Drunk Lindsey. Ready..... GO.

Here's a video of me talking about why Halloween is the ultimate supreme holiday. I also talk a bit of trash about the other holidays, but, you know, until they try being as badass as Halloween they'll get no drunken compliments from me.
Enjoy.
-L

Why isn't it called a platinum lining?

Insomnia can be a huge pain in the ass. Whether it's brought about because of overwhelming worries, or because of nightmares, or because of your obnoxious dogs barking at invisible, late-night pedestrian trolls, insomnia is widely viewed as an all-around bitch.

It's a funny thing, though. As irksome, as frustrating, and as terribly dull as late nights spent by your lonesome can be, I do (every so often) find my evenings spent awake to be somewhat refreshing. Clearly I don't mean refreshing in the "well-rested" sense, but more so in the "I've spent this forced consciousness being at least a little bit productive, which has to be far more productive than laying in bed drooling on myself and having occasional, nonsensical mumble-conversations with my own subconscious brain" refreshing. Which is pleasant, I suppose.

Now, don't be fooled. There are times in which you'd love nothing more than to use your insomnia to be the teensiest bit productive, but you're not quite able. For example, I have this insatiable desire to start working on a concept I recently came up with. I want to sketch with graphite and felt tips and charcoal and colors, and maybe even paint. I want to put these ideas onto paper. And, in a strange but positive turn of events, I'm here, awake and in my house, with not a shred of an obligation on my schedule.

And then... oh, how the gods must laugh maniacally... and then my fucking wrist decides to act like a douche. I occasionally have joint troubles, by the way. But the most ridiculous time for me to have issues with my right wrist is, of course, the exact time I have sudden inspiration to try my hand (har, har) at sketching again, and fleshing out a new concept, and creating motivated ART.

So I'm sitting here, staring at my miscellaneous art supplies as they taunt me, wearing a wrist brace that makes me feel retarded, and slowly tapping each key on my macbook, one at a time, using only my left index finger.

Insomnia fucking blows.

At least SOMEONE in this house is getting some sleep.

Few things are worse than a gummy eraser covered in hair

Actually, that's not true. A gummy eraser that's covered in hair and also has rogue bits of tobacco in it would be much worse. Is much worse. Believe me. I know.


- - - - - - - - - 


I've been thinking a lot about life, lately. Not really in the existential, "why do we exist in the universe" way, though. I never really had the time for all of that lofty nonsense. Nor the energy, or even the patience for it, honestly.

No, I've been thinking about life in terms of what it means to have it, what people choose to do with theirs, if anyone under the age of 50 is actually aware that it has an expiration date, and why I feel as though mine is pulling that bullshit where it seems to go so much faster, the less there is, like sand in a (... shit. What the fuck are those called? Sand clocks? Curvy desert watches? The things that tell you when everyone has to stop in Scattergories?).... I'm sure it'll come to me eventually....

But yes. Those are my current dilemmas surrounding the vague as hell concept of "life" (also, I can't possibly express how nice it is to type the word "hell" and not have to delete and then retype it at least three times before I'm able to keep it from becoming "he'll,").

You know, I spend so much time worrying about grades, or money, or the fact that I've been procrastinating on getting my car's alignment taken care of, that I-

HOURGLASS. It's hourglass. That's the word. That's what I was trying to come up with. Haha, fucking "sand clock".

.... As I was saying, I spend so much time stressed to the nines about pointless(ish) bullshit that I end up taking far too many things for granted. But my awareness of that doesn't change the fact that every time I get into my car, I pause to consider if I'm able to take her to the shop that day, decide that I'm far too busy and will do it tomorrow, and then have a brief but well-deserved guilt party because of it. Yes, I know that I have somewhere to live, am getting a college education, have amazing friends and family and a reliable car and a gas stove so I can make s'mores from my kitchen. My life is somewhat stellar, usually. So why is it that I can be both grateful and super stoked about all of those wonderful things, but still have mild moments of panic and frustration because an extra (and quite unexpected) bill or two showed up at my door and my bank account was quite precariously balanced already?

I mean, shit, there are so many people (it's tragic, there are so many people that I know personally) that are in crisis mode, or at least have their foot in the door of a meltdown. I feel for all of them, and am glad to help or offer support in any way that I'm able. Unfortunately, my unconditional offer of support for the people that are important to me won't keep me from worrying about Honda pulling a little to the left, or from feeling like a total dick immediately after my guilt party.
Love, love, love.
-L

"...board certified physician, addiction medicine specialist."

Side note (can you have a side note before actually saying anything?): I've been listening to a lot of old Loveline lately. It's so wonderfully nostalgic and entertaining.

Anyway...

Not to be all Jerry Seinfeld-esque or anything, but what's the deal with girls in their early 20s? I may only be 24 years old (Christ, 25 in January...), but I know how to be polite in social situations. Even if I'm forced to interact with someone that I have an immediate distaste for, I can smile, and converse, and exist without coming off like Ms. Trunchbull giving a toast at a wedding. 

My manners, while not horrible, are far from impeccable, too. That's why I just end up staring, mouth half-open, when I find myself privy to people behaving like the middle school morons that teased me once upon a time about wearing glasses, or having an odd sense of humor, or having love affairs with puppets as a child. 

I'll never understand why 75% of the females I meet that are in my age group try to treat me like shit. At least I can usually find some guys to stand around with during these quasi-forced situations. They make me so much more comfortable by just drinking heavily and occasionally mumbling in my general direction.

Bitches be trippin'.

Drunken Poetry (It's the best type of poetry)

I was going though the notes I keep on my iPhone the other day, and I discovered that I managed to get really drunk the other night and type out a few lines of strangely-inspired poetry. It's been so long since I've felt inspired to write anything, drunk or otherwise, that I figured I would share.

"It's 8am and now I must
set down this whiskey-laden cup.
The sun's soft, and unlike this glass.
Instead of falling, it comes up.

And now my cliche-riddled head
can bend to rest upon my bed
despite the light and fights of mind.
Had I gone at 4, instead of whined
about my life and things to do
I might be sleeping, now, like you."

-Surprising drunken poetry

<3

How'd they do that? With MOVIE MAGIC!

What are the major things involved in any one person's life? Finances? Relationships (whether platonic or romantic)? Your car? Your house/apartment/cardboard box? Your job? Your family or furbabies? 

Well, it seems as though most of those things in my life are crashing and burning. My family is doing well, as are Lucy and Rabs, so no worries there. My car and house are tied in with wonky finances, so I'm guessing that's all just one issue. Regardless, I'm finding myself increasingly frustrated with... well... myself... as well as almost everything around me. 

So what the hell do you do when life goes from being a positive influence (like a friend that helps you study for a big exam; or brings you soup when you're sick; or shares their whiskey with you because it's better than the cheap shit you brought to the party you're both attending) and starts acting like a total dick (like someone that sits in front of you at the theatre and plays Angry Birds with the brightness on their iPhone at 100%; or that asks you what you think about something, only to correct your opinions with their different, but "more right" opinions; or tells you they don't care where you two go eat and then shoots down every single suggestion you offer)? 

And don't try to talk to me about life giving you lemons, blah blah blah. I've played Portal 2, and lemons will never be the same. However, I highly doubt that combustible lemons will solve my current problems. 

When I'm at my lowest, stuck with lemons with nothing to do with them, I find very few things that help me get through all the bullshit. Painting is a good distraction from negativity, and reminds me that I'm not a total failure at everything (because while my art is not incredible, it's above average, and that's reassuring). Lucy is a fucking trip, and the attention and positive interaction I get from strangers while with her at the dog park (not to mention the snuggles and hysterics she provides) always manages to lighten my mood.  Making lists with at least three points is also good for making shitty situations/circumstances/checking account balances feel less shitty.

But, you know, it's rare and amazing when another person (whether one you know well, or not so well) steps in and manages to accidentally, drastically alter your mood for the better. And you can never tell that person how horrifically hopeless you were feeling, or to what extent they managed to pull you out of that emotional Bog of Eternal Stench. 

So thank you. If you've ever said anything, knowing that it would make someone feel good (especially unsolicited), thank you. If you've gone out of your way to be a thoughtful bastard to a person you hardly know, thank you. And if you've ever shared your top shelf whiskey with an almost complete stranger because she can only afford Jim Beam, thank you. 

Everyone needs that sometimes. And it's incredible how often some random act or random words of kindness will be all that even the most dejected person needs in order to take those first steps, and climb out of the hole they've been wallowing in. 

I'd share my Balvenie 191 with you guys anytime. 

<3

Thank god I haven't been murdered by a stalker in an orange Pontiac Vibe.

Yeah, yeah, it's been forever since I've written anything, god how could I be so negligent, I feel so guilt-ridden, blah blah blah....


Moving on.


I have an interesting, disconcerting, weird story to share. A few nights ago, I loaded my art crap and my 120 lbs dog into my car and proceeded to drive 30+ miles in order to visit with some friends of mine. About 2 miles from my house, I came to a red light. In front of me was, you guessed it, a cat-shit orange Pontiac Vibe. When the light turned green, the guy in the car just kept fucking with his GPS phone dick whatever, so I flashed my brights at him, as if to say, "Hey, distracted guy, I sometimes get distracted too, which is why I'm not honking my horn. But, you know, the light is green now and I'd like to spend as little time as possible with my Great Dane in the back seat, panting on my right ear, if you don't mind." 


The guy blinked his hazard lights at me, waved nicely (a.k.a. waved instead of shooting the bird) and moved on toward the interstate onramp. 


It took about four miles of highway for me to notice that this same guy had managed to get directly behind me in his gross, orange hatchback. I noticed because he flashed his lights at me. Again. I thought to myself, "Self, this is a bit odd. But, you know, he could have accidentally hit the brights. I've done that before," and went on listening to Dave Ramsey tell me how to fix my finances on the shitty talk radio station we have here in Atlanta (I love Dave Ramsey [despite his religious nonsense] and Clark Howard, but the other programs this station airs just make me feel argumentative and ornery). 


A few more miles pass, and then I hear a horn on my immediate right. I look over, and it's the same motherfucker, with an ear-to-ear grin, waving at me enthusiastically. I give him my best "I don't really give a shit about whatever it is that you're doing, and thought you should know that you look like a jackass" face, and continue driving. 


He then pulls behind me, flashes his lights, and then turns on his right turn signal (while still flashing the lights) without changing lanes. I keep driving. My thought process was something like, "I have another 20ish miles to go, as well as a 120 lbs Great Dane leaning her giant, toothy face out of the back passenger window. There's no way anyone would go that far out of their way just to harass someone, ESPECIALLY someone who has their giant dog with them."


Boy, was I wrong. 


The light flashing continues. The Pontiac Dipshit keeps pacing me on one side or another, and waving his hand like an over-enthusiastic kid waving at Mickey Mouse, before falling back behind me. I try speeding up, and then cutting cars off in order to get him off my tail, but he almost runs two cars off the road in order to maintain his position. 


I became increasingly aware of this maniac's presence, and of my inability to shake him. I mean, Christ, I'm not a fucking stunt driver. I maintain two to three car lengths between me and the random bastards in front of me. I never go over 80 mph, because that's when the You're Extra-Speeding fines and whatnot kick in here in Georgia. I check my blind spot twice before changing lanes. 


My safe driving skills are going berserk, but I am determined to get this bastard to back the fuck off. 


I finally make it to my exit (after changing highways, varying my speed between 45 mph and 79 mph, and attempting to get off at the wrong exit before swerving back onto the interstate). The son of a bitch pulls up next to me at the offramp red-light, and rolls down his window. My windows are already down, because otherwise the entire car ends up reeking of dog breath because Lucy is accompanying me. 


"You drive pretty fast," he says with an odd, maniacal grin. 


"I do. Because I'm not interested. Back the fuck off," I respond (probably not the most clever retort, had he been armed or something, but I was livid that someone had made me feel so helpless and I figured that were he going to shoot at me, he would've done it already), before rolling up all the windows on the passenger side of the car (much to Lucy's dismay).


I turn onto the main street, and the dickwad follows like a lost, mentally handicapped Rottweiler. I then take a somewhat unnecessary turn, and he follows again, flashing his lights and trying to signal me to pull over. I make another turn, onto the street that will lead me to the neighborhood. When he follows that turn, I start freaking out.


I call the friends I was going to meet. No response. I know for a fact that there are 2-5 people there, 2 being the worst case scenario. I have to decide what the fuck I am going to do about this potentially homicidal, maybe-rapist lunatic.


I make up my mind to do one of two things. I decide to try to lose him in the somewhat confusing neighborhood. If that doesn't happen, I'll bypass the house and use my handy-dandy iPhone to find the closest police station. 


I take a left into the neighborhood and immediately floor it. It was fairly late at night, and I'm familiar with the area, but there are a lot of twists and turns and blind curves. I try not to go above 50 mph, and I make my turns and end up at the house I was headed to. I turn out my lights, roll up the windows, and wait. I force myself to count to five, and then grab my shit, open my door and the back driver's side door (because Lucy still doesn't have thumbs), and yell at Lucy to get inside. She runs up to the front door of the house with me, and we burst through it, me slamming it behind us. I quickly inform everyone of what happened, and tell them that I'm worried that the psychotic son of a bitch may be roaming the neighborhood, looking for my car. They grab a sledgehammer and a baseball bat (which are conveniently stashed by the front door, along with a crowbar and a 9-iron), and stand with me on the front porch for a few minutes, waiting and listening for the sound of a poorly-constructed Chevy engine carrying a discontinued Pontiac chassis. 


Eventually it was decided that everything was okay, and we all went back inside. I would be lying if I told you that every engine I heard for the next few hours didn't have me staring out of the front window, holding my breath (when you're worried and paranoid, all engines sound alike). 


Never in my adult life have I felt so threatened. I have no idea if this person intended to hurt me because I flashed my lights at him at the red light, or if he was just looking for an excuse to murder/rape/stab someone, or if he was just interested in getting my number and completely socially inept, or what. One thing that I do know, however, is that I will never again leave my house without my asp.


Let that be a warning to you, loves. People that willingly buy orange Pontiac hatchbacks are morons, and ought to be avoided (unless you have one, and love it, in which case DON'T EVER FOLLOW ME FOR 30+ MILES LATE AT NIGHT AGAIN, OR I WILL FUCKING DESTROY YOU). 


<3

We're painting the roses red, we're painting the roses red!

You know that part in the beginning of Alice in Wonderland (the real one, from 1951) when Alice falls down the rabbit hole, and she finds herself bored because her skirt puffs out and allows her to lazily float to the ground? Well, I've been feeling like Alice lately, but more like a pants-wearing Alice. Everything is rushing around me, and I find myself regretting my metaphorical attire more and more each day.

It probably doesn't help that I'm currently making a giant Alice in Wonderland homage for a friend of mine. I've been nose-deep in the images from the Disney film. It's nostalgic, though. And I've forgotten how much I freaking LOVE some of the creatures from the movie. My all time favorite, though, has to be the broom-faced dog. What a brilliant concept. Was the dog all Disney, or was he in Through the Looking Glass, too?

Aside from the Alice piece, I have more art to work on that usual. Actually, that's not true. Classes have been out for a week or so, so the time I would usually spend on projects for my drawing class, I now spend on other miscellaneous work. **Shameless plug: That being said, I'm always looking for new art to make, and have incredibly reasonable pricing for commissioned pieces. If you're interested, drop me an email and we'll figure out how to go things.**

I managed to finish up my finals unscathed, and now I'm keeping busy with my silly, creative nonsense and with some serious job hunting. I'm not wildly fond of job hunting (I know, I know, everyone usually LOVES job hunting... hahaha), but it has to happen. School resumes in August, and my social life, hopefully, will resume once I find some steady income. I have a few bartending interviews lined up, so things are moving in a positive direction, I suppose (a negative direction being something like being charged with a felony, or losing an important limb, or finding out your face is going to melt off over the course of the next 30 days).

I'm going to post some art in the next week or so. It isn't only because of my shameless plug (though, well, that is partially why), but because I'm also an horrendous show-off. Because I'm terribly talented. And modest, too, probably not.

Love to all most ....

Que Sera, Sera, Whatever will be, will be The future's not ours, to see Que Sera, Sera What will be, will be

Question: what makes everything "worth it"?

Yeah, yeah, the best answer would be "contrast". Without bad times, you can't recognize the good. But Christ, the bad times totally blow. So how do you place value on the good times?

Is it simply a matter of comparison? 
Is it based upon how close you can get to long-term goals?
Is it whether or not you can pay your rent? 

What really matters to people, as a whole? How do they find a way to look at the shit they're wading through and say to themselves, "Self, this is all going to be okay. Because, clearly, you're succeeding with [insert measure of success/achievement/value here],"?

It's all so beyond me. 

Though, they do say that your worst critic is yourself. Honestly, these days, that isn't much consolation. 

Xoxo.

Man-whore. Desperate man-whore.

You know, all personal, incessant chatter aside, I've realized something as of late. 

James Bond was a slut. 

Yes, everyone has some awareness that this is true. Though, as sad as it is to admit, I've only ever seen two James Bond films (don't judge me).

The two films I've seen are Dr. No and the newer Casino Royale. I refuse to watch any Pierce Brosnan Bond flick because I think it would be like watching Hugh Grant trying to be a badass. 

I started watching Live and Let Die, and was quite surprised at Bond. Yes, Sean Connery gave this guy the go-ahead for the project... but to swap out all the cards in some chicks tarot deck for the "lovers" card just to get laid? Can you imagine how many decks of tarot cards that poor bastard had to buy to pull that off? 

Maybe it's the fact that I'm a female, and have never felt the need to resort to those tactics, but seriously? He couldn't have just pulled the, "I'm a secret agent," charm? Or brought enough alcohol via room service to make himself seem extra-attractive to the pent-up, tarot-reading medium? Are you feeling a bit desperate, Bond? 

Maybe (obviously) I need to watch more Bond. But I feel like there's no way Connery would ever have to, or even consider it an option to try so hard to get a little Bond girl action. 

At least this Bond has one thing going for him. He drinks whiskey.