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.

The plague of locusts

I sit here alone in Sam's dorm room, surrounded by people, all dreaming of sugar plums, wrapped in each other's arms, with only sounds of heavy breathing and the occasional buzz of a cell phone as the friends of my friends start to wake up and pray that my snoozing fellow snoozers are indeed awake, as they are not. For you know, it is a day of prayer, seeing as it is Sonday.

And the friends of the one typing are slowly coming to their senses. The boys, every boy, is awake and moving about, being loud, being manly, in their underpants and singing "Wizard of Oz." And laughing like hobgoblins, apparently.... Oh, it is such a weird day in such a hipster town where I feel anything but hipster walking down the street in unmatched patterns, boots, tights, greens socks (barely visible). 

I was feeling totally hipster because Sam said we were heading to a hipster gathering. I stand corrected. I am not a hipster in a town as hipster as Austin, only in the coming-of-age towns such as Tuscaloosa and Huntsville.

The indie culture has me beat. But today is a new day.  I will prevail! I will look like a hipster, even if I am not a true one. There's something about my style that is not hipster - it's not grunge enough - but it cannot be classified as anything else. Even my yellow headband...it doesn't make me hipster in the most hipster of crowds...like last night.

Come on kids; let's all hold hands

The ferociously female - female, not girl or woman - she has never felt the true feminine characteristics that she so often has been told to feel, that would make her a girl or a woman, though she is undeniably female - adolescent sits outside - she calls it outside because it is not enclosed by four walls, but it is roofed and it is surrounded by columns large enough to appear as walls - of the place she refers to as home - is it really home? - to all that she knows how to do best.  I don't care if you're good, as long as you are good at it. She is smoking and she is drinking and she is listening to the sultry sounds of Ani Difranco. And what good - I say "good" here as if it means something - does this do her? She knows that she should be studying and reading and learning and feeling, but yet she hides in the corner of the world - the world is round and has no corners - refusing to do any of these things - things? - for none of these things do her any good either. Especially that one called "feeling."  

Yet as she sits in her corner - the corner in which she really feels at home - the corner that she would never call home - for who calls that which is considered outside "home"? - she waits for someone - anyone? - no, a certain someone that she has been waiting for for months now. So why does she pick this spot to wait - she could wait forever - when she could wait inside where it is warm or wait where she would be sure to be found? She doesn't know. Probably because it was in this spot that they first had a conversation; there was hookah smoke and cigarette smoke and cigar smoke and tobacco smoke and loud conversation and laughter and inappropriateness and hard-beating hearts. She longs for that day to arise again, for the sheets of pressed paper to be read aloud again and for her sense to be overwhelmed by every feeling, but mostly that feeling of love. And that is why she does not feel now. Not only is she waiting for that person but she also waiting for that feeling, and like she will give her time to no other, she will her feelings to no other. She is committed, faithful, dedicated, to something that is not there to hold her commitment, her faithfulness, her dedication. To replace her feelings, she has found hope.

Her words are poetic - her thoughts are poetic - but what can be poetic without feeling the poetry pulse through your veins and out of your fingertips as you type diligently on your silvery white laptop. What can there be but words, empty words?

All I really want

Today, all I wanted to do was sit under my peacock blanket outside with a cigarette in hand and watch "The L Word" with Brittney, but the interwebs wouldn't work in the Warm Spot. FML

Don't live your life like a movie

Again, I sit in my Documentary Film Making class, bored out of my mind, blogging and trying to take pictures of myself without being noticed. My professor hardly teaches us anything that I haven't learned before. I wish I could use this class time to capture the shots I've gotten. But I guess we cannot because not everyone has shot yet. Ridiculous. It's March and some people have not started shooting their films due next month. I have a few hours of footage to work with. 

My professor gives me great ideas when we're alone and talking - ways to film, ways to ask questions, people to talk to. However, in class, I feel as if he doesn't realize all that we know. Or maybe I don't realize all that I don't know. Either way, sitting in class is a waste of time. The class itself is not - I'm learning a lot about making movies, but once I got the basics down, I'm learning more from playing around on my own than sitting in this little, cold, poorly lit classroom.

Hipsters do not dig authority.

That's why God made escort agencies

I noticed that I did not include any hipster musings in the previous post.

The whole post was hipster. From driving at night to smoking to writing poetry to the clothes on my body. Hipster.

So I dress hipster and I act hipster. My music is not hipster. No, I am listening to the Dresden Dolls right now, which is too mainstream to be hipster. I'm sure someone out there reading this has heard of them. And my speech is not hipster. Well, save those times I say "deck." I don't read hipster magazines or hipster websites. I do dig hipster literature. If you believe that my literature, dress, and activities are enough to define me as hipster, and not the things that most often define others as hipster (referring boldly to music choices), then yeah, I'm hipster. But I am not so sure that these three aspects truly define me as hipster. I don't feel hipster on the inside, but my outside says different. What does it feel like to be hipster?

Cigarettes and white grape sour life savers

Whoever said that cigarettes and coffee are brilliant did not know - could not know - the wonder that is found in the taste of white grape sour Life Savers when encompassed by the swirl of tobacco smoke.

However, when you are driving down the highway at night (note the pitch-blackery of that statement) and you are trying to light a cigarette, a cigarette that has a white filter (note the pitch-whitery of that statement), you often find that you will light the filter, not knowing that you are making this grave mistake, and begin to suck. Not only is it upsetting to realize that you cannot puff on a filter-lit cigarette, but also more upsetting to find out that the reason you lit the filter was not because you were a dumb-ass that does not know up from down, but because it was your

 lucky cigarette.

I went vegan for Lent. It's expensive. I'm not vegan anymore. 

To add to this sporadic posting of allegories, I wrote this poem - I suppose you could call it a poem - around the beginning of November. It is no longer applicable, though it is very applicable, for my life seems to center itself around this narrative.

With your hand caressing my arm and your back nearing my chest,

With my fingers gliding along your bare skin and your skin arising with goose bumps,

With your fingers interlaced with mine and your whispering voice flowing in my direction,

My heart's beating quickens - races towards the finish line - and the finish line is nowhere in sight.

My heart beats,

and it beats,

and it beats,

and it beats,

and beats,

and beats,

and beats,

and beats,

beats,

beats,

beats,

beats,

beats.

Slow.

Slow.

Slow.

Slow.

Slow.

My mouth finds your ear.

Slow.

My mouth finds your cheek.

Slow.

My mouth finds your lips.

Forget it.

Everything is speeding now. Hearts are racing, hands are roaming, voices are cracking.

And lips, lips are working harder than ever before.

From ears to cheeks to lips to chins to necks to collar bones to bare chests to beautiful breasts - 

My lips envelop you in kisses,

Your lips - slightly parted, release quiet gasps with each pleasure.

Your fingernails create canyons across my back.

Your legs intertwine mine until we cannot tell which are our own.

Your back arches in reminiscence of full-formed rainbows.

Rainbows and unicorns and love.

Love? Love. Love, really? Love. It cannot be love. But it is.

I am in love with my ex-girlfriend's best friend, my best friend's ex-love's best friend.

Oh, dear.

What am I getting myself into?

"Sassy, I had a lot of fun last night. I do not regret it at all. But, Sassy, I'm still in love with Bev. You and I - there is no spark between us like there is between Bev and I. I'm sorry."

Well, that takes care of everything, doesn't it?