

Rachael: “There we go...”

Computer: “What did I tell you? What do I ever tell you? Why don’t you ever listen? We play this game all the time, I have to crash on you, and then all of a sudden I’m the bad guy. Just, just chill. Surf the web for a while, why don’t you? Read some gossip, god, FACEBOOK if you have to, just give the massive aps a break.”

Rachael: “And that overlay is looking a bit much, I’ll just knock it down a bit...”

Computer: “YOU CRAZY BITCH! I will crash on yo’ ass so fast you won’t know what hit you OR your cartoonish, sophomoric rendering!”

Rachael: “This rendering is looking awesome. I am a badass.”

Computer: “...”

Rachael: “Maybe just a bit more shadow...”

Computer: *bipzewwww…*

Rachael: “Fuck! NO!! God no! You piece of shit! FUCK!!! ...

Computer: ...

Rachael: “... This must be karmic retribution for picking all of the raspberries out of the fruit salad Cindy made this afternoon.”

Computer: “GOOD GOD YOU’RE DUMB!”

Big news: after a quarter of waiting and fretting, my day has come. I can finally sigh, wipe the perspiration from my forehead and neglect my schoolwork with an ounce of validation. I got my first co-op.

Come March 31 I will be an official employee of Whirlpool’s platform studio.

I was offered my co-op later in the quarter than some. The pressure grew even more unbearable with every student that found a job; I was beginning to doubt my talent and my ability. The apprehension caused many people to jump at the first job they were offered. Luckily enough, I was offered two of the best co-ops at the same time: Whirlpool and New Balance. Not only did I score an awesome co-op, but I managed to land two of the best available to sophomores. The humility gained during the past couple of months melted away in an instant. I am, once again, the unbearably arrogant yet awesome person you all knew and loved previously, now complete with my first design job.

The decision between Whirlpool and New Balance was a tough one, even though I would love to do appliances and have no interest in shoes; Whirlpool pays for housing in Benton Harbor, Michigan, whereas I would be left to my own devices when working for New Balance in Boston, New Balance, however, is located in Boston as opposed to Benton Harbor, Michigan. Some could say that New Balance holds more prestige than Whirlpool, but Whirlpool offers the type of design work I’m looking for. The scales were even until I remembered that Whirlpool throws a free Kitchen Aid stand mixer into the deal. To Whirlpool I go. I am thrilled, and currently feeling like quite the badass.

An appliance-designing badass, that is.

More later when I’m not quite as tired.

"I hope I didn't bring up a sensitive subject when I mentioned Barb earlier today."

"What?" My father asked me, somewhat confused. The girlfriend of Cindy's 20 year old son, Austin, had delivered a baby the previous Sunday. Family relations are messy at this point, and by messy I mean that they put episodes of Jerry Springer to shame. All the same, a baby had been delivered, Cindy had become a grandmother -I suppose we can suspend that statement until the paternity tests have been taken care of- I felt it appropriate to inquire after the health of the parents and child.

"Today, when I mentioned Barb's delivery. She looked downright pissed, to be honest."

"Oh the baby! No, not at all. She is absolutely twitterpated with that child, through and through. Absolutely beautiful baby girl."

"Have you seen the baby?"

"No!" He barked. "I don't trust them."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing like a baby to make blubbering idiots out of otherwise sane people," he explained.

So, it seems, whether we are ready or need more time, whether we are eager for change or reluctant to get off the couch and face what is happening, life marches on. The monotonous landscape of February instills in me a deep, powerful listlessness that I have found difficult to overcome. Despite the overwhelming amount of schoolwork I have yet to get a handle of, I have never slept so much in my life, nor have I felt as tired. Normally I would panic at the thought of my being behind in school, and yet...I don’t care... and would rather nap than think about it.

A dangerous mentality, to say the least.

Bryan and I, as I’m sure my nonexistent readers were able to gather from my latest post, are breaking up. This Sunday I will drive him to the airport and send him off to Salt Lake to interview with several architecture firms. I have never been one to wear my emotions on my sleeve; I survive such experiences by slowly dealing with my sentiments when I have the time to be alone and address them exclusively. I have no choice but to concentrate on school, a co-op and finding a place to live- well, attempt to concentrate, that is; as mentioned earlier, I’ve had trouble focusing as of late- and it must seem to those around me that I am unaffected by this break up. Regardless of how things appear, I am completely, entirely, and desolately broken-hearted, and will be for some time.

It helps that the reasons for our split are mostly technical, I suppose. There is no lack of love or trust; there is no betrayal, no inability to compromise or lack of desire. There is a young woman and a man eighteen years her senior who need different things. Bryan and I have always been best friends as well as lovers, and I predict that after we have had time to mend our wounds we will continue to be good friends. I will always love him- the things I love about him haven’t changed, after all- and I hope that he finds happiness, fulfillment, and contentment. I know he will.

As for myself, I hope that I am able to find a co-op, an apartment, and a way to fix my currently dysfunctional computer. DAAP’s ID program is highly regarded because of the co-op program, which allows students to spend a year and a half in different cities working in the field. Thank GOD for the program, because the actual classes can be something of a joke from time to time. The co-op experience is invaluable and thrilling; the jobs pay well and some are located in wonderful places: New York, San Francisco, Chicago, Seattle, London, and so on and so forth. The trick, of course, is finding a job, which I have yet to do. I have submitted my portfolio, which is badass in every sense of the word, and I am waiting to hear back from employers. The wait is absolutely tortuous, and is resulting in my becoming a more humble person by the day. Not the worst thing in the world, I suppose.

My computer is functioning normally, with the exception of one very important modeling program that refuses to run. The problem, my papa speculates, is Windows (as always! I can’t believe I had to taint my perfect mac with that shitty OS). I am thus uninstalling and reinstalling windows today. Fuck you, winXP, fuck you.

*obnoxiously thrusts two middle fingers up at computer screen*

Later on today I’m attending the 20th century modern art exhibition with a couple of studio mates, after which we will return to one of their apartments to drink and make hot wings. Tomorrow I have to go check out renting a room in an apartment close to campus. I would have two male architecture students as roommates, which is not ideal, but you really can’t beat $209+utilities and a two second walk to DAAP.

Life marches on, as I said before, and I’m just going to have to trail behind and try to catch up. I hope warm weather will invigorate and inspire me. I guess I’ll just cross my fingers and wait and see.

Holy Shit, Y'all!

I've officially had this blog for four years. FOUR YEARS. That's precisely one-fifth of my existence thus far. Four years.

Huh.

It feels like sacrilege to call you darling. I feel very differently from the way I felt last night, but that sentiment remains the same. I forget you completely between these spurts of regret and longing, when we’re sitting side by side on the couch, miles away from one another, watching the thing that was once our love whine and die. I hate myself for allowing these past months to taint my porcelain-delicate memories of you and what we’ve shared for the past three years.

The only thing, the only thing I want in this world is you, not as you are now- cold, hard, resentful- but as you were before, as we were before, when we ran to the world bravely, unafraid, so deeply, fervently, madly in love that my body aches to think about it.

Like clockwork I wake at eight in the morning, dry mouthed but not hung over. I sit on a stranger’s couch, a copy of a copy of a copy, a reiteration so distant that I have begun to fade and lose all distinction; once a possessor of an object so impassioned, so lucid that it vividly cuts into my mind like a scalpel into unblemished skin, now a reason for passersby to snicker with shrewd assumption: a stained shirt, smeared eye liner, half a bottle of rum.

Here, on a small couch in a vaguely familiar apartment, is where I grieve for you. I am alone; I will always be alone when I allow myself to feel this way. I am sorry I cannot do this in front of you. I mourn for you the way a mother mourns a son, a sister a brother, a fan a hero. We can never go back, I’m afraid, to the luscious delirium of yesteryears, the intoxicated fantasy of new love that we managed to suspend for three years. We can never love each other again without the stinging memory of this January’s cruelty and the things we have done. Already our love begins to slip out of focus and become a mirage-like haze down the road. The girls chat up their scandal at hand while I, deaf to their prattle, long for the original other. Masochistically my mind will float to you in the years to come; a soft breeze will blow on my face some sunny afternoon, and I will remember singing loudly to David Bowie while on our way down to North Carolina in a rented car, Bavarian bagels at servattii in the chill of early morning, moon pies brought home to me after a bad day, notes left on a studio desk, a man who cared, a man who loved, a man with the capacity to comfort, protect, hurt and torture me,
a man gone far, far and forever away.