spike ears

Productivity comes in spurts of feeling like I'm going to die and other wrongfully trusted impetuses.

More horrifying occurrences to entertain:

- keep finding bits of cat ear on my bed.
- i can't think of anything more horrifying than that at the time.

can't stop

giant vikings

- It figures the one and only time I decide to bet on a sports match game, the fucking dome collapses and the game is postponed.

- I now have a job in sunset park assembling expensive fruit baskets for the holiday lazies. Nothing says I don't know you at all but here's a gift, like a dressed up fruit basket. We also have baskets that say, "Sorry someone you knew that I never knew died," and, "I care so much for you, have this esoteric fruit you don't know how to eat."

here is pudding chairwoman dymple green on persimmons:


what kumquats taste like:


-

"depending on the length of the crotch.."

i want to amass all unecessary but useful life skills that i will never be called on to use in a money-making capacity.
i will begin by mastering the art of folding.

wishlist

makr farm ruck sack


stan bitters ceramic plate


absolute sell out three-minute pink hour glass


fang landshark lp

objects

"If you look at the handle on the end of that bat, there's an 'x' because it was a reject... The cleat marks at the head of the bat where I hit my shoes, there's indentations at the beginning of the bat. At the end of the bat, it was so deep, there's really deep indentations, the red ink from the foul balls I hit is on it. You can actually see the spot where I made contact with the ball..."
- kirk gibson on his homerun-hitting bat

I read this interview with enzo mari in a magazine this past summer where he talked about our relationships with objects.
How you treat objects can change their very nature, not just physically, but intrinsically. It's funny to think about the idea of family heirlooms and hope chests; even shaker gift drawings. They don't just represent history, desire, or faith. They're not stand-ins for a certain feeling, but are the feeling itself.

I like the part where he talks about rocks:

we're hanging out.

Imagine it's raining outside, this song is playing, and you are surrounded by scrapped drawings, too many pillows, and cat tchotchkes.

inventory of drawings march '09 - present

In the past eight months, I have made:

- a little over 300 real drawings; real because they live on real paper and not sketchbook paper
- 20 really good drawings; good because they lead somewhere new, and they haven't expired by my standards
- so 6.7% were 'successful,' but all were necessary.

i'm pretty sure my mom reads this

I just found this list unpacking boxes and thought it was funny and/or embarrassing.
I forget the context for most of these.

- wherein you learn to recreate people in other people to avoid meeting new people.
- convenient trenches
- spent day drawing plans for large bob dylan trap.
- now i'm stuck in my room with the parrot next door squawking back all our previous night's sex sounds.
- substitute tanlines

!

I don't really sleep very much anymore, not that I ever have, but now I'm on bennett hours (if you know them, you will know). It's kind of disorienting because I just end up experiencing a full range of emotions I'm not usually conscious for. I also become less and less articulate in describing them, and my coping mechanisms develop a poor sense of humor. I also tend to watch horrifying youtube videos like the Paula Abdul reality tv show, chain smoke, and think about that time I was raped (just kidding!).

Then I do some math to stay sharp:
I tally up how many times I have to talk about what kind of asian I am and it averages (2) a day.
Then I tally up the amount of times someone tells me I look seventeen; averages (1).
Then I count all the niche Korean products strangers expect me to know because they once had a Korean girlfriend (1; this is not a common occurrence, but it happened today and I thought it was funny. I got to drive a vintage benz out of the conversation so whatever.)

This totals the number of beers I drink: 4
Which I multiply by (3) for each segment of the day (morning, afternoon, evening)
which equals the amount of cigarettes I smoke to celebrate the day.

The piles of internet debris I stack on my desktop are really getting out of hand.
Someone should clean that up.

This is Topher's desk illustrating that time I almost set our studio on fire. No cats or pillows were scathed, but the fire department broke all our windows and made a slip n' slide. So glad I quit before this happened.


ellsworth kelly's beautiful stem.


mr. blunk


andrew i'm a fucking show off wyeth.

album

I've been listening to the generic flipper album a lot to remain positive.

Supermarket music kills me. When I hear that Whitney Houston song about how she will always love me, it just reminds me of being younger and never imagining that I would be listening to it at twenty-four, unemployed, in a hood c-town, buying cheap groceries. It's a little depressing.

Or going to the deli at four am for a drunk sandwich and hearing that rhianna song about getting set on fire while the deli guy talks about missing his family back in yemen.

Is it too much to ask for music to be perfectly calibrated to each situation?

yes.

synchronization

UNTITLED (PERFECT LOVERS) BY FELIX GONZALEZ-TORRES (1987-1991)
"Two identical battery-operated clocks are placed in the gallery, side
by side and initially set to the same time. With time, though, they
inevitably fall out of sync: batteries running out and the ever-present
drive towards entropy of things."

"best hip hop song ever"

inventory of spaces '09-'10

I made a map of this past year in brooklyn.

why me and eric are bad friends

me: oh i keep hearing pops that are not messages

eric: you are losing it
ok well i am going to go do something that isnt this, cya

me: fuck you

eric: what i need a shower
i smell terrible

me: ok bye

the fall for fall

proto- am app?

female gaze

cybill shepherd in the last picture show

current events + mundanities

- I have secret names for most of my drawings, even ones i haven't drawn yet. they're usually movie references or names of minor stock characters from books or cartoons. lately the names have been slang i hear on the m train that i'm not hood enough to understand.

- going to art school is like putting yourself through marriage counseling when you don't have marital issues, you're not married, and you're too young to know what marriage even means.

- i use my computer desktop like a filing cabinet with no drawers, and no organization. it's just piles of crap i like. i like treating it like one of those big lottery ball baskets, never knowing what or where anything is.

- i don't really analyze what i like or what i'm doing anymore. i know it's a geriatric trait to just say fuck it this is what i am doing, but that's what i've been doing. actually, i don't really have the mental capacity or luxury to think too hard about things lately.

- i watched painters painting and read some articles my favorite art history professor recently published and felt instantly bummed. i am now watching a lot of old cartoons and feel less bummed. it's a more preferable feeling of engaging in something simultaneously alienating but interesting. that and they're funnier.


- i found this painting and it reminded me of how my brain is lined in cotton candy and also how cute mitsue is so i sent it to her. i forget who made it, but i bet they're asian.


- whenever the house music comes on upstairs, the internet goes away. i feel like these two occurrences are linked.

- when i draw representationally, i usually draw breakfast or cats. tonight i'm drawing french fries, which i just recently had for breakfast in a long island city diner. so yeah, breakfast and cats. I could be the next Louis Wain, but his cats were more autonomous than the cats i draw. my cats are understated and defeated in their cuteness. his were bourgeois gentlemen and ladies, before he went insane. He also had total cat commitment and was president of the national cat club. this is a photo of him with his muse, peter, and later work during his institutionalized days:



"Which do I love the most?"


"Early Indian Irish"


- i've been taking paintings i like that i find online, and editing them in seashore. seashore is the most basic image editing program for macs. it's mostly for people who don't know what curves are, have too poor an internet connection to download pirated photoshop, and are too dumb or impatient to download pirated photoshop. it's fun and it helps me think about my process of decision making with drawing. it also reminds me of my ms paint days of blobby pixellated paint tools. i only give myself ten minutes to work on them so i don't get all risd with it.



obviously before:

(-)

so many negatives, i'm equalling positive. check it :

(-) job 1 exploded
(-) job 2 exploded
(-) have to move
(-) have to sell table
(-) can't sell table
(-) can't sell other items
(-) lost phone
(-) losing mind
_____________________
(+)

haha.

extinct

dear whoever you are

well.

I said I would let you know how my unemployment adventure progressed.

I have this sweet little routine worked out for most of my week days. I have a new job of applying for jobs, which I wish could be my actual job. I really enjoy just wandering around the city, making multiple train connections (today: J, F, 2, 3, 4, 5, L, G), and listening to all the batty private conversations people have in public.

I like the man with the big stick of cotton candy balloons in baby shades of every color, the kids struggling to walk city blocks in clothes they have yet to grow in to, the teenagers with baggy jeans they've convinced themselves they've grown in to.

I like women in chinatown with crazy mismatched patterns of paisley, houndstooth, and polka-dots, seeing owners that looks like their dogs, and trying to decipher secret dynamics between couples walking down delancey street, self-conscious cool kids on bedford avenue, and total strangers forced to sit too close to each other on the rush hour J train. It still never fails to interest me how so many people live here, with their own lives, moving together as total strangers, sharing their lives with one another if even for five minutes on a train platform before the F comes.

I wake up at 11 like I should always be allowed to do, and apply for two jobs and two rooms on the internet.
I eat the bullshit mash survival gruel I cook once a week in military-cook proportions to prepare for the day.

This week it's:
chicken stock (watered waaaaay down), miso paste (to balance the watering down), soy sauce, white potatoes, shallots, leeks, carrots, chickpeas, green peas, chicken sausage, black pepper, some vinegar, too much jasmine rice that sucked up all the liquid and cooked down to congee-consistency.

(It started to get more earth tone in color as the week progressed and it began to melt in to itself.)

Then, I leave the house, apply to two more jobs in person, and try and make an impression.
I'm not very good with first impressions, so I just focus on making an impression, positive or not. For as much as I need a job, my past experience has taught me, there will always be jobs to have, and if they're assholes from the start before you get a chance to fuck up or even work for them, they're probably not worth impressing.

Afterwards I treat myself to a celebratory drink at the top of happy hour, photocopy my cat comic (yesterday), wander around prospect park in the rain (today), read a book/paper in the least douchey (low laptop and dreadlock quotient) coffee shop I can find (monday), and go home to draw (today).

bring back the FAP

This is the first time I've been out of a job since I moved to new york.

First impressions:

- days, in actuality, are kind of long
- all the unemployed people i know do yoga. do they give you money?
- unimpeachable desire to watch ghost world again and again but instantly feeling depressed at the end.
- i have few valuable possessions to sell. i should have dated more boys that bought me jewelry.
- maybe it doesn't hurt to be a little unethical to survive. not saying i'm going to start grifting or pick-pocketing, but you know.
- it's hard to not sound like a louse when asking to defer loans; I wouldn't even defer my loans for me.
- if i've been productive in anything, it's been drawing.



It will be interesting to see how things progress.

let's shut up

Sometimes the gesture is so simple, it gets labeled pretentious or purist.
But maybe that's a disconnect in talking about simplicity; by its very nature simplicity shouldn't require a ton of explanation, and in attempt to articulate how arresting, beautiful, or stupid you think something so minimal is, simplicity turns around and bites you. It makes you look like a fool as you stammer to relay the experience of your exchange.
Maybe the issue is not with the work, but in talking about the work.
If the work talks to you, shouldn't that be enough?

how to break a contract

YOUR WEIRD TURRETS FRIEND CAN'T BE IN OUR BAND.
HE'S TOO XxPUNKxX

world wide web

the internet has demystified and deflowered everything so you can know anything all the time forever.
the internet as i know it now will outlive me and you for sure, but it mutates as opposed to maturing.

when i google the internet on the internet i found the following:

alarmists:
from www.internetisshit.org

"And look what we've done with it. Food wrappers and soap operas now tell us to visit their websites. Money is pumped online by people who can't even spell HTML. All manner of pointless and irritating content is continually poured down the infinite hole of data, unfiltered and over-appreciated. In accepting freedom of speech, we can't hide from its consequences - which in this case is millions of terabytes of unreliable information, badly designed and clumsily written. We have failed our own creation and given birth something truly awful. We're just too busy cooing over the pram to notice."

"There's no point in undoing what has been done. What we need to do is to change our attitude. The internet isn't new any more. The evangelists have done their job. Everyone's heard of it even if they don't spend their lives logged on. Now its the job of the congregation to revolt. Chant it from the rooftops, spread it across your server, email it to your friends. The internet is shit."

neo-hippie blazin:




double-fisting with two left hands:



love and romance:



generational disconnects:

andrea's recipe

This one of my oldest best friends, and probably one of the smartest and most hilarious people I have ever met. She also has the most esoteric goal of anyone I know. She's learning american sign language and french so she can SIGN FOR DEAF FRENCH PEOPLE. I wanna start a sign language band with her. We will cover this:

ways to fix it

1. fold clothes and put in stacks according to utility and/or color.
2. empty ashtray, makeshift ashtray(s), gouache water, stale beer dregs, bad drawings bin.
3. eat pasta to afford nicer paper.
4. write a list.
5. keep deadlines plastic.
6. sleep less.
7. lament for five minutes.
8. accept it.
9. proceed.
10. invest yourself in others as a selfish diversion from your own problems to become more generous.
11. relate their problems to your problems as a means to connect through being selfish.
12. feel better being generous and selfish all at once.
13. walk really far away so you have to walk back with perspective.
14. drink a lot of water.
15. think about it, just don't think about thinking about it.
16. if you want it, simply ask for it.
17. argue for it.
18. or work for it.
19. or steal it.
20. just don't just think about it.

click drag, drag exhale

I have myself on this budget for the week that stagnates my fun-intake.
It's ok, because I have the internet. And when that cuts out, I can take a leisurely spin around my desktop.

I've been collecting snips of images I love;
if only for composition, color, or surprise.
I don't really discriminate; I just amass in hopes a common trend will form, and I can intuit a direction for a drawing, a story, or an outfit (I'm kidding, no I'm not).

Tour of My Desktop:



I like weird bulbous trees. Especially when they are stacked like this. It reminds me of a really horrific person, and the gesture of the tree is really weird.


I found this on topshop's website looking for normal-looking interview clothes for a boring office job I didn't want. I laughed for a really long time.



I have a thing for film stills where actors are reading letters.
I don't know how articulately I can elaborate on this, but I think it's the awareness that the author of that letter doesn't exist, and the letter may not even have an actual message on it.

It feels like a really bizarre prop because unlike a fake backdrop, or a set, it can't try and look any realer than a piece of paper with scribbles on it, and that's why it's not convincing. It doesn't and can't overcompensate. A movie set is designed to be lit in a way that makes it more believable, and movie sets often look fake in real life. A letter (fake or not) will always look like a letter if it's trying to be real. The only leverage it inherently has to show sincerity is the emotional response of the reader/actor, or contribution to the plot. Letters also add this layer of time and depth that's kind of disorienting. Movies fake real time and letters only strive to deepen this illusion. The letter exists as a record of intent and commitment to time spent transcribing, and also a scene we have been excluded from as an audience and must believe out of faith and loyalty to the story.

I guess that's why I always save these pictures.


Morandi! I used to hate you all the time. I blame the art school angst and stubbornness.
Still,it feels better to arrive at loving something in your own time.. it feels hard-won that way.
I love how he grounds his objects, and how they are common cups, boxes, and pots but they seem so anonymous and withholding. The warm, neutral colors, and how they huddle together like they're cold, or whispering secrets.



Tv always crops images in a strange and careless way. I guess because the composition is supposed to be temporary and constantly moving. The priority of what you're supposed to be paying attention to is always apparent, and the only subtlety employed may just be subliminal and slightly underhanded. I am also fond of the frame within the frame (tv screen in a movie still) and being forced in to the vantage point of the character.

If it’s that good, don’t take a picture.

It's incredibly frustrating when what you want to say gets snarled and enmeshed in so much bullshit.
The phatic overrides the sincere and conversation gets messy and droney.
Signify this motherfucking signifier.

becky's sheep

my former roommate's friend herds sheep in ireland.
this was her birthday present:

hey! this is what it's all about!

No publication
No money
No star
No fuck

A friend came over to the house
a few days ago and read one of my poems.
He came back today and asked to read the
same poem over again. After he finished
reading it, he said, "It makes me want
to write poetry."

blogging

I've never blogged before.
I've only written in online journals; that's just how new school-old school i am.

all lower-case, e.e. cummings style.
that was the late nineties and here i am on the cusp of twenty-five, doing much the same in the form of blog, which sounds like an involuntary bodily function more than an exchange of ideas.

in autumn i get more wizened and melodramatic about a lot of my life complications.
it's ok because i can furrow my brow and listen to nu-jazz and giggle as i drink this forty.
and also because i can be knocked unconscious by both a resplendent tree death color display and this $2 forty.
the balance of the sublime and the crass is what it's all about.

btw listen to crass.

one thing i really miss about risd

zoom

http://vimeo.com/819138

no one uses question marks

I recently subscribed to the online dating service, "How About We."
I don't really want to how about we with anyone right now, but I enjoy reading the emails like I read my twitter feed.

I know it must sound like a lame, self-conscious cover-up to participate in online dating for what sounds like twee indie-flick reasons. But I don't really hold weird taboos about that sort of thing. Growing up on the internet, having secret internet pen pals and super best friends where we would trade short stories and music pretty much forfeits any higher ground on my end.

I guess I'm more interested in the economy of the interface. You're not cruising the person outright, but deciding based on some whimsical for instance. But before you can get all Juno-Garden State, many of the dates fall in to old traps of what you imagine dating websites to be.


For example:

"How about we... MY NAME IS DAVID WILLIAMS FROM WINTER HAVEN FLORIDA AM SINGLE MAN NEVER BEEN MARRIED THAT IS WHY AM HERE ON THIS LOVING DATING SITE TO SEARCH FOR SOMEONE WHOM I CAN SHARE ALL MY HEART AND SOUL WITH WHOM WILL BE MY WIFE"

"How about we... i am seeing this dating like easy way to get wht you like"

"How about we... great i love this site"

"How about we... Overseas..."


I know it's lonely being a person, but it's one sentence, and format writes half of it for you.
I can't believe we aren't taking advantage of the self-editing the internet now affords us.
It just reminds me of this:

cliche fulfillment

the end of this summer is just like the endings of the last three summers.
there's a break up and i start listening to k bands again.

i would argue against the obvious cause/effect relationship of the above statement, because of course I think they're totally independent of one another. but that's more of a hope/lie than it is truth.

i've also been drawn to weird roadside still lives of small dominican women selling sandwich bags of mangos, styrafoam plates of watermelon, and baskets of peaches. landscapes and sunsets are also particularly distracting for me.

fucking cliche fulfillment.
i'm sure the picturesque new york autumn will only exacerbate this issue.

i'm ready for some nasty new york winter to toughen me up again.
all this sentimentalism is going to ruin my bar banter.

boxing boxes

I found this while searching for "Owls (band)."

once it's out of your hands

it's out of your control.

You make a song, put it out in to the world, and people can do shit like this:



It's crazy!

guppy head

ersatz

"My brother his high-functioning and able to live on his own with assistance only in budgeting and that sort of thing. He has a full-time job that he likes, and hobbies he enjoys. If not for his other mental disabilities (ADHD, learning disabilities), he would probably be considered Asberger's or close to that end of the spectrum -- he's actually quite outgoing and enjoys being social one on one or in small groups. However, his emotional development and social skills level are probably closer to an early teen's than a twentysomethings, and are where his autism shows most. He doesn't understand the nuances of interpersonal relations, misses nonverbal cues and isn't aware of how others perceive him or react to his idiosyncrasies.

Because of his disabilities, he has some trouble making friends. He's very sweet, but can get very repetitive in conversation. There are a couple topics that he'll talk about for hours, but he's willing to talk about other things too -- just not as easily. His reading and writing skills are poor, so he has trouble expressing himself clearly in print. Despite this, he loved to use Facebook to keep in touch with people. He even created his own group to talk about food, a topic I didn't even know he was interested in. He was trying to use Facebook as a way to expand his social circle.

Unfortunately, the the broad definition of the word "friend" on Facebook got him in trouble. Despite repeated explanations, he didn't understand that the people listed as "friends" weren't always someone close -- they could be just an acquaintance or someone from high school that his friends don't actually talk to anymore. All he could see was that his friends had other friends, and he tried to meet some of them -- which he did by repeatedly messaging them and in some cases calling them if their phone number was listed, whether he'd met them in person or not.

A complicating factor is that in addition to wanting more friends in general, I'm pretty sure he wants a girlfriend. He won't admit it to me, but it's pretty clear from his status updates and the messages he was sending to the friends-of-friends and former classmates he was contacting -- who were almost exclusively female. (Not to mention all the sketchy dating sites he keeps joining.) No doubt enough of them saw his poorly written messages as harassment and reported him, leading to his banination.

I really want to help him get back on Facebook -- it's a valuable way to keep him connected to friends and family. But I need help developing some guidelines for him to make sure he doesn't get himself kicked off again.
• How can I explain the vagaries of "Facebook friend"?
• What points should I lay out to help him determine when it's OK to contact a person?
• How can I explain to him how to get to know an acquaintance or a friend of a friend better without scaring them or seeming like he's harassing them? (Which I recognize is a much larger issue than just Facebook.)"

dear friend, these ugly cookies represent my love for you.

As you may or may not know, I have been without kitchen for the past four months.

I've never been particularly passionate about cooking; just in odd spurts of crackpot entrepreneurship. i.e., making jam, screen printing cakes, the famed guitar cake of christopher's 27th birthday. Not having a kitchen has really degraded my respect for the way ingredients' basic chemistries work to enhance or destruct each other. I have been storming in to friends' kitchens with foolish bravado, immolating really nice produce, and it absolutely must stop. Take for instance the mess of a pie I tried baking a few weeks ago.

I'm a little arrogant when it comes to my baking skills; wholly ill-founded on my reputation on the Green side of the family for making the best lemon squares. I had this recipe committed to memory by age twelve, and thought I was the shit. Anyway, I wanted to bake a pie that made use of seasonal fruit (strawberries) without being overly saccharine. This is how my logic progressed:

strawberries + chocolate = traditional combo, but boringly sweet
strawberries + lemon = tart deliciousness like strawberry lemonade
therefore:
strawberries + lemon + chocolate = SUCCESS

I was worried about the citrus not agreeing with the chocolate, as well as the juiciness of cooked strawberries creating a watery consistency. Two concerns that inevitably came true after three hours of essentially boiling the pie in its own guts at 375, with a stream of strawberry run off that was never going to set even though I used like 5 eggs. The end result was a primordial sludge that would only be a fit prop for a horror movie. (Sorry Gabe)

There were also the jam disasters '09-'10.
- tomato jam that set like a super ball
- garlic jam that looked like bile stew
- maduros jam that ruined the stock pot
- tomatillo jam which also looked like bile but tasted like a forest fire

I think I need to take a step back and work on perfecting classic, fail-proof basics in cooking; like making the perfectly constructed sandwich. A sandwich where each element is texturally harmonious with every other element, and a sandwich whose girth does not discriminate against the small-mouthed (this is a personal hardship with sandwiches. no lewd jokes please). Honestly, what's the point of calling a sandwich a sandwich if you can't eat it without utensils? Or the insides splooge out the side from overdressing with pesto-aoli-bullshit? Or you need to eat the sandwich IMMEDIATELY lest the bread turn in to a spongey mayo tampon (I'm sorry if I've effectively ruined soggy sandwiches for you with that image but they are sadwiches!). I want to make a sandwich that gets better when you leave it sit for a few hours, that has the structural stability of a pyramid, and the unpretentious, comfort and quality of a grilled cheese sandwich.

I think the Rza Burger comes close:

"A RZA burger is a veggie patty with a fried egg, cheese, lettuce, pickles and all that, smashed between two delicious waffles. Spread mustard and mayo on it with a little butter and put that shit together. Trust me, son, that shit needs to be in stores."

$$$

I've decided to stop pouting about not having enough money to afford the lifestyle I want.
I think moving from bed-stuy to williamsburg has totally fucked my weltanshuuang. If well liquor and rollies were the bread and butter of greats like Jackson Pollock and Lisa Frank, they should be more than enough sustenance for me.
Instead of wishing I had more money, I should focus on caring for the money I have. Like these kids.

i used to be employable

The next phase of my employment search involves the crushing re-realization that I am overeducated in an antiquated niche market, over-qualified by the branch of that same antiquated niche market, and that I basically need to start applying for questionably legitimate jobs.

I just applied for a job as a Wing Woman to help a dude meet girls at bars.
I am totally willing to commit to the role of cute but not cute enough to date, non-threatening female friend. I will wear awkward color combinations, uncomb my hair, and put on a little too much make-up in order to successfully embody the part. I will wear socks with sandals in such a way that it teeters on the brink of working it and not working. I will wear questionable floral patterns that walk the line of bold/graphic or cluelessly hawaiian. It will be a stretch to pare down my 24/7 policy of nonstop glamour, but for $20/hr and a few good stories, I am willing to give it a shot.

dream house

So I just tried to bribe my way in to my dream living situation. Thankfully, I didn't quite go the groveling route, more the quiet simpering, "please please please," approach + $100 extra dollars in rent (yes it was that cheap). For I would love nothing more than to live in a lovingly shackled plywood shed with a stellar view of Queens and the lulling thrum of the john jay byrne bridge. I want to live on the outskirts and feel like I'm in an urban industrial desert. That sounds romantic, but whatever, I want it.

I have reached the point of my post-adolescence where I find myself reaching more and more for the absurd. Maybe it's the misappropriated angst or the bath-water heat, but I find myself striving for ridiculously nuanced, specific situations in living, working, and playing.

Cases in point:
- I applied for a part-time job on the weekends mounting dead butterflies (goth or absurd? we'll see).
- I cold-emailed one of the most exciting print studios in brooklyn and was offered a meeting to just shoot the shit and geek out on registration techniques and pattern repeats (for this i would grovel; i'm talking a writhing/grovel combo).
- I also applied for jobs as: scientific illustrator of biological molecules (wearing a lab coat would be cool), resident drawer for a jewelry company in midtown (gems!), fun dip tester (this one is a lie)

All this in probably my most nihilist summer to date. I blame the pseudo-bohemian bullshit living situation I wedged myself in to, which was great during the brooklyn spring, and humbling (to be polite) in the pollution-cuddled brooklyn summer. (I swear I must sweat two-pounds a day.) I realize it's my style to lament for a spell and then cast as many frantic lines as possible.

I am a huge advocate of the scramble.