Story BREAK

Turning

Reason Number 0.5

A bicycle is a relatively uncomplicated machine that allows you to travel distances that are just barely not walkable. Mine has three gears, bouncing and clicking down intermittently cobbled, heavily pocked Brooklyn roads. Only one of the gears works, the middle one, which works out perfectly for my riding skills and moderate leg strength.

Unfortunately, I got a flat tire in the middle of a neighborhood with which I'm pretty unfamiliar, on my way to get my first haircut in TWO YEARS. My hair is very uninteresting, which makes me very happy, as I've now graduated to the stage in my adult life in which I crave follicular consistency over experimentation. After a billion not-quite-right yet exhilarating hairstyles I have finally found what actually works. I don't care about my hair at all. And I'm starting to not care that much about clothing, but not in a late-twenties-meandering-towards-pregnancy-and-therefore-flares way, more in a way like I've figured out what I need, I have most of what I need, I don't have the money for fun purchases, nor do I want to extend myself beyond what money I have. Simplicity. And I'm sick of having a closet that vomits clothing I hardly wear.

I don't want a Chanel bag. Not until I can actually afford one. Or maybe I don't want one at all.

I will always keep the deadstock Victorian boots I bought in Chamblee almost a decade ago, even though I haven't worn them once. I remember the lady I bought them from said "These aren't the perfect shoes for the fourth of July, but they'll be great other times." Paraphrased, for memory bias.

I think it's always important to question the things you think are unrelentingly true about yourself. I don't have to be the person who mixes patterns. Or, I am the person that mixes patterns, and I know that about myself when I'm wearing jeans and a grey sweater. What I choose to wear reflects my personality, but not so much that it actually matters.

Reason Number EEEE: Back to School Special

I love the Allman Brothers Band, and maybe it's partially because it reminds me of my dad and when I think of my dad I get c-r-e-a-t-i-v-e.

And don't tell anyone but whenever a reference to Georgia happens in anything I feel a small warm spurt in the depths of my rib cage.

Every time I think about teaching I feel nightmare nausea, and not because I'm not excited about it, because I'm THRILLED, but the most socially awkward person in the world aka me is not always ready to stand in front of multiple eye pairs, staring.

Not lying, I really will try to wear heels the first day.

I also want to purchase hand weights. Strength is not always so bad.

Reason Number 1: Back to Basics

I feel that this blog has lost its original focus. Which doesn't matter all that much, as I don't consider any of this good writing, but more of just an outlet (OUTLET MALL!!!! Is it bad that every time I think "outlet" I think shopping even if someone is talking about a wall socket? Braving the back racks of Off 5th for surprises like Lanvin parachute pants or Miu Miu wooden platform sandals, most of which I never even buy because it's still out of my price range, in the face of mean Asian ladies from Duluth and carpet cleaner and air conditioning so intense it makes me feel like I have a sinus infection???). I'm just going to stop.

Pie equals creative output equals writing-inducive thoughts while making churning crusts so HELP?

Conclusion:
I need to make a pie. There are a bunch of recipes I've found for summer pies. Strawberry rhubarb is what I've settled on.

Reason Number 69: How do you express to people that you don't mind taking a shit without being that girl who talks about poop?

Uninterestingly enough, I finally got a new computer battery. This enables me to travel to my nearest Dunkin Donuts* in order to write/blog sift/make purposefully low (but not too low) bids on Edwardian lawn dresses and Alaia sandals on eBay to fool myself into thinking I might win when really I don't want to pay because I can't/Max Hardcore/facebook stalk my mom's friends/search craigslist for puppy listings/cover my screen in denial and humiliation, all without worry that as soon as I unplug I'll lose it all in a second.

*At the risk of sounding like an elitist ("at the risk of" filler language for "I don't want to admit it but I AM" meaning I AM AN ELITIST) I wish there were another coffee shop in our neighborhood aside from Dunkin Donuts. I'm such an elitist that I don't even consider Dunkin Donuts a coffee shop even though coffee is their primary product (aside from munchkins, etc.). And I LIKE their doughnuts, I always have--even the Bavarian cream, the grossest, most horrifying to most people doughnut that's ever exited--but I think their coffee blows and I only get it if I'm about to keel over and die from caffeine withdrawal, which basically means every day.

Somehow, the misspellings of the dunking process and the doughnuts themselves do not bother me in the least. In general I don't want to spit bile into someone's face because (s)he mistakenly misspelled a word, nor do I care when a business purposefully misspells, as in this case. There are, of course, exceptions I'm sure I'll think of about five minutes after posting this.

But! I want to sit in a coffee shop that has chemex coffee, free trade coffee, an expansive collection of white teas and fizzy waters from which to pick. Or not even this. Just someplace with a couch and some outlets and tables that aren't covered in thumbprints and sprinkles.

Elitist? Am I? Well, sometimes. Sometimes I think you know, I'm not really much of an elitist at all. I don't automatically think my opinions are better than other peoples'. But maybe I do? Literarily, at very least. But then I like the dumbest stuff ever, like the Commodores and Lucky Magazine and every show on HGTV.

The things we love.

Reason Number 85&: Most Hated Expressions

brain fart

epic fail

I, myself, for one,

artsy!

grab life by the balls

examining the other

busting my balls

ergo

balls-out

the panopticon

vis a vis

cleansing

hubby

decolletage

can't see the forest for the trees

boo

I am a woman who speaks her mind.

raison d'etre

left-brained

vixen

toxins

tail

FML

deus ex machina

chick lit

because, clearly, you see,

girls' night

amigo

chinoiserie

je ne sais quoi

juice fast

ho's before bro's

ganja (gange, trees, smokes (n.))

takin' names

avant-garde

one cannot help but note

herstory

bro's before ho's

FIFY

ciao

chocoholic

guilty pleasure

I take no issue with the insertion of "like" into intelligent, well-meaning conversations. We all get anxious for filler now and then.

Reason Number 85: Writer's Block is for Idiots

I am plagued by adverbs. This is surprisingly (SEE!) difficult to overcome in writing, especially (GAH) energetic writing with a billion word pileups that render narratives so confusing readers wish they were comatose.

I like to think some of this is innate to me as a writer, innately (BAM) kind of okay about me versus other writers who write simpler, unadorned sentences. It's kind of like the difference between a straight-up chocolate cupcake and a cupcake made with spinach icing and topped with some kind of compote. Um, no?

There is always a time, usually in early spring, when I think "You know, Urban Outfitters really isn't that disgusting." This always results from seeing someone I respect wearing a darling dress and asking her "Where did you buy that darling dress?" to which she responds "Um, Urban Outfitters! Tee-hee! I know RIGHT?!" Then I end up having writer's block and looking at the $9.99 and under section on their website for two and a half hours while trying to think of the perfect way to describe a windowsill without sounding like a moronic half-wit Wordsworth-inspired dickface. Or Jhumpa Lahiri. But in spite of my best efforts to find something that doesn't look like garbage I always turn up empty-internet carted.

I hate the term "writer's block." Even though I have it. Often. It's just such a dumb idiotic excuse tossed around by people who don't know how to write, or don't care about writing, or think writing is glamorous and tragic. Writing is a nasty-ass crusty chore from hell while also being uproariously (here we go again!) fun and something I could easily not do with my time while remaining my most viable skill. Mostly it's just a shitty job I don't get paid for. Kind of like working at Brusters (RIP), but for free.