This week does not seem to be a very good week for anyone, in a way that makes me believe in things like astrology, or at least some kind of cyclical collective energy that shapes the tempers or experiences of everyone.
I wrote something very, very silly as a judge for htmlgiant's Tournament of Book Shit, that should go up soon, that will be fun.
That has nothing to do with what I opened this entry talking about.
A good friend is coping with the yuck side of a chronic mental health stuff, my partner lost an old friend, a friend who was like family to someone else whom my partner cares about a great deal, my partner has work-related stress, I have work-related stress, yesterday one of my co-workers panicked for a split second thinking she might have accidentally sent a really rough draft email template intended for specific parties to our entire listserv, and she said, That would be so in keeping with today. (Evidently, with all of our todays). Two days ago, the water was not working at the building that houses our office, nobody could flush the toilet bowl or wash their hands. Unflushable shit. And then this morning, it took an hour to get to work on public transit, which should never happen ever. I had time to watch yesterday's episode of Top Model in its entirety, which is a sign of a very bad commute.
Speaking of -- Team Angelea, y'all. Triumph of the hood.
Last weekend, after I wrote that first confessional entry, I spent the following morning reading Interview magazine because I downloaded the Interview app on my ipad. It was delicious -- in one of the interviews, Daphne Guiness was throwing Isabella Blow's name around -- Issie this, Issie that, so so casually, I almost exploded. In another, Chloe Moretz was super adorable swooning over Ryan Gosling with Drew Barrymore, talking all about her obsession with the movie DRIVE. But then after staring at picture after picture of wealthy, beautiful young things who are scions of supermodels and movie stars -- folks like Patrick Schwarzenegger, who is clearly the first in a new and genetically superior race of human beings, or Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore's child, whose band seemed to be getting this lovely full page profile only because he is Thurston and Kim's kid.... they have not recorded a record and are not even sure they will remain a band after they graduate from college -- I felt ugly and fat and disgusting and never wanted to leave the house ever again. I suddenly understood just a tiny bit more why all the young women in my Women's and Gender Studies courses were obsessed with analyzing magazines. I might have to delete the Interview app.
Here is something else I never shared on this blog, and should have. Last spring, Jacqueline Klimas, a photojournalism student at Medill at Northwestern got in touch with me and requested to profile me for her final project. She found out about me via Orange Alert's Jason Behrends. So she trailed me getting ready and then performing at a reading, at one of my dance classes, working in my cubicle, watching television, eating dinner and cuddling with my boyfriend, and created this lovely photo essay. If this were in print, someday it would be a collector's item. I mean, really. Also, if you poke around in her photostream (pages 4-5, at present), you'll find some of the images she omitted from the final set of ten.
Love to you all.