Hot water, tight shirts.

Alas I am home now, plaid clad and surprisingly inspired to paint after a very long hiatus. The aforementioned Southwest sauce has been cleaned from my ten digits and mint tea has been steeped to a potency that will hopefully cure my ailing stomach (damn you Subway and your delicious Cold cut Trio sandwich). Sitting at my computer in my bedroom of my modest home, the only thing I can hear is Z-lister hip hop artist (if I can call him that) Chingy and his terrible single "Right Thurrr" reverberating upwards through the hardwood beneath me. On top of that noise, there are about one hundred girls chirping amicably over the deafening music. Unfortunately in this case, gravity is no deterrent thanks to the ear-splitting volume Chingy is being played at. Oh my word, just when I thought life couldn't get any worse, Chingy stopped and Ludacris took over. I suppose I should not complain, my neighbors above and below continually put up with Joanna Newsom (who sounds something akin to Shirley Temple on violet drugs haphazardly playing a harp) and Neutral Milk Hotel (who sound like a musical group Sylvia Plath might have thrown on whilst she roasted her own head in the oven) on vinyl. Lucky for them, my record player's needle has been worn down to a useless nub. I am without and left wanting on so many levels.

My friend Kristin 'Mess' Burton came into the store today to help pass a couple of hours alongside me. We ate Subway in unison, laughed on the floor, talked about the Babysitter's Club and agreed after looking at a few hundred pictures on the internet that we will never be 'one of those' pretty girls you see walking in clumps around eleven in the morning in teetering and unnecessary heels with the hot-rollered hair, manicured nails, and Earl's boobs. Not to say that we are heinous ladies, nor are manicured and big chested ladies consistently uneducated. To make sweeping comparisons is not the motive of today's post, but thanks to the annoying tenants below, I am reminded of my discouragement due to the way my acquaintances regard their own bodies. This is tricky subject matter; I don't want to ruffle any feathers but I do feel the need to voice this seeing as the 'Body Image' topic has been rearing it's head in conversation more often than not of late. I have nothing against looking pretty, but I have a few qualms with pretty dumb girls. (Spring Break a la Cancun 1997 is still going strong downstairs and an Abba sing-along just took OVER the airwaves). Jill and I were corresponding back and forth the other day about beauty and self confidence. She made a good point when she wrote that she feels the most confident when she "is strong and healthy" both in body and mind. I think there is plenty of truth in those words. It is important to feel strong, to be able to carry weight that the world hands you whether that be literally or metaphorically. Maybe I just have blinders on or am too critical of those cookie cutter girls who fit perfectly into the "pretty and dumb" category. Too judgmental, yes. Blinders, maybe. (I am sorry, but it is too easy to be critical after eight hours straight of listening to mindless conversation and cleaning up one million discarded barstar shirts and lamé tights off the floors of change rooms).

I am losing my grip on articulacy here, I best be off on this topic. More later, perhaps. If this is upsetting to anyone, feel free to comment. While this might sound pretentious, I think I am simply on the hunt for people as hungry for individuality and creativity as myself. Unfortunately both of those seem to be unattainable in this city thanks to the daily 'fashion blogs', A Apparel costumed teens and boozy/bourgeois dance spots that are mushrooming at an ephemeral rate lately. Just be comfortable; I just want to be comfortable in my own skin, in my own clothes and home, on the dance floor or in the kitchen, in my underwear in front of girls with alien body types from my own. That is it, that is all. I want to be comfortable and strong.

Let us see, let us see. I am off to paint and try desperately hard not to be dumb. Thank god I have little boobs; maybe people won't jump to conclusions upon tight shirt inspection as quick as I do.

Oh boy, hello Pussycat Dolls performing live from the basement.
Hot water, Madge.

*Disclaimer: I know plenty of intelligent big-busted women, just sayin'.