Can't take my eyes off of you

As the rain drips and dribbles down the window raised above my ahead and the women of the office tweet in an out of the student work room, I am forced to look inside myself and see that I am nothing but judgmental.  I think make-up and a shower does this to me.  But under no circumstances does my outward appearance validate and legitimize my worth as a human being more than any other woman who pokes in my office.  And yet, a woman in a sweatsuit - the JLo kind - catches my eye and my snarl.  A woman bragging about her daughter, whom she has every right to brag about, watches my ears perk and my eyes narrow.  And my boss, my favorite woman in this office, smiling and happy as always, offering anyone and everyone fixin's for s'mores, earns a subtle cut of my eyes.  And "subtle" is being generous.

I suppose now comes the time that I go into hipster mode and discuss how being judgmental is or is not hipster - I think it is very hipster - but now is not the time to think over my hipster-tude, which I have realized, I do not have.  Now is the time to think over in what locus did I get the idea that I could judge.  I have done it all day today - men driving a Gator, girls walking to class, professors doing their job - and I assume all day every day, but who am I to judge?

Yes, I know that because I scale mountains and write award-winning operas, and because I repair electrical appliances free of charge and designed an internationally recognized line of corduroy evening wear, and because I am an abstract artist and a concrete analyst, I should be of the right to judge whomever I choose.  For we all know, I am better than all.  Look at all I can do.  But what can you look at to see who I am?  What can I look at in others to see who they are besides what they do? You cannot. Therefore, I cannot judge.

Close your eyes; clear your heart

There is a feeling that certain music gives me when it gathers around me and engulfs me and fills me with an uncontrollable effervescing of sheer arousal.  There are not enough words in this language or any other to describe it for I believe that any word could describe it and all words could describe and no words could describe it.  "Microwave" can describe it, for what does a microwave do but create a deep warming sensation from the center of a dish of pure delectability. And "sunglasses" can describe it, for what do sunglasses do but shield your gaze from that which is too powerful, only to deliver the world in a manner that is more beautiful than without the hazy shade of sepia caressing it.  And "conditioned" can describe it, for what does something conditioned do but perform better in its circumstances, attracting admiration and dissonance from like-minded individuals that cannot seem to have minds alike.  So how does one describe it?  Well, when I heard a song that gave me this feeling earlier this morning via the jukebox in Waffle House as I sipped on weak coffee and enjoyed the company of two brilliant friends, I commented, unwittingly speaking my pure mind and soul, that the music "held my heart." Now do you get it?

Decisions to decisions are made and not fought and I thought this wouldn't hurt a lot; I guess not

Brittney, my dear follower, has asked me to post to my blog again, so here goes.

This is a blog of my hipster encounters, so today must be discounted; it has been less than hipster in content, form, and style, for it has been full of lazy clothes, lots of sleep, a teeny bit of reading, and, of course, nicotine.  

Yet, I have not left my hipster course! Fear not! Only but two days ago was I atop the Vulcan in Birmingham - a spot left not only for the hipsters, but definitely one that could be considered hipster in nature, considering it's subject - with the girl of my present dreams - not literally, though, because another girl inhabits most of my sleepy nights - dressed in a full hipster getup - Chucks and skinny jeans, black shirt and contrasting shrug, scarf and bracelet; I will not let my advocates down! Leah, the aforementioned rapturing girl, kept commenting on my hipster-tude, and I, in true hipster fashion, as I later realized, denied her accusations with full force. I fear that only hipster deny indictment so ruthlessly.  (Can you be ruthful? And doesn't "ruthful" ring true of being ruthless?)

It appears that I have not lost my touch in blog post construction. The style of my language has not faltered over the past several months, as I afeared it would. Thank goodness.

I suppose now is time for the picture that I dare take with every entry; this picture is less than hipster, I must admit. (I'm wearing

Abercrombie, but, in my defense, it is an ex-girlfriend's shirt.)

Something worth fighting for

Being one of the very few awake in a sleepy dorm at 2:30 AM, I find myself finding the only company in my blog and my music.

I got a job, though. In my sleepless night, I found a job as a tutor. Now all I have to do is wait for students to contact me. I set my own hours. I set my own salary. Good job? I think so. And tutors make a shit-ton of money.

I noticed that I haven't spoken of my hipster musings lately. Today was a good one. I wore nothing but black today - black leggings, a black shirt, black shoes - save my circus-colored skirt that I found at a thrift store - Goodwill? - on Saturday back at home. Though what I smoke is not very hipster - I hear hipsters don't do Camels - the variety pack that I tote around with me in my purse is. The contents of my purse: three books, a notebook, six packs of cigarettes, a lighter, a pen, and some sunglasses. Occasionally, I stick my wallet in there. It's Vera Bradley. Slash against hipster points.

Beach trip on April 24th!

Train trip in August!

Tonight was a night of cigar smoking, cigarette smoking, Family Guy watching, and trip planning. Time very well spent. I love Patton and Brittney.

I'm still lonely.

The dress

My Deb dress

Love, pull your sore ribs in

Finally, back at home. Yes, I'm in Tuscaloosa. Yes, I'm on campus. Yes, I'm at my dorm. But most importantly, I am in the warm spot!

I've got my Coca-Cola Vanilla Zero.

I've got my cucumber-provolone-hummus on sourdough sandwich.

And I've got my 555 Filter King cigarettes.

These are the only cigarettes that still give me a buzz.  It may be the triple shot of tobacco in each one...

Good day. Good day.

In other news, Classy has released its first EP! It's rough. It sounds like it was made in a basement. But it's finally here! Yay! Best Tegan and Sara cover ever? I think so. "Not Tonight" is where it's at.

http://apps.facebook.com/ilike/artist/Hidden+Classy

Austin was all it could be and more. From meeting the pretty girl I saw on the bus at a party to hearing Mother Falcon live after much anticipation to hanging out with my favorite people from St. Hugh's College... It was a hipster trip to top all hipster outings in the most hipster of towns. From my dress to the concerts to the smoking, it was all hipster.

As the wind picks up, I will retire to my other home - the cave under the stairs - to wait for my compadres to return home and read up on transgenderism from Kate Bornstein.

P.S. I may or may not have made out with a fifteen year old. As long as she's cute, right?

Loosen up my buttons, baby

I am sitting in Sam's dorm room in a vintage shirt that I bought yesterday over the clothes I wore yesterday, minus the underwear I had on yesterday. No, I did not change underwear. "What are you talking about, Sassy?" you ask. I am not wearing underwear of any variety, for last night, or early this morning - the time is not important - I spent a great deal of time in a hot tub in my underwear (yes, of course, I was wearing a thong) with Fran, Lucas, Sam, and Will, wine glass and cigarettes in hand. I dated Sam for somewhere around eight months and the most skin he ever saw of me was last night.

This morning, I woke up in a house I had never been in before yesterday with people I had never met before yesterday. I could not sit on that couch any longer. Trekking out to the porch to lay in the hammock, I decided that there was a better spot in my near vicinity to relax. I spent the morning alone, sitting on a dock on a private lake with a cup of Irish coffee in one hand and a Camel 99 in the other in grungy clothes and no underwear. All I wanted was my moleskin journal to concoct some doodle of what was in my mind. 

Side note: Today, I received the grade on my psychology paper I wrote the other night. I wrote it drunk. I got a 4/4.