All the pics are over on MBD – but here’s one. I LOVE the tattoo.
Archive for the ‘it's all about me’ Category
new tattoo YAY
Saturday, October 8th, 2011
stories
Tuesday, September 27th, 2011
Today I’m going to my local tattoo shop for a consultation on my new tattoo.
I have a few already, and they’re all representative of either my personal state in one way or another. I sort of intended to explain them, but I’m not sure I actually have pictures of all of them at my fingertips while I sit in class right now.
My new one, though, I picked solely because I think it’s pretty.
I can’t tell if this is a slippery slope. If pretty is my new criteria, I could be covered by next year.
dieting while feminist
Monday, September 19th, 2011
I’m giving up sugar for a week. (It’s being documented on Mangled Baby Duck (by me) if you’re interested.)
The primary reason I’m giving up sugar is because all I’ve developed some crappy eating habits over the summer. Everything was vacation, so why pay attention to how many chips I was putting down?
Also, though?
I’m hoping to lose a couple of pounds.
Body acceptance (healthy at every size ftw) is sort hard to consolidate with dieting. Am I not applying the same acceptance to myself as I do to others, etc?
Here’s the thing, though.
My Joe’s Jeans don’t fit.
People, I have ONE PAIR of really nice jeans. Every other pair I own came from Gap, on sale. (That’s not to say that Gap jeans aren’t nice – they are. They’re just not nice nice.) My Joe’s Jeans make me look and feel awesome. And they don’t stretch. And since this summer, my waist and the jeans haven’t been as friendly as they once were. The jeans still button, but I can only wear them while standing up.
So – I’m trying to be healthier, yes. Tortilla chips and beer are really only probably part of a well balanced diet, and it’s good for me to make an effort to move away from mass consumption of those items. Also, though? I’m trying to get my damn jeans to fit.
Is it not feminist to care about my expensive clothes? I actually don’t know. I know that I feel sort of bad, but that it is important to me. I like having nice (and stylish) things, and I can’t afford to get a new pair right now. (There are probably other things in my closet that will benefit from a slight pound reduction too).
I feel … inconsistent.
Perhaps it’s because I haven’t had any sugar in two days and my capacity for intellectual thought seems to be directly linked to my carbohydrate intake.
Or perhaps it’s because I’m not practicing what I preach.
I genuinely don’t know.
tears in Starbucks
Friday, September 16th, 2011
I’m not equating Starbucks with heaven, here.
Yesterday, I had a short day on campus (done at 11 due to a cancellation by my grader, who I am starting to think is never actually on campus yay!). I dragged my ass to the gym when I got back to Louisville, and then immediately headed over to Starbucks to meet the lovely Laura.
I beat her there.
I ordered some hot tea.
I found a table, set down my tea, set down my laptop, took off my jacket, and got ready to sit down. In the process of sitting down, I put my hand on the corner of the table, which, it turns out?, was not totally stable.
The tea that had been handed to me 25 seconds earlier spilled all over my forearm, and then my pants and school bag, and then the floor.
People immediately started handing me napkins and a very nice woman went up to the counter to ask for a towel. The barista told her they’d send someone out with a mop in a second.
I didn’t have more napkins, so I just stood there waiting – and I realized that my arm was burnt.
Like, burnt burnt.
I started to cry.
There was literally nothing I could do about it. It hurt like a motherfucker, my bag was wet, my pants were wet, and even my laptop had a few drops on it.
Everyone was looking at me, and I was crying. Like, tears streaming down my face crying, not like big whopping gasps of air snotty nose crying.
The thing is, it actually doesn’t sound that terrible. I mean, the burnt arm sucks. The barista gave me some burn cream as soon as she saw it, and I rinsed it under cold water and then slathered that on. Now it really only looks like a bad sunburn. The rest, though, what? It’s not like I know those people. It was like three Starbucks away from my home Starbucks (yes, a ‘Starbucks’ is a valid unit of measure). I won’t see any of them again, and they could all see that I was burnt, and probably they weren’t judging me anyway because people don’t really think that much about other people.
But still.
The rest of the day, I cried off and on. I said something sweet to Laura and got teary. Laura said something sweet to me and I got teary. Crockett ate something that I wanted to eat and I cried. I took a shower and it was hot and I cried. I scraped my arm with my jacket and I cried. We went to eat pizza with my mom and we got a table I didn’t like and I welled up.
I’m not actually sure what was going on. I don’t know if I felt dumb and that made me sensitive, or if my arm made me sensitive, or what.
All I know is that immediately following my tears in Starbucks, the whole rest of my day blew.
Starbucks is definitely not heaven.