Tag Archives: Artist


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Returning to my blog after about two months of having gone MIA on its’ ass is testament to how much I have matured. Jokes. There has been no maturing, except with regards to my sexual appetite. TMI? Regardless, I have returned to something I have neglected.

Transitions are the few months that creep up on us with outlines of trees, and seashells, and abstract shapes that you may never be quite able to identify, which allow, nay, force you to fill in that shit like a coloring-book. Except, when life throws you coloring-book sketches, it often forgets to throw you a box of crayons. Maybe Life is just that considerate so as not to hit you in the head, or maybe Life doesn’t care unless you give It a reason to. Nevertheless, bitch needs her coloring utensils!


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You rummage about your past and your desired future, hoping to discover anything that can help you fill in those sketches. If you’re lucky, you might find a Sharpie, or an almost-used-up highlighter.

I’m confused, I’m uncertain, I have cut loose all ties that have hindered my growth, however hard and courageous that may seem. I have written an article entitled 10 Things One Should Know About Dating A Compulsive Liar. I have finally begun to perform. I started babysiting two brothers, ages four-and-a-half, and nine, whose naivete have taught me more about life and the importance of humility than I could have possibly acquired from any other source. I have filled my days with tasks and errands and obligations, in part to better myself and maintain control of my life; and in part to teach myself how to survive in a world in which we are brought into, and depart, alone.


Oh hey! That’s me!


Me and my piano best friend flashing our pearly whites!

I am testing the waters; testing my surroundings. Seeing how far I can push before everything collapses. Trying to discover my limits as to what I can rebuild, and whether or not the foundations will be stronger this time around. I allow myself to test the people who claim to still love me, and I question whether love really has anything to do with a specific two people, or whether it is all based on timing. By utilizing every tool under the sun to pushing away the people who claim to love me through acting childish; using malicious words that hurt them below the belt; taking advantage of the attention they give me to see if they will stop giving me said attention; I try to discover if certain feelings can, in fact, surpass even the most awful attempts against them.



Love and Naivete

If you can kick and scream and threaten, and act like you are trying to hurt someone, and have them acknowledge that you are inadvertently asking them to look at your attempts with a certain adoration, and understand that all you want is proof that they know you well enough to understand what you are doing; then perhaps the world doesn’t work as predictably as is presumed.

This transition is about having Life humor me by introducing facts and information and successes and feelings that I haven’t yet felt. Just when you think you have felt and seen everything there is to feel and see, a bird shits on your arm and you are forced to turn the around, wash it off whilst cussing under your breath, perhaps leading you to bump into another destination clad with feelings that you didn’t know existed.

Transitions are a scary thing. Being proactive is the surest way to maintaining a sense of self during such difficult times. An optimistic outlook is surely the mechanism with which to guide us to our next phases in life. I am proactively waiting in anticipation and excitement. Something amazing is just around the corner.

My head hurts, I’m out.


And of course, in case you didn’t get the memo, you can catch my melodic ass here :


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This ONE Time…

At band camp At the café I work at, I had the honor of connecting with one lesbian bartender who works  there, and is the daughter of one very-notable-previously-huge-alcoholic-dude-who-abandoned-the-daughter-who-he-claims-to-be-the-love-of-his-life, New York City author by the name of Alan Kaufman.

Rude. YOU post no bills! (All photos taken by ME unless otherwise noted)

Nostalgic for NYC

Although I have no idea why, I am positive that said encounter with said lesbian bartender is obviously happening for a reason because I am from NYC also, and the world works in mysterious ways, and she is complex and awesome, and I am complex and awesome, and we all our complex.  And awesome.  Big breath.  I know what you’re thinking.

“Didn’t this girl’s mother ever teach her not to use run-on sentences?”

Well, let me tell you something.  Firstly, no my mother did NOT teach me aforementioned grammatical faux-pas.  She’s foreign, OK?!  And no, I am not a lesbian.  Not that there’s anything wrong with being a lesbian, relax.  Gay pride all the way!!!

But back to what’s important, here.  Isi, my bartender friend, is a phenomenal songwriter/composer.  After work this Friday, we were having a nice chit-chat whilst closing shop when she asked me to stop what I was doing and listen.  She started to sing a song she wrote, and I couldn’t believe how easily she was able to perform it, even though singing/performance is not even her forte.  In all honesty, I kind of wanted to laugh because the entire situation was outright awkward and unexpected and I am an eleven-year-old child; but from a professional standpoint, woman was amazing!  I immediately began to question myself and my poor, yet ever-improving performance skills.  Isn’t this supposed to come naturally to me?  After all, it is what I love, isn’t it?

Me trying to look like a natural. working?????

Obviously, I have trouble deciphering which parts of a story are important to write about, and which are completely futile.  But I’ve learned throughout my 21 years of living that I shouldn’t blame my erratic story-telling on ADHD.  Perhaps they are these random elements that our brains choose to hold on to that define who we are.  And maybe, just maybe, time will tell how all these seemingly unconnected  facts are meant to come together; because surely they will.  They must.

In the meantime, I leave you with a piece of yet another Adele cover, since the world has obviously not been exposed to one, too many of these, already.  It’s a video of a jam session I had with a peer in preparation for a class performance.  Yes I was hungover.  Yes Gavriel’s (the guitarist) socks are cool.  And yes, I fucking love Adele.


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