An end.

So before you read this post, I'm gonna say a couple things. First off - the crickets over here are getting really loud. I know. And I'm sorry. When life decides to be a complete dick, it's hard for me to arrange my thoughts in a way deemed worthy of an audience as amazing as you people.

Secondly, you should know this was written awhile ago. I didn't want to publish it because it's pretty much spotlighting the weaker, more unattractive parts of me and that's uncomfortable and hard because you feel split wide open in front of people who know you (and some you don't). 

But as things get better and the universe begins to level itself again, I feel like it might be a good idea to have that kind of pain documented. It's easier to grasp, hold onto, and learn from if it's concrete. So I decided to share it.


I'm going to level with you. Shit sucks right now. Really bad.

Actually, let me just put it in the words of the incomparable Carrie Bradshaw:

After a break-up, certain streets, locations, even times of day are off-limits. The city becomes a deserted battlefield, loaded with emotional landmines. You have to be very careful where you step - or you could be blown to pieces.

So yeah.

It's not rainbows and lemonade and happiness over here. It's mostly lots of crying and and wearing sweatpants. And to be honest, I didn't think it'd be something I wanted to write about. It feels like such a private situation. But writing is the only thing I know to do in a painful situation like this. One that threatens every single day to pin me to my bed and suffocate me with its limitlessness.

Most of the stuff you see about going through a break up reads like a bad self-help book shoved into the half-off bin a la Dr. Phil. "Take time to feel your pain. Be honest with yourself about your emotions. Exercise to release endorphins. Talk to a professional. Channel your pain into pottery."

I come from a very different school however and have been coping using the following methods and ideologies. WARNING: It isn't pretty.

1. There is no time of day or situation where it is inappropriate to drink. In the shower. At a christening. Before and after grocery shopping. This may sound a great deal like the very real illness known as alcoholism, but it's inherently different in that eventually, I know I'll be fine. Also, I'm already getting really tired of the 3 day hangover. High school senior, I am not. It does help though, to keep my mind off of the fact that a very huge, important, meaningful part of my life has fallen apart. And it's been bridging the gap between the now and the part where I'm okay again quite nicely. 
2. Filling my body with pizza and cupcakes and preservatives and carbs and grease. Turns out, being healthy and functional takes a lot of energy. When all that energy is spent on screaming into your pillow and sleeping, there's just no time for quinoa and grilled vegetables. And all water does is force me to pee out the alcohol. So obviously, I'm not interested in any of that. 
3. The masochist in me demands that I watch movies that remind me of all the things I feel like (at this moment in time anyway) I'll never have. Oh you know...The Notebook, Titanic, Walk the Line, Love Actually, Sleepless in Seattle, Top Gun, Transformers - movies about love overcoming impossible circumstance and logic only to prevail in the end. This is what I'm currently missing out on. And for whatever reason, I'm forcing myself to remember that everyday.

It's not pleasant, I know, but it's real. And that's important to me. I can't ever heal or learn from any of this if I'm not honest about where I'm at right now. Even if where I'm at right now is a tiny apartment decorated with shit that was supposed to be the backdrop to a life I'm apparently not destined to have.

Also, it's not to say not I'm doing other things, too. Things that make the pain less, slightly dull, bearable. For one, I'm writing. All the time. It's the most cathartic, freeing feeling to dig into a real piece of paper with a real pen and say everything I could never say. It helps me to sort out the bad, to have some kind of control over it again.

I'm running, too. And while I know that it's a bit counterintuitive in terms of stuffing my face with garbage everyday, it keeps my mind quiet. It's the only part of the day where all I can do is feel my feet pound pavement. I'm literally moving forward in the only way I can right now and it's helping me sleep.

I'm spending insane amounts of time with my family and a few very good, supportive friends. They've offered up couches and beer and have never asked a single question. Their support is the only thing that's making the world feed solid right now. And I wish that I could find some way to thank them adequately.  

I'm scared everyday about what will happen next because my idea of what my life will be has been blown to hell. And I know I'm making some of this sound glib. But in reality, everyday hurts right now. My body physically aches because I can't get the emotional pain out. My cells are full of it.

But I have to trust that even as I'm typing this, the universe is righting itself. The hurt of it all is a leveler. The ground's been burned so I can try and grow something else. And even though I might not think so, whatever laws that govern the natural order of things have decided it's what I need.

So all I can do is accept that and drag my ass out of bed everyday and try for something better. Very very slowly.

xo.

My First Bonnaroo Experience

The first thing I want to say is, if you've ever contemplated going to Bonnaroo - do it. Just to say that you did. Just so you can say you were there; you were part of this dirty, beautiful, musical mess.

The second thing I want to say is, if I never have to use a friggin porta-potty again in the entirety of my life, it will be too soon.

Bonnaroo is a place like nowhere else. It's an adult amusement park, a modern-day Woodstock, a playground where everyone is your best friend and where you can whole-heartedly buy into the notion that music changes lives, makes families of strangers, and alters the way you see the world.

You can be whoever you want, wear whatever you want, do whatever you want without repercussions or judgements. It's a freedom so rare in the modern chaos of our lives that you feel like you've entered a foreign country beyond the limits of laws and normalcy. It's incredible and moving and like nothing else you've experienced.

Now, to be fair, it's also harsh and dirty and loud and overwhelming. The most extreme variants of the human condition are on display unapologetically and you are, in fact, sharing portable bathroom facilities with 100,000 of your best pals in 90 degree Tennessee summer heat. I was uncomfortable and anxious a lot of the time.

But there were other times, like when I was standing in a crowd of tens of thousands staring up at Paul McCartney singing Hey Jude, swaying and watching people raise their lighters (actual lighters, not cell phones), that I felt just how vast we all are. How vast music is. It sounds so...existential...but I felt so connected to everything. And I wasn't even under the influence of narcotics. I was just under the influence of the music and the people and the sky. Tiny lanterns floated above all of us as the show was going on and it was just so beautiful. And I felt so lucky to be apart of it.

I mean, Jesus. It's Paul McCartney. The Beatle. Best buds with Clapton, Hendrix, and Dylan. I heard Blackbird. Live. It's an experience I'll never forget as long as I live.

Paul's show also provided a stark and welcome contrast to the over-abundance of electronic sounding, synth pop, techno dub step manufactured music created by DJs that sound like same hour-long track over and over that took up most stages after 11. I've been informed by my much hipper friends that this is what's cool now. And I'm sure it is, especially if you dig glow-sticks and day-glo paint. But that part of the festival just wasn't for me.

Other highlights included Local Natives and Cat Power, laughing harder than I have ever laughed in my life around our campsite with new friends, and being reminded that people en masse are still capable of being kind, open-minded, welcoming, and good. Positivity is a force that's too often squelched by traffic jams and jobs we hate and the constant pursuit of money. Breathing it in was as refreshing as cold water in the middle of the day.

So in conclusion, I got to spend 4 days re-learning the idea of being completely present, of what community means, and how powerful patience and a sense of humor can be.

I learned how much I hate sleeping on the ground, but if I'm tired enough, I can actually sleep anywhere.

I learned I don't mind heat half as much as I mind sweat. And that make-up and showers aren't as necessary and crucial to my building relationships as I thought.

I'd say that makes me pretty fortunate.

Happy Bonnaroo!

xo.

Some of the Things I Should've Said at Your Funeral

Dear Daddy,

Two years ago, just a few days before Father's Day, my world cracked open and you were gone.

I don't remember the last time I talked to you before that. But I remember the last time you called. I didn't answer the phone.

I miss the way your feet shuffled across the floor when you walked, usually in the middle of the night, up to raid the fridge. It never occurred to me then me the reasons why night after night someone wouldn't be able to sleep. All I know is that I felt safe knowing you were standing guard over us.

I miss that one time on Christmas Eve when you walked out of the bathroom with your face covered in shaving cream, trying to get out ho-ho-ho, and our laughter making it impossible. I know that's the dad you wanted to be all the time. And I also know how hard that was for you, now, looking back on it.

I miss that time you danced with mom in the garage as the sun went down, me watching from the tailgate of your red Chevy pick-up truck. Now every time I hear “Brown-Eyed Girl” I smile and kinda cry because it reminds me that despite everything, you did love mom more than anything. Or you tried to at least.

I miss the deep scruff of your voice and your crappy handwriting and I think sometimes about how scary it is - the notion that I may one day forget how you sound.

Most of all, I miss the things we'll never get to do. The things I'll never get to tell you, the aisle you won't walk me down, the advice you'll never give me.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still mad at you. One day I hope I'll figure that whole forgiveness thing out. But today I'm still mad. I fight the thought that you gave up because it makes me white with rage and I try everyday to trust that you truly did the best you could and that the other stuff was just too big.

But regardless of everything, I miss having my dad. I miss you, today and everyday. There are still moments that buckle me out of nowhere. The world is field of land mine memories. But I'm strong and resilient and wise and tough. And at least some of that is because of you.

So just know that I love you. And I always did. Even when you were an asshole. And I hope wherever you are, your feet don't shuffle in the middle of the night anymore.

I hope you're still.

Forever and always,

Your little princess

"In the happiest of our childhood memories, our parents were happy too." -Robert Brault

Parachute Pants Revisited

While I do spend waaay too much time putting outfits together and trying to look as cute as possible while maintaining the appearance of effortlessness a la Jennifer Aniston, one fashion rule I always follow is this: comfort.

I don't care how much it costs, how amazing it makes my ass look, if I can't move in it, if it can't withstand the inevitable wrinkling it will endure in my car, I'm not interested. A little intentional slouchiness never hurt anyone. In fact, if there was a way to justify pajama bottoms as interview wear, I'd be the first on the bandwagon.

Alas, I doubt Conde Nast would be at all interested in my shiny resume if I showed up to their offices sporting my softest pair of Joe Boxer PJ pants*.

Thank GOD that the fashion world has finally decided to merge the  two concepts (comfort and style) and create what I think may be the best variant of sweatpants/bellbottoms/skinny jeans ever in the history of time.

Ladies, gentlemen, lovers and friends. I present to you ... the harem pant. Am I going jogging? On a date? To a concert? To the DMV? MET Gala? You don't know. And that's the beauty of these bad boys. Ultimate versatility.

All these can be found at Urban Outfitters.

And these are available at Free People.

Now, before you say anything, I do realize that the cut of these pants is a little hard to pull off if you have the hips of anyone over 12 and you're under 5'10. However, I also know that life is short...inso facto, we should all feel free to wear whatever the hell we want. Inso facto, I'm buying some.

Proportions be damned.

Bring on the Parachute Pant 2.0.

*Thanks to my grandmother every single Christmas Eve, I own at last count, 15 pairs. Oy. Love you, Maw.

Cheers dears.

xo.

Memorial Day Recap

There is something euphoric about waking up on Monday not to the sound of your alarm clock, but instead to the drum of a peaceful highway, the chirping and chattering of birds and squirrels, and the smell of coffee brewed slowly, instead of in a haste of trying to get ready for work.

So naturally, I'm a HUGE fan of any holiday that falls on a Monday.

Aside from the fact that Memorial Day reminds us to take a minute in gratitude and remembrance, it also conveniently gives us a three day weekend to spend doing all the things our brave military men and women fought to keep free for us.

Things like getting drunk with your parents, playing ladder ball in the backyard, stuffing your face with watermelon, laughing with your brother, taking a long bike ride, setting shit on fire, drinking cheap gas station icees, planting something to care for and watch grow, and being grateful for every simple thing.

Have a look.

Hope you guys had an amazing weekend. I did.

xo.

oh, and obviously these are my personal pictures. So don't be a dick and take them without permission. 

Nine Lives

So I've been wearing make-up since I was like, 15 or something. As such, I'm pretty adept at applying my own. I'd never charge for my services or anything, but I can handle contour and bronzer with the best of 'em.

So when I went into Sephora the other day and dropped over $20 (including tax) on what Elle, InStyle, and my make-up savvy friends have called the greatest, most awesomest, totally worth the money eyeliner, I was fairly confident in my ability to use it. Liquid liner can't be all that different than a satin pencil, right?

Um, wrong. I got home, took all my make-up off, and began to apply what I thought was a sexy, day-time cat-eye liner look. However, when I opened both my eyes, it looked like an actual cat applied it for me. With it's paws. And no thumbs.

And all I wanted was to look something like this:

I cannot, for the life of me, figure this shit out. Maybe my hand's not steady enough, maybe I'm finally developing arthritis. I don't know. All I know is that the line is never straight and this has everything to do with operator error and nothing to do with product. When that shit says "Stay All Day," they aren't kidding. I was stuck with a strange, uneven eye squiggle all freakin' day long.

Do you guys have any tips on how to apply liquid liner with grace and not with the dexterity of a blind toddler trying to use scissors for the first time?

It'd be much appreciated :)

Hope you guys have a fantastic weekend. It's officially the start of Summer!

xo.

Novel Accessories from Kate Spade

So a few days ago, I was deleting all the stupid shit from checking my email, and in my fury of deletion, nearly missed one from the lovely people at Kate Spade.

Now I don't ever, ever open emails like these - not from Banana Republic or The Loft or Michael's or Mattress Direct - even though, as my grandmother warns me, there could be coupons in there. Turns out, I'm just not a huge online shopper and I'd rather just be at the store. Plus, I've never actually purchased anything from Kate Spade. It's not really my aesthetic.

But when these beauties appeared in my inbox, I found myself obsessively staring at my screen, trying to figure out how I was going to justify spending $325 on a bag that can barely hold Chapstick and a tampon, instead of buying groceries for the month.

     

 

How charming are these?? Ugh. I'd invent plans just to constitute my carrying them. They've apparently been around for awhile, but they're new to me. A little black dress or your basic dark skinny jeans and heels are begging for this kind of quirky accessory.

BONUS: They were also featured on my friend Taylor's adorable little blog, The Paper Dahls, so take a look over there too.

Hope you all had a fantastic Mother's Day! Happy Monday.

xo.

A Memory, a Monologue, a Rant, and a Prayer

Ugh.

Hang in there with me dears. This post won't be punctuated by cute, appropriate little pictures between the paragraphs.

Despite my best efforts, today's been one of those days where I cannot stop questioning like, everything about the life path that I've chosen for myself.

Guys, it's not like I'm aspiring to be an accountant, or a nurse, or a teacher or dentist anything, although each of these is an admirable goal to strive for - except dentistry.

No. Instead, I have decided to dedicate my life to being a writer. Now, this hasn't been an overnight thing. All my life, it's the ONLY thing that has ignited me. Lit me up like a trailer park at Christmas time. It's been ingrained into my cells since I could put words together.

But I might as well be 6 years old telling my mom I want to be a princess or ninja when I grow up. Most people smile and nod and placate me with pleasantries when they ask me what I want to do. But then, inevitably, they say, "No, like, what do you to do, like for a living?" Ninety percent of the time I just smile and laugh and internally applaud myself for not being ignorant and short-sighted.

But today, for whatever reason, it sank in. It started with the fucking financial aid office at school telling me that unless the IRS processes and releases my tax transcripts (which can take 11 friggin weeks) by July 29, I will be forced to drop all my classes for Fall semester. This incident mutated into the following thought process:

Writing career = college degree + fancy shmancy internships + great connections garnered from said internships = fulfillment = living up to my divine responsibility to serve the masses with my profound and progressive mastery of the English language.

Somehow my entire writing life became hinged to attending classes in the Fall. Without them, I'd no doubt find myself to be 60, sitting wrapped in a tattered blanket, clutching the teeny handful of clips I'd managed to get published in my meager life, rocking back and forth mumbling lines from Sex and the City. I'm also severely drunk in this mental scenario. And also living somewhere like Mississippi. Dear readers, Mississippi fucking sucks. I don't want to end up there. No offense to any Mississippians who have found their way to my blog.

So, really long story less long, I've spent all day questioning why I want to commit my whole life to something I may never touch. What if all those people are right and all I do with my degree is become a bookkeeper at a mattress factory? What if all those people who scoffed at my degree choice would finally get to laugh their asses off and between gasps for air, point and say "I told you so?"

Maybe I should just give it up now and get a business degree. Or better yet, drop out and start applying with Sealy or SleepNumber.

All this negativity drove me to a bath tonight. I tried to sit down and write to center myself, but the thoughts kept coming and nothing felt good. I practically spoke out loud to the universe, begging to be validated in this very scary and uncertain choice I'd made for myself. It was just...bad. I needed a quiet, dark room that smelled like lavender and epsom salt, window open with the hum of the distant highway, to try and calm down and get my shit together.

I brought a book with me - A Memory, a Monologue, a Rant, and a Prayer - to try and focus on something else. The book isn't new; it came out several years ago. But I found it for a dollar at a kickass Atlanta thrift store and bought it. It's a collection of writings from the likes of Dave Eggars, Maya Angelou, Alice Walker, and Edward Albee to name a few, whose purpose it is to bring attention to violence against women and girls.

I opened it up and began reading, and like a light from beyond, read this introduction:

Words. Words. This book is indeed about words. Speaking the unspoken. Speaking the spoken in a new and viable way, speaking the pain, speaking the hunger. Speaking. Speaking about violence against women not because it is the only issue, but because it is an issue that that lives smack in the middle of the world and is still not spoken, not seen, not given weight or significance. So that words crack open numbness and denial and disassociation and distance and deception. Speaking so that we are in community, in conscience, in concern. 

Speaking about violence against women because in 2006, young Amish girls are gunned down in their school just because they are girls; women are trafficked like meat sold from poor neighborhoods to men in rich neighborhoods; women are raped in Darfur on their way to get wood from the fire or grass for their donkeys. In 2006, women are burned and mutilated and stoned and dismissed and undone and refused and silenced...Speaking about violence against women because of your mother, your sister, your aunt, your daughter, your girlfriend, your best friend, your wife. Speaking about violence against women because the story of women is the story of life itself. In speaking about it, you cannot avoid speaking about racism and domination, poverty and patriarchy, empire building, war, sexuality, desire, imagination...Speaking about violence, telling the stories, because in the telling, we legitimize women's experience...

We need writers in these terrible times of deception and manipulation and sound bites and half-investigated truths...We don't have many real leaders, we don't have many politicians we can trust. But we can trust writers. Rather than selling us something, they are exploring something; rather than dominating us, they are opening us; rather than winning or having a position, they are inviting us to ask questions. 

We need each and every writer, each and every artist, to tell the truth the way he or she sees, the way it comes through her or him...

I thank you, the reader for taking this journey.

-Eve Ensler

The time is took for me to read that was all it took to re-center myself. THAT is why I will do this. It's why I don't mind the waiting or the nannying I have to do to pay the bills. We are all stories. And those stories matter. Writers make us all immortal. And I'm so, so lucky to be gifted with the opportunity to do it for the rest of my life. 

Even if I have to make that opportunity for myself, everyday. 

xo. 

P.S. Don't worry, I'll never become a dentist. I'd sooner die.

Vampires, Vagabonds, and Voodoo

So after not nearly enough time, my mom and I have made it back from the land of no open container laws, and I must say - it was one of the cooler experiences of my life.

New Orleans is a place that sticks to your soul the same way jambalaya sticks to your ribs. And the food is a perfectly good indicator of the people. Warm, robust, loud, and so, so good.

The best part for me though was watching my mom, who hasn't even been to downtown Atlanta in 10 years, see a city that was so alive and full of spirit. It's a place that is awake and just...proud - of who they are and where they've been. There are streets, buildings, entire blocks, still in recovery from Katrina, and while the rest of us have managed to effortlessly forget, these people stare at it every single day. They don't turn away or try and cover it. It's as a part of the landscape as the lazy trees Mardi Gras beads. The air there is thick with resilience and good ol' fashioned gumption, the likes of which I desperately hope I brought home with me.

Everywhere we went, the people were so welcoming and helpful, offering bright hellos and 'come on ins.' And it was humbling to be at such a vivid cross-section of this country - black, white, gay, rich, clothed, half-naked - everyone is always welcome. It doesn't hurt that there are "cocktail-to-go" bars all over the place either, eager to serve up hurricanes in plastic cups to take with you as you wander around trying to see as much as you possibly can.

As far as the Jazz Festival itself, it was absolutely worth the trip down there. Despite the acres of knee-deep sand and mud, despite the crazy man offering my mom and I mushrooms (we regretfully declined), despite 50,000 people and no elbow room - despite all this there was music. Amazing jazz music, amazing bluegrass. There was Fleetwood Mac and singing Landslide with Stevie Nicks and my mom and almost crying because she looked so, so happy. I'd never trade being there for anything.

That's the thing about New Orleans. Whether you want it to or not, it wakes you up. It summons buried parts of yourself that you nearly let die. It taught me new things about my mom and about myself. It forced me to feel comfortable in my own skin. Their strength spills over.

But what can you expect from a people and a place that have such a strong, tight sense of community that not even a natural disaster can quell it? They offer no apologies for their scars and they welcome you in with all of yours, never a question asked.

It's a place where you can come as you are and leave better than you were, if you allow yourself to be opened up to new and crazy and amazing things. It's rich with magic and hospitality and even the streets sing.

If you ever find yourself with a chance to visit, do it. Eat the beignets, drink too much, soak up the jazz. Let it seep into you then bring it back home.

You'll be glad you did.

xo.