gravity-burst.

pen pals.

mommy dearest is legit friends with her childhood pen pal. nearly a 50 year friendship. from my grubbing on gerber days til this day i receive presents from her and her husband (usually books, and usually very good).

she’s a little ahead of my mom technology-wise and has fully upgraded to being proficient with e-mail (while i still struggle to assist her with microsoft word) but they still send cards and letters back and forth. when i was in 5th grade, her daughter got married. my ma and i attended the wedding.

i like thinking about the stories that emerged in those 50 years. what type of things they must have shared. one suburban virgina girl with one rural philippine living girl. not status updates, not tweets, not phone conversations. just raw storytelling. even to the most similar modern equivalent of a pen pal, i doubt it touches that. 

seeing this growing up, i think i’ll always find an intrigue in relating/storysharing with strangers.

heck, i was so eager to have a pen pal at such an early age i had these care bears “stamps” (which were really stickers that looked like stamps) before i even understood the concept that stamps had to be bought, but my grandpa let me put them in the mailbox anyway because he thought it was cute. i ditched diary writing early, discovered internet forums and “blogging”, and probably spent an unhealthy amount of time on 56k connection while important calls never got through. young, naive, and looking for a different story i guess.

hooked on a feeling.

not in a good way. i’m going through a period of anger. wrapped up in self-disgust and guilt, but the frontrunner is anger. and this anger, is different from other forms i’ve encountered. my experience with it is commonly built on annoyances. experiences that are tedious. petty even. but this, this is different.

i’m mad at myself. and i’m mad for being mad at you right now. i’m mad at how i continue to be scared of life and loss and the fact i’m convinced i’ll never get over it. i’m mad things that once mattered don’t matter anymore. i’m mad at that contrived apathy. i’m mad at the disconnect. i’m mad at inane drugs, drug abuse, what it does to people… i’m mad that the human capacity to feel pain or be numb can even exist without limits and such dependency. i’m mad because i thought i was a better influence. i’m mad that you made me believe you were doing better. i’m mad at pilsen, at wicker park, at carpentersville. i’m mad at what could have been. i’m mad at the nights i slaved myself to take care of you but would have them over and over again in hopes life would sing you a new tune somehow, somewhere. i’m mad that i didn’t see it coming. i’m mad that i didn’t do more. i’m mad at the infomercials blaring roughly around 4am, telling me to sleep already. i’m mad i’m even mad at you like it’s your fault when it’s not. i even get mad at music sometimes — it’s an alcohol pad to an open wound.

i’m mad for the unanswered questions. i’m mad at regret. i’m mad that you’re not alive. i’m mad in bold + italics.

the lazy song.

tonight i don’t feel like doing anything
i’m just gonna watch himym from my bed
justify a dimanche satchel on a day not all dimes are spent
wiki each power ranger ‘n how their careers came to an end
‘cause i swear when your mind is mush this shit means everything.

(noboooody’s gonna tell me i caaaan’t.)

in light of recent events/comments/feelings

i decided that i am vain and loud and cry and give a shit and i refuse to see those things as weaknesses. (via ellenbee) (via ljm)

a huge weight has been lifted!

do you understand the freedom you feel when you pay a ginormous bill and you’re suddenly free of specific financial responsibilities? if i could go back and tell 18-year-old me any piece of advice:

never apply for any credit card.

never put 2 quarter’s worth of tuition on said credit cards, never let your roommate drag you along to shopping sprees in downtown chicago in-between classes just because state street is your backyard and you think you’re SO COOL because of it (NOT), never get tempted to buy every new thing that comes in shipment at whatever retailer you work at, never let anyone convince you that an XX,XXX line of credit spread amongst several cards is ever a good thing, never max out, never max out, never max out, and never let your savings deplete because of your irresponsibility with money. but hell, if you still do, pay your goddamn shit on time.

i’m freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

so to anyone who’s been all “ay, what’s been up with you” or “you kinda fell off” my only response is i’ve been working way back to a good credit score. i still dream of that lake shore drive condo and owning a music venue and all those far fetched things, but somehow all those over-the-top hopes are the things keeping me in check.

been spending more nights with netflix… while k decides on a potential car purchase (oh boy).

still don’t plan on being all suze orman anytime soon though.

current body composition:

60% H2O 40% coffee courtesy of the java shop upstairs from work 100% strained patience.

dreaming in disney.

during this dream, i’m trying to beat the time on the clock. reason, unknown. my sidekick was the footstool from beauty & the beast and my enemy was the stepmother from cinderella, who morphed about 10 times. morphing examples include the queen from sleeping beauty and jafar from aladdin, while retaining the stepmother’s face.

somehow i get arrested because of some shit the stepmother pulled that i can’t recall. but she was wearing a long sleeved, velvet red dress with a huge star pinned to her like a brooch as she watched me get handcuffed. and come to think of it, i can’t even remember if it was actually me in the dream or if it was some other character.

the anti-burnout playbill.

even though moping around and actually giving yourself a moment to have feelings may make you human, it also makes you grossly counterproductive you almost purposely fall away due to its ease.

so i’ve convinced myself to get up at 5:30 tomorrow morning to take the time to look unwildebeestlike (take a flat iron to my hair and don a full face of makeup). when work chaos ceases, i’ll treat myself to a juicy kuma burger or two and pulled pork fries and not care about the repercussions because shit like that is just meant to be enjoyed.

acting, costumes, makeup, theatrics, climax, the [perceptible] happy ending. rock on plaaaaaaayyyaaaaaaz.

held by airport security.

the filipino parents i know are superstitious. if not superstitious, religious. or they reason superstitions based on religion. i think even when we’re 50 with kids and families — or some other growing up equivalent — they’ll find a way to let this weave of superstition and religion into our otherwise if you cross this line it’s trespassing lives.

on any flight i’ve been on with amor, she carries a miniature version of the santo niño to ease her parents’ minds. the relic was nowhere to be found before this flight. after hours of searching, the only resolution they came to was to have her carry a larger version. and by larger i mean it took up the space of an entire duffle bag.

(oh yes, they argued over this.)

now, that pointed crown, the cross, the mere size, the array of jewels plastered on the statue aren’t things that translate well onto airport security screens. we were walked aside. she was asked questions while they examined it. i was also asked how i know her, where we were flying to and why, and if i was aware of what she was carrying in her bags. of course they would find nothing. this exact encounter repeated itself on our way back home.

at least there’s the reassuring factor security is doing their job.

and we have another story to laugh at and share.

things i can’t find when i immediately need them:

• my keys
• my chapstick
• my deodorant
• my wallet
• my sanity

deconstructing the rationale of ‘selling out’.

worst argument in music. yes, i still believe in music, in its art form, in its appreciation, in how it resonates in a human being. but the reality is, not everyone is on the same boat. it’s not that i don’t think that that’s a pathetic way to listen to music, but the truth is not everyone is goo goo ga ga over every music detail.

i would love others to react the way i do toward music, although it’s not my job to impose that. and calling anyone a ‘sell out’ is the easiest, ill-conceived scheme to put a music argument in your favor, as if simply saying it requires no back up. it garners a quick emotional, nostalgia is the only way to exist end all be all response. and this statement is coming from one of the most nostalgia-driven creatures on earth, yours truly.

have you read any “he’s a sell out” “she’s a sell out” “they’re sell outs” type arguments? these pieces are rarely followed with specified reasoning and rather, filled with ambiguous scrutiny. details are equivalent to the fulfillment of drinking skim milk. that, and the explanations are short-lived. actions leading to the point of ‘sell out’ labeling is much more varied in comparison but produces similar reverberation. give me subtext, give me access to discourse, let’s hit a turnpike for cryin’ out loud. i think this is shitbag music, you don’t, let’s conversate.

i love music in a with all my heart, dig into my bones way but i’m also fully aware of the grind… looking for money where money isn’t. attention and recognition can also be interchanged with money.

which remains a non priority for some, but it’s a reality of the industry. how quickly will you run to fame and fortune if it’s handed to you on a silver platter? this is the exact reason i’ve never given nicki minaj shit. not a fan, but i’ll get down with some hooks. to her credit though, she doesn’t claim to be hip-hop and clearly lines out her lack of support pre-barbie when she did ”keep it real” and instead chose to chase where the money’s at.

jay-z has voiced similar sentiments.

artists don’t get the support and y’all getting mad when they make a change to get support?

executive decision:

do not mull over discouragements, just like stay this for a really, really long time. and eat. and drink.

the zipper narrative.

zippers are tedious.
zippers get stuck.
zippers take time.
zippers break.
zippers separate.
zippers can’t handle wear & tear.
zippers aren’t magnets, buttons, or ties.
zippers ruin perfectly perfect things like this.

sometimes all you need is a little change of scenery, even if it’s only within your everyday living space.

new sateen cotton sheets. new duvet covers. new pillows. new himym box set.
just got paid, friday night, party hoppin’, feelin’ right.

if macgyver

could put a rest to my everyday self-doubt issues and angry mornings with his can-do spirt, household chemical proficiency, and swiss army knife voodoo still standing by his deprived of the involuntary violent urges beliefs… in advance, i fucking applaud that man. he’ll have a literal hell of a time, but i’ll applaud him. and buy him a shot.