Maybe it Really is a Blood Gift

Luck.

I believe in luck as a pure force. Both good luck and bad, I believe that one can be subjected to either without any actual provocation.

I could wax poetic about the luck involved in being an heiress or an HIV infested baby, but I only really came here to discuss my own luck with sewing, as of late. So if you’ll pardon my self absorption – and I don’t really care if you don’t, it’s all part of being self absorbed – here I go:

I am currently working on a line of clothing to show for the upcoming Toronto Alternative Arts and Fashion Week in April. I have been working on my line since early January, and I just tonight completed my second outfit. I have eight more to complete in roughly one month.

It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.

I started off wonderfully, you see. I made the first dress in less than a week, and it went off without a hitch. I had never made a dress like this before, so I was learning as I went along. And I was going along swimmingly.

Then I hit a snag.

My serger was acting funny, so I decided to get my second serger fixed up so as to avoid any major catastrophes. I got the second serger fixed, and as it turned out, it wasn’t even broken, it was just switched to some weird setting.

Then it broke for real.

I fixed it, and it broke again.

Fixed it again, and got the wrong part from the dealership. So it’s still kinda busted. And the first one is still possessed by some sort of needle breaking demon.

While all of this was happening, I got lazy. Then I got sick.

Now I’m better, but I’m currently working with two half busted machines, and I almost broke my sewing machine tonight finishing the second dress.

And I really think that I would have broken the sewing machine if I had not accidentally stabbed myself in the hand with my fabric scissors. I wasn’t actually using the scissors at the time, mind you, they just flew across the floor, somewhat forcefully, and gouged a crater out of my hand.

I managed to appease, or at least entertain, the gods of sewing. I didn’t even know they existed.

I am familiar with the restaurant gods, after having spent the past eight years waitressing for the bulk of my income.

Anyway, that seems to be how the sewing gods operate, too.

They are all part of the same union; The Gods of Luck.

I wish I could figure out how to appease them properly.

Some More Kickass Coen Brothers Movies, Too

I’m about to tread on a sensitive subject, but it’s one that has crossed my path twice in recent weeks, several more times in recent years, and I feel the need to get something off my chest.

It’s about old friends; the ones from whom I’ve grown apart over the years. Running into them again can be stressful. Especially when it becomes apparent that life has not treated them as well as what would have been expected. The disparity between the potential and the end result.

Life is fragile. It’s really easy to fuck up. Drugs, dead or toxic relationships, being dishonest with yourself, laziness and cowardice are so insidious and they all have such potentially dire effects.

I’m doing fine. I am enjoying my art and the learning process involved, making enough money to live a comfortable life, I have a tight circle of great friends and I’m self reliant. I’ve learned a lot from my life experiences and although I may be cynical, I’m not a bitter person by any stretch of the imagination.

I hope that as I continue to live, I’ll continue to love and to learn.

Beyond the creature comforts, that’s all I really want anyway.

A Hug?

I could do without these useless fits of melancholy.

Unproductivity can go fuck off, too.

I’m just so tired.

Uninspired.

Busted serger.

Busted heart that is patched up and scarred, neglected, abused. Funny how this miserable organ can keep on breaking over and over, yet it still puts up a fight for survival.

Ever the optimist, I suppose my heart enjoys the occasional change of scenery, from sleeve to locked drawer and back again.

I haven’t even the energy to masturbate, which only makes me sadder. I want an orgasm to shake this mood.

A trip away from my muddled head and frankenheart.

A distraction.

I’m Claiming Victory

Let’s talk trivial celebrations.

Christmas is when I reap the largest crop.

Halloween is when I get the most excited. And the drunkest.

Victoria Day is when I eat the most meat. Lots of meat. I’m talking Noah’s Ark in my tum.

And Valentine’s Day is when I take stock of my loins and my heart.

Emotionally speaking, V-Day up there with Christmas. I hate them both and wish they would disappear like the Tooth Fairy, in a cloud of youth-centric bullshit.

But they aren’t disappearing, so maybe I should try a different tactic. I mean, I need to do something about it, because I can’t just ignore them. They like to get all up in my grill and shit, so I have to acknowledge them, or rather, the emotions that accompany them.

So here I go with the Valentine’s acknowledgment:

I remember when I was first breaking up out of my longest relationship, nearly two years ago, and I told myself that if I had to choose between spending my life together and restrained or independent and lonely, I would choose the latter combo.

I still choose the latter.

I prefer growth to stagnation, raw feeling to robotic motion, and independence to consistent cock. Pain, when properly experienced, can be a fantastic learning process.

So I will not allow one stupid day to wreck my mind. One stupid day that consists mostly of empty platitudes and caters to a huge minority.

There.

I finally discovered the personal note attached to this song.

My Bloodless Valentine

I hate Valentine’s Day. A lot.

Which is strange, considering I only clearly remember four of the past thirty that I’ve experienced.

Chronologically:

1)When I was seventeen, my boyfriend gave me a handmade card and a wee box of chocolates. And although I may have lost my virginity to dear Skippy, not to mention my heart, and eventually my dignity, I still have that card.

2)I can’t remember exactly which Valentine’s Day this was, but I was single and in my early twenties. I went out alone and somehow ended up having a late night Valentine’s date at an all night diner with a stranger. The steak sandwich was delicious, the romance abundant, and my date was a total gentleman. Until the second date, when he turned into a dryhumping jackass, but that’s irrelevant.

3)Four or five years ago, my then-boyfriend came to meet me at work for some sort of Valentine’s date. I can’t remember the date in question, not even in the slightest, but Mark McKinney from Kids in the Hall was at the pub where I worked.

4)Last year’s Valentine’s Day, when I got my heart torn out and stomped into a bloody mess on the floor by the clumsiest of feet. I spent the night watching Maria Callas videos on youtube, drinking god knows what, and waiting for the torturous hours to pass. Of course when I woke up the next day, I discovered an email from the heartbutcher saying that he wished he’s spent Valentine’s Day with me instead of his crush, because she was a thankless whore, or something to that extent. It fucking sucked.

Truth be told, I think it was last year’s fiasco that made me hate Valentine’s Day with such irrational passion. Because before that, I never really gave a shit one way or the other. To me, it was just a dumb day that gave sappy assholes an excuse to act like sappy assholes.

I certainly never lost any sleep about it before.

This year, although I’m still not exactly losing any sleep over it, I have wasted a great deal of time thinking about it. Stewing, if you will.

Still not sure why. I haven’t gotten laid in five months, and I have exactly zero prospects lined up, so I stand a great chance of continuing to not get laid.

On the upside, I will not get my heart broken into a million pieces. Nor will I sit at home feeling sorry for myself. I have a lot of loser friends who are also not getting laid, and we’re gonna keep each other company and have some sort of sexy orgy.

Hah! Just kidding. We’re going to eat a lot of food and talk about stupid crap and make each other feel better about how lame we all aren’t.

Not the Valentine’s Hate Post

I’ve had this song in my head all week.

I’m not going to pretend, like I usually do, that my fixation on this song is purely coincidental. I’m sure there’s a reason, I just haven’t got it all sorted out in my head yet.

That’ll happen soon enough, if I even care enough to pursue the topic, which I may very well not.

It just doesn’t seem that pressing of a concern.

Like a Snake

I dreamed that I went to get a tan with a friend.

We fell asleep in the tanning beds and woke up burnt. My skin was the colour of scabs.

I rubbed on aloe gel to help, but it just made my skin fall off.

I was really white underneath.

I can’t sleep. I didn’t get any physical activity yesterday.

The Prince of Cups, Rerererevisited

So,

I’m making some things, and I hope that I can incorporate my current life experiences into some great things once again.

Maybe not a head on a pike this time, only because I’ve grown tired of applique, and also of those who deserve their heads to rest upon pikes, but something good, nonetheless.

This guy likely did not deserve to have his head end up on this pike. He doesn’t look like the treason committing type.

Just fantastically clumsy.