Sunday, November 24, 2013

Dear Diary, I Think I Might Not Be Cool

I'm sitting here, restless but exhausted. I have serious winter-time Colorado lizard skin, but I half heartedly want to do some pole stuff in "just a few minutes, I mean it" so I keep resisting my desperate need to whip the cap off my moisturizer, pour it all over myself, and sigh in deep satisfaction like it was some kind of performance art. I need to write words for NaNoWriMo as I have been behind since day one but I keep clicking the "play next episode" button on Netflix. I'm just three episodes from finishing the 6th season of How I Met Your Mother, after all. I only started re-watching it at the beginning of the month and I am making great progress. On top of all that, I am thinking about how I need to write a blog entry for the week, do some pole instructor training homework, and be a better person at life, but I've got nothing to say, I'm lazy, and I'm lazy.


A couple of weeks ago Tinted Wall told me he read my blog about our climbing trip.

"I try not to read your blog." He said after he mentioned it.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because you write it like a diary."

Oh honey. If I wrote this like I write in my diary, no one would be friends with me.

I also don't need to write most of this stuff in my diary. Diaries are places for working shit out. This is a place to learn how to deal with that shit. But since I am lacking inspiration to write something actually clever[ish] right now, let's experiment for a moment, shall we?

Back to the not reading my blog thing.

People get so weird about reading this thing. They will say things to me like, "I was reading your blog. I hope that is ok." Or "I'm sorry if this is weird, but I read your blog."

Uh. Guys. I don't put it on the internet because I don't want people to read it. I'm not standing over all these words and hissing at everyone who walks by "BACK OFF. THESE ARE MY DEEPEST INNERMOST FEELINGS. DON'T TOUCH THEM. DON'T EVEN LOOK AT THEM."

On the other hand….

Earlier this week, the personal organizer and fellow poler my boss hired [that makes me look really irresponsible and lazy in comparison] said to me while she was being productive and I was sitting there watching, "It's so funny, I read your blog, so I already know what is going on in your life!"

I was really hungover-- like super hungover-- at this point in the morning afternoon. So instead of laughing I just smiled a bit.

Because the truth is…Well, I write stuff because I don't know how to express myself in words out loud to people. At the same time, I still hold back a lot on here. Because being vulnerable to strangers is hard. In the little Meri-universe I live in, basically everyone is a stranger.

Do you ever have those moments where you look in the mirror after taking a really good, life-changing poop, and suddenly realize that everyone, nay, everything else in the world, only sees you in that way, just like how you look in the mirror at that exact moment? All they know about your little universe is what you choose to tell them. They will never know anything else, they'll never know the inside of your head and you will never know anything but. It is like you are trapped in there and can't let yourself out. I have that experience basically every day and it freaks me out equally each time. And yes, I know what you are thinking. I do have a life changing poop basically every day.

The real point you should focus on here though is that I feel incredibly separate and alone from absolutely everything around me, all the time. It is like I am constantly at an arms distance from all the people around me.

It's all about me, people. I'll tell you the secret of life changing poops another time.

I know this whole alienation thing is generally my fault. My boss recently described my main facial expression as "that inscrutable face that would be murder to play poker against" (except that I don't know how to play poker, I am lacking in balls, and don't like taking risks, but don't tell her that in case we ever play poker sometime). I've had countless teachers make fun of me for never changing emotions. People sometimes walk up to me randomly and ask if everything is ok, why am I so upset, and do I want to talk? My roommates used to confess that they were afraid of me because they never knew what was going on in my head since my face never changed. They couldn't tell if I was angry at them or normal or what.

I was only angry like, 50% of the time. Geez guys.

I don't know how to change this not being able to communicate thing besides posting stuff on this blog. Why can't people just learn how to read my mind already?

Those mirror moments I have really freak me out also because I've been having horrible acne lately and feeling very self conscious and insecure about it. Every time I look at myself, I think about how I'm 21 years old, why is my face morphing into this horrible pubescent monster? I JUST WANT THAT PART OF MY LIFE TO BE GONE FOREVER.

I feel lame for only being able to express things on a blog, though. Speaking of insecurity.

I try to do things like force myself to send a dirty text every now and then to Tinted Wall, you know, baby steps towards saying normal people things like "I like you," but then I chicken out every time. Or how I wrote that blog about how I was going to make solid friendships this year. I haven't seen any of my old friends in over a month, I haven't made many new ones, and every social event I go to I'm only like, half into it and feel the need to leave early. Becaaaaaaause. Of my insecurity. I keep having these panic attacks that I am not cool enough.

Remember how I said I was hungover the other day?

I went to this bar with Tinted Wall. He literally called it "Bar Bar," and it was just like the french elephant except less french and elephant-like and with more alcohol and Lord of the Rings pinball. I got super-de-duper! drunk. It was a Sunday night, because I am just so responsible that I go out drinking on a Sunday night, so the bar was empty and the 'spirits' of the few people there were high with how not crowded and annoying bars tend to be. People just kept handing me shots, the bartender kept refilling my beer glass while my back was turned.  I don't know. I guess I knocked over a few drinks and pissed off the bartender, who seemed pretty friendly to me, but then again I don't remember a lot of things that night. Like all these pictures and this one video I took that I found on my phone literally five days later.

It started off with taking pictures of the bathroom. This was apparently really cool and I absolutely had to take this picture. There were many others with me making stupids faces that I didn't really feel like sharing. I wonder why. 
This is not the first time I have taken pictures of bar bathrooms in Denver, oddly enough. 
So of course I needed to take two. 

This is my favorite. It really solidifies my memories of the evening. 

I posted this one the exact way I took it, like a true artist.

Note several things about this video. First that I don't remember any of this actually happening. Second that I laugh like a douche and it embarrasses me to watch/listen to this. Third that those people/strangers ordering drinks ordered some for me too, so me being totally drunk-lame was all THEIR fault. Just sayin'. 

Tinted Wall said we were about to get beaten up on the walk home, which is why we had to leave.
That may have been an exaggeration.
I may have fallen over while standing still on the sidewalk.
There are certain things in life we can just never be sure of.

Except that I woke up with leaves in my hair so I am pretty sure I did. All I really remember is that once he told me that the bartender was mad at us, at me, I started melting on the inside.

I'm not cool. 

And I can't do crazy handstands with Marlo Fisken. 

And I have shitty acne that won't go away. 

Probably because I can't stop touching it. 

Where is my life going?

It may have been the drunkenness speaking, but it isn't like I don't really feel that way 100% of the time.

It's funny because I always used to wonder how people who were regularly having sex with the same person could ever feel upset about life. I mean, guys, you are having sex. On a regular basis and everything. That is the dream! What is there to worry about beyond that? I guess when you are sexless your other concerns in life kind of become overshadowed. It is kind of like when you are starving on a desert island. You aren't really thinking "Oh my god, do people think I am lame because I can't handle my drunken-like starvation stupor? Will they still want to hang out with me? Am I still invited to the beach party???" You are usually thinking "HOLY SHIT I NEED TO EAT SOON OR I WILL DIE LIKE ACTUALLY DIE OH MY GOD I AM SO HUNGRY." Except in first world countries it is with sex. I guess.

I really can't decide which is worse.

Nina, my pole-business-organizer-hero, told me at a party the other week, "You have a way of writing about your life [on your blog] that makes it seem much more boring than it really is."

And I always thought I over-sensationalized things. Hm.

I tried really hard to do that here today. Make things seem more boring than they really are, I mean. My melodrama is about a million times more intense in my head and even though this is an "experimental diary" blog, I'm still insecure and want you to think I'm cool.

...This is a vicious circle, isn't it?

Dammit I bet if this acne would finally go away I would feel about 1000% better about myself right now. 

Monday, November 18, 2013

The 7 Men of Art School

As I am beginning to wrap up my seventh semester of school at my third art school yet, I am also beginning to reflect back on some of the experiences I have had during the journey so far, which may or may not be coming to an end soon (but it probably is). Namely, I have been thinking about the kinds of people I have met.

Actually... this is a lie. I first wrote the draft for this post about a year and a half ago. It was originally about just the men of my California art school, but I just now decided to revisit and revise it to include all men of art school. But only in lieu of life changes!

I don't mean for any of this to sound prejudiced, sexist, or stereotyped. I can honestly say I have met multiple people like all of these folks during my time in art school and while there are always people who don't fit into the mold, you can probably expect most of your male classmates in art school to fit into one of these categories. All pictorial representations are based on conglomerates of people I have encountered.

So, without any further ado, I present to you...

 The 7 Men of Art School 

#1 Mr. Gauged Ears

Particularly popular in the Colorado region, these types populate much of the illustration and fine arts programs. I personally am not sure why this look is so popular among artists. Maybe it helps them hear their art better? Are they good for holding paintbrushes? Maybe they like to take their earrings out and use their limp, noodle-y cartilage to make abstract art. Who knows. They typically also sport a multitude of tattoos to go along with their really fucked up ears. These make them look kind of sexy until you notice one of their tattoos is an LA Lakers logo inked straight onto the front of their forearm. Yea buddy, you won't regret that one when they lose the playoffs next season. 

If this hasn't happened yet, I dibs this idea. 

#2 Mr. Going Back to School

This one catches me by surprise every time. By his calm stature and out of fashion North Face sweatshirt, you can't tell if he is one of your fathers co-workers, your classmate, or both. He likes to make references to his wife and/or children, which frankly just bums you out. Because people who go to art school are obviously people who don't like to think about the realities of the future. No one wants to be reminded that one day they'll most likely have to give up art for a practical job in order to provide for their family. Lame. Anyway, Mr. Going Back to School sits out on all the "fun" extracurriculars most of the time (if you can call it that) and he is either really unskilled at art and you have no idea what he is doing here OR he is the best artist you've ever seen and you hate him. 

The reason this picture is so bad is because photoshop crashed right after I originally drew it and then I yelled at a Jewish Rabbi on my screen and collapsed in a heap for 20 minutes before I came back to redraw it. 
#3 Mr. Teacher
I'd be lying if I said that the male teachers didn't make up a significant portion of the male interaction you get in art school. I would also be lying if I said I never had a wild, hot crush on one of my teachers. Because let me tell you, some of them are really cute. Oh boy...My english comp teacher freshman year...Woo! He was quite the looker. You can bet I blushed when he introduced me as his "star student" his girlfriend. Ugh. Figures.

Hey, there aren't a lot of options in art school, ok? He was only like, 30. Geez.

The rest are super old (aka 40s and up) and kind of curmudgeon-y, but almost all of them have really good advice and offer decent guidance through the messed up art school world. Some of my favorite teachers have been men! Can you believe it? 

#4 Mr. Tiny Asian Guy

Really, I am not being racist here. There is just something about art school man. Canada had a staggering Asian population and there were tiny asian guys aplenty there, at least three or four in my regular class group of 25. I even dated one of them. Fortunately I don't have any other rash generalizations about tiny asian guy other than the fact that, I dunno, he is asian? Sometimes he is actually from Asia and sometimes he was born in North America. I sat next to one in a history class once and he talked to himself in a really stilted-accent the whole time and drove me crazy. That is about all I have to say about that because if I try to go on any further I will just come off looking really racist. I promise though, if you go to art school, you will meet at least a few.

#5 Mr. Socially Awkward

Oh boy do these run rampant in animation programs everywhere! Sometimes they are really sweet, kind-hearted people that you could kill you with niceness and/or total boringness. And sometimes they are just really, really weird and repel other humans like hairdryers repel cats. Mr. Socially Awkward is always my most and least favorite at the same time. He is so fascinating and awkward. Bless these folk. They are what makes art school so colorful and so uncomfortable. I'd also rope in most of the geeks into this category. I don't think being a geek gets its own section in art school, because it is basically a requirement to be a geek in art school. 

#6 Mr. Gay

You cannot forget our favorite art student. Sometimes Mr. Gay is so flamingly gay that he could not shriek it any louder in your ears, probably because he already is. We get it, you like Prada and dicks, ok? Sometimes Mr. Gay is a little more subtle and has you constantly wondering "is he?" and whether or not you are crushing on the wood. (Barking up the wrong tree...get it!??) Again, there aren't a lot of generalizations here and sure, there are gay people in other colleges of the world, but I am just saying. Go to art school, meet gay boys. It happens. 

#7 Mr. Guy

I am making this category for all the rest. Sometimes, there are people you meet that just don't have any weird little niche on the social spectrum. They are just...guys. Nice guys, usually. So. darn. Nice. He is quiet and polite and he never does or says anything ridiculous or rude or mildly entertaining. He is like a phenomenon of normal-ness. This is the kind of guy you know you should marry and buy a golden retriever and have two lovely children with and name them Megan and Trevor. But you don't actually want to because it would be about as exciting as marrying drywall. If drywall had a job and brought in no more than 60 grand a year.

So, if you were ever wondering--as you surely were-- "Meri, how come you never met and/or dated a really cool, hot artist guys in college? Aren't creative people like, totally sexy?"

Well, first of all, yes, in theory, they are. Second, art college is made up of at least 66% women, oftentimes more. Most of my classes would have three or four men tops. Third, this list is why. Creative people are weird and more importantly, mentally and emotionally unavailable, as a lot of them are pretty much married to their art already. Unless you are ready to jump into their weird little art world where who the fuck knows what goes on, possibly freaky sex stuff with cartoon characters, they are not going to pay you much attention. I can't say that I am the person who likes to go into weird little art worlds. They're kind of scary. I still have some really traumatizing memories in regards to King Candy of Wreck It Ralph from some close brushes with weird little art worlds. Let's not talk about it.

And not to mention the fact that at least 80% of the guys I've met in art school are also unavailable in the traditional sense of the word as well. I guess most women just beat me to the punch?


They can have all the King Candy three-ways they want. I'll pass.

Saturday, November 9, 2013

Rebel with a F**king Stupid Cause

I have kind of turned the whole badass thing on its head these days. I am actually becoming a stereotypical, rebellious badass.

This is what I look like lately, if you haven't seen me in awhile:

First off, I left my school awhile back, as you probably know. And with the way things have been and all the stress dreams I have where it is declared it is time for me to go back to California and I subsequently burst into tears, it looks like I may not be going back. I don't even know if I'm going to stay in art school anymore. I'm looking into transferring to community college, that is how well things are going right now. I once was considering Ivy League schools and here I am not even really wanting to enroll in a community college, I dislike school so much.

My future is so bright.

I went from the typical, mainstream straight shot through education I always thought was my destiny to  wondering what the fuck is going on constantly. By choice. A weird, panic-driven choice.

What a rebel.

Secondly, I'd like to point out I'm dating a guy who kind of has a mohawk. My family is aghast.

I recently got some minimum wage jobs, just to quit them two months later. I'm sticking it to the man. It's not that I am too much of a baby to deal with working in the service industry or anything.

The other day, I ditched class. Just because I felt like it. Wild, I know.

Well.. that and I also wanted to throw more money at my girl/pole-crush, Marlo Fisken, and take her improv workshop after doing her $900 instructor certification all weekend.

I'm only like, completely in love with her. I'm so shy around her that it's like I am in middle school all over again. 

Did I mention I am broke?

I also got some much needed time on the hoop during my school ditching time.

Yea. I ditch school to workout.

In other news, 

...I may or may not be in huge trouble in Canada?

I don't really want to elaborate on this. But it could be really, really bad. Because of this, I am just going to avoid the problem and hope it goes away. Only lame, responsible people would deal with their problems.

Not me man.

I'm not equipped for that kind of thing. Hell yea.

To add on to my possible criminal charges, I got my second parking ticket in the past two months last Wednesday. I rebelliously parked in a spot on a street sweeping day. I'm going to pay the $100 price just to prove a point.

A point about how I don't want to get arrested.


I'm sure it's coming, considering this downward spiral I've been going in. The next thing you know I'll be getting belligerently drunk and try to break in to the zoo and go frolicking in the pachyderm house because it has always been my dream to swim with the dolphins.

When I get arrested for it, the joke will be on them. Pachyderms are actually way cooler than dolphins.

See, the thing about my identity crisis is that part of "my thing" is that I have always been totally responsible and well behaved. I'm a semi-rich white girl who has always gotten everything she asked for. (Except for that horse I wanted so badly from ages six through ten, which I still resent.) I've always appreciated getting everything I want and at the same time feel extremely guilty my life has been so easy. I should have tried harder to make it worse. I should have given away all my things, gotten a terminal disease, renounced my parents, not learned how to read, etc etc. But I have always tried to make up for it by trying to be the most hard working and well-deserving person I could be. Until now.


Because I don't know anymore.

I'd like to call it an on-going nervous breakdown, but I'm not sure I am quite worthy of that title yet. I wish. Then I could go to a crazy house and people would stop expecting me to do things and I might be able to return to functionality.

Hopefully it's just a phase. If it isn't, maybe I'll just end up living on the street as a bum when my family finally gets tired of me slacking on my responsibilities and stops supporting me, as they surely will. I mean, I'm never home for dinner anymore, so I'm already walking the line.

Part of me loves breaking out of my box and is excited about all the possibilities for my life. Part of me hates it and it going through major anxiety and every few hours my insides turn to this:

During this time, my vision goes blurry and my heart starts racing and I just do my best to forget about the fact that I am screwing my life up and try really, really hard not to have a panic attack in front of everyone.

On top of everything, there is this postcard from my dentist reminding me it's been over a year since my last teeth cleaning that has been sitting on my desk for a month. It has got this stupid cute, smiling dog that mocks me every day, serving as a reminder of what a failure I'm becoming. I can't do so much as schedule a teeth cleaning. I've even got insurance that covers it. What an ungrateful loser I've become. An ungrateful loser with dirty teeth and plaque build up. I'll admit it: I don't even floss.

I don't deserve that insurance coverage. I haven't earned it.

Dammit you stupid happy dog. Stop mocking me! STOP!

On the bright side at least I'm not pregnant yet? There was a brief moment where I thought I might be, but then I wasn't. So at least the universe gave me that.


So now, just to make up for me being totally unaccomplished, here is a little something full of pretentiously large words to make me feel cool: 

I must find sophorosyne beyond vorfreude. Every time I think about my potential and numinous future, I know I must overcome my current koyaanisqatsi. 

I am full of fernweh. I just want to be nemophilist sometimes and enjoy the sillage of nature, relishing in my life erlebnisse. I know I can contribute to the world in the name of meliorism, even if it is just through ostranenie. Somehow, I will be a smultronstalle. Let's move beyond this mamihlapinatapai and experience rasasvada. Let's admit to acatalepsy, even if it means we'll be overcome by weltanschauung. Sometimes I feel as if I am drowning in hiraeth, but I know if I can be a nefelibata, I can live in firgun with someone else. Let me go on a metanoia now, a dérive. I can feel the orenda, the need to leave sehnsucht behind. From now on, my life will be gezellig and simple, with tsundoku, cafuné, and happiness. So be it. 

Who's the dumb one now?


"Just a reminder!" my ass. You're trying to make me feel bad. I just know it. STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT.  

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Champion of the Microwave

Ok, so now that I am dating someone and finally not sitting around staring wistfully at my ceiling listening to Bon Iver songs, attempting to spoon with pillows, and making out with the back of my hand at night in bed, I have had to find other ways to be unhappy. 

Don't worry. There are plenty. 

(Actually, I still make out with the back of my hand sometimes on the weeknights. It's good practice. And I don't want it to get lonely. That hand and I have been through a lot, it deserves the best. )

I could rant on about feminism, the bullshit of college and education in general, or my current still-going identity crisis, but instead today I must tell you the sad, sad tale of the girl who peaked all too early in life and then had no where to go. 

I'm not talking about my straight-As in high school (not counting the unfair grading system of an evil unnamed English teacher who just needed to go away my senior year) that have lead to my mediocre college career. I'm talking about my life long quest to beat the microwave beeps

It all started long, long ago when I was just a wee lass. 

Oh wait. 

Wrong drawing. That isn't me. 

 That's better.

I had this dream. It was a crazy dream. "You'll never achieve it" they said, "Your dream is crazy." 

And maybe it was. 

I don't know where it came from. It was just a part of me, a part of my natural human drive. Or maybe those beeps were just too annoying, and I was the only one who could forsee change. Or maybe I just had something to prove in this wide world. I had to show them who I could truly be. Something worthwhile, something real. 

I tried and tried, tirelessly, standing attentively by the microwave every most of the time, at the ready, fingers flexing in anticipation, my heart racing. The count down was always so thrilling and as soon as I saw those wicked three zeros my reflexes pounced for the handle. 

There were those disappointing microwaves, that beeped no matter what. They got me down, but I persevered. Even with the cooperative ones, it was still so tricky. I could never pull it off. 

Until one day. 

That fateful day changed me. I had done it. I proved all of the non-believers wrong. And I got twenty-eight whole likes on Facebook. I had hit the big time. I was unstoppable.

I glided along for the next half hour like I was queen of the world. It was all a dream. All these people, so nobly liking my Facebook status. They were proud of me, I was their champion. The hero of the North American people.

But then, slowly a empty, hollow feeling began to creep over me. What else was there to life, to cooking things in the microwave, knowing I had conquered all there was to be had?

It was pointless. Empty.

Microwaving was never the same again.

All the joy was gone. The thrill of the hunt. The desperate desire. I was lost amidst of world of boring microwaves, lack-luster cooking experiences, and those beeps. Those beeps.

They mocked me.

And they still do.

Dear lord, help me find my way. Help me find my passion in the microwave challenge once again. Because without it...

who am I?