Maybe it's my love for Bill Murray(s)...

I have written a script. I plan to play the lead role in Groundhogs Day 2.

Look. There's that purse. That red floor. That girl and her croptops.




How boring.

I carry it everywhere

I've had it like three years and it's in most photos that I'm in.

It's contents on any given night:
*Seven lippies (chap/lipstick, lip balm/gloss/plumpers)
*A tattered red wig
*12 reciepts from various classy establishments (7-11, the DMV, Garage Pizza, the 99 Cent Store, Fix, CVS, etc)
*At least one chamera
*A to do list with items no one should have to write down to remember (Shower, Go to Work, Try Not To Die in Sleep)
*A bottle of Vueve (this is a good night)
*28 pens


Thanks.

Merry Cropmas

From the Gepson sisters.

Missed Connectionz...

...are my favorite things ever. Missed crops, not so much. Here's one.



Xxxmas eve.

Wordz

"I can't believe him. He's such a dick."
"Yeah. But I LOVE dick."

And just like every other year, 2009 turned into a frenzied set of weeks leading up to Christmas. The weeks were measured in Mondays mornings and Two Buck Chuck evenings. There was a final for my art class and my final Monday with Art and then it was Christmas. And just like most years since I was about 8, the day itself was puncuated with brief moments of warmth and long stretches of nothingness. Feeling like I should be feeling but feeling nothing so therefore feeling unsatisfied.

Not that it was all a loss. There'll be pictures of dysfunction to laugh ironically at later.

If I'm too good for him, then how come I'm not with him?

I love Kanye and Spike like Spike loves monsters and Kanye loves himself. And booty.

As long as his you-know-what isn't crooked

LA Wrecked. Sorry, Angelina. I didn't mean to laugh at you.

Rollin' with the homies...

Note the champagne. This wasn't taken at no Grove. And I know I'm not in a CT. Sue me.

You're a virgin who can't drive.

Sometimes it makes me sad to think what a fuck up I am. I challenged my own self to a Cropathon and I can't even be bothered to keep this shit updated? It's pathetic to be too lazy to blog.



This was Friday. It went weird.

I hope not sporadically

Merry merry.

Remember that time when we were at the bar and it was weird and afterhoursy and full of quasicelebs and there was that perfect Todd Oldham/Spike Jonze guy and he asked if it was okay if he put his hands in your panties for a second?

Two things:

1. I updated my flickr and it has some photos from my recentish trip to NY.
Check it out.

2. I just spent 11 precious moments of Homework Time looking at this nonsense. I'm in love.

Monday

Sunday

It snowed!

Saturday

I went out with Kalah and Evan. Evan complained. Kalah made me laugh. We went to a classy bar/grill and within 30 minutes, bitches were fighting and pulling each other's hair. I heart Yakima.

Friday

Crops Forgotten

Monday

Perhaps a little ballet inspired?


Tuesday

Ever have a nylon-imposed muffin top? I have.


Wednesday

Theme equals power.


Thursday

This is my airport outfit. Saville took this one and I thought it was poetic.


This is just the full view. When I disrobed for the security check, I was pretty much naked. I loved it.

Birthday party
Candlelit walk in 10 degree weather
Second Street Grill
Hoops
TNT
Bed in mom's guest room
Mountain pass
Dad's house
Grama's nursing home
Aunt Beth's
(Grilled cheese and potato soup)
Bed in Beth's guest room
Seatac
LAX
Union Station
Home

I am behind. I promise I have not not rocked a c-top. Which is to say I have. Every day. I will prove it when I can.

And you will be like "Damn, girl! Don't hurt em!"

Sun

This is brunch. Savi went as Mario. I went as the anxiety plagued single mother who dresses like a recently homeless sailor.

Sat

This is the 'will I or won't I go out on a saturday night; guess I'll stay in and hang out with Chuck and watch movies until I get to the tipsy-text point' crop-top, or the WIOWIGOOASNGISIAHOCAWMUIGTTTTPCT for short. I have had this shirt since I was in 4th grade, I believe. I was the head dwarf. I think when I was nine I thought my life at 26 would be less about silly self-dares related to crop tops and more about real estate. I won't be too hard on myself, though. All nine year olds are stupid.

Fri

Let's see. Went to work, it was lame but I made the best of it. Went to Shortbags to see Jenny and Ardy and cohorts. Got good and woozy for zero dollars and zero cents. I like it when my friends are working.

Xmas list:
*Film
*Basic croptops (black, white, etc)
*A tattoo
*A telephone call from Zach G (Make A Wish?)
*A treehouse
*My mom and dad to get back together
*A bottle of Chook

(Some are fake. Can you guess which ones?)

Baby Voices, Baby Makers

I don't care for grown women who speak with forced little girl voices. To me, a baby voice indicates childhood abuse, presumably of the sexual nature. This is not a joke, but it is somehow kinda funny. A baby voice is as much a spotlight on one's blatant insecurity as a monster truck or a really ridiculous tit job, in my ever so humble opinion. There is, however, a loophole in my disdain for people who walk around all day with their issues showing. I find it acceptable to air your daddy issues, fear of abandonment, qualms about your sexuality, etc in a creative manner.

Here are two videos from ladies who have found there way around my No Baby Voices rule and wiggled their way straight into my heart.




Note the crop top.




Doesn't this song just make your ovaries dance? If you have them, that is? It makes me, possibly the least domestic person that has ever avoided laundry for months, want to buy some maribou kitten heels and learn how to darn socks. And make roast.


P.S. Thank you B and thank you Jordie. You know why.

Today, today

I have had this skirt for at least 7 years. For the first couple years of owning it, everywhere I'd go, people'd wanna know if I made it. Now when I wear it, no one asks. Have I started to look talentless?

Croptember, Birthday Edition

I met her at a shady afterhours. I put her number into my phone as Jen BFF Messer within a few minutes of having met her.
I was right.
This bitch is dynamite.


Happy Birthday to the sharpest little knife I know.

And so it begins...

99 Depressed Balloons

Two things:
1. The most boring thing in the world: when people complain about
their illnesses. Being sick and having birthdays are two things that
everyone experiences but no one but your mama really cares about.
Spare us all and let's talk about something interesting, like Gossip
Girl or the difference between men and women or just read me your
grocery list or something.

2. I am sick and I hate it. My chest hurts and I am coughing up
Nickelodeon slime and nobody is making me soup or rubbing my body down
with Vick's. On top of the physical discomfort, there's the imagery. I
am less than comforted by the knowledge that right now, the Mucinex
snot family is having a rager in my lungs and that they've invited the
whole gang. Those fucking digging fungus cat monsters are scratching
shit up, rubbing their feet on the couch. The weak-bladdered pipe
robots are pissing in the sink and using their own limbs for beer
bongs. I'm pretty sure that that goddamn allergy bee with the nasal
spray is probably there, doing key bumps in the bathroom, talking like
Antonio Banderas about the 80's when it snowed every night on Sunset
Blvd.

Fuck you, Big Pharma. My laziness grants me a certain amount of
blissful ignorance when it comes to all your evil, but I draw the line
at the amorphization of my illnesses. I'm already scared of dying. I
do not need a mascot.

That is all.

P.S. Here's some ideas for your next buzz-disease/disgusting-yet-endearing-companion-animal combo:

*Excema Ants- Why shouldn't your brain itch, too?
*Teddy the Bipolar Polar Bear- Basically the Coca Cola bear but like
crying and lauging and not being able to get out of bed.
*Arthritis Vultures- Dry bones and beady eyes, etc.
*Boner Snakes- I don't really know what that means but it would make a
good band name.

P.P.S. Hey there, recent Art Institute grad. Is this what you thought
you'd do with that degree in graphic design?

I can do without a lot of things,
But I can't live without grilled cheese.

(Repeat)

(This is the password. For the treehouse. You have to say it like you mean it or it won't work.)

If you got it, better crop it

In honor of pioneers in the field who have gone before us, I present to you:


CROPTEMBER

*December 2009.
*Me.
*A crop top every calendar day.
*Pictures to prove it.



Stay tuned. I think this could be huge.


P.S. I know, I know. Croptober sounds better but I just thought of it today.
P.P.S. Who's coming with me???

Mo money mo problems, or so the proverb goes. I'll take Biggie's word for it, but why isn't no money no problem?

Crpytwalking

The other day, I was driving down Grand in Chinatown with my window down, not really listening to music and in the pause between the songs I heard live music. Horns. I looked and half a block down the street was a band,  meandering toward me. Not a marching band but a dozen old men in black suits walking slowly.  The song sounded like some old ragtime number and at first I tried to remember if it was a holiday. Then I saw the police car leading the men and I knew. Saville asked me what was happening. I told him it was a funeral procession and that that meant someone died. His face expressionless, he asked "Who died?"  Just then the hearse passed. On the roof was a large floral arrangement with a photo in the center. I pointed and said "Some old Asian man." He turned his head to watch as much as his seatbelt would allow and then said, "I wanna hear the pokerface song." 


I suppose indifference is hereditary.    

Signage

A brief recap in photos: Part 3

Halloween Take 2:









(I think I'm most proud of me working a crop-top into a panda costume. And I didn't puke or cry that night.)

A brief recap in photos: Part 2

The Costume:



The making


The mess


The aftermath

(This is the only photo I have as a raccoon. The panda was better documented. Likewise, while it is possible to find Bianca's kangaroo in the annals of facebook, her kitty lives on only in our collective memories, which are hazy at best.)

A brief recap in photos

Pre-cation:

Went on a date with a real lady.


Jackup came over. Showed me his transformation into a real lady.



I became briefly obsessed with the idea that someone is squatting under my house. Two of the screens were mysteriously removed.


Stickers for a good boy.

I should probably call this "I have a drinking problem." Or maybe "I have an imagination problem." But I'll settle for "I Have a Dream."

I had a lucid dream last night. Probably the most extensive one I've ever had. I was at work and things were weird. The uniforms were different and some coworkers that had quit years ago were working. I thought 'Shit. A lot has changed in a week.' Then I saw Michelle Clark who is a girl from high school with the same birthday as me. Since she still lives in my hometown, when I saw her, I knew I was dreaming and I said out loud* 'If I'm dreaming, then I'm gonna fly, you guys!' So I did. I flew all over and felt happy and proud of myself. The shitty part was that I spent the whole time looking for someone. I kept thinking 'It's your fucking dream. Manifest!' but I couldn't find them anywhere. When I woke up I was mad at Ashley for letting me drink so much. One line from Skeelo's I Wish was repeating itself in my head:

Even in my dreams I can't scheme a way to make you mine.




That is all.




*I said it aloud in my dream. I'm not sure if I said it aloud in my bedroom. I'd ask Jack (my boo) but that's how I got in trouble in the first place.

If I die tomorrow, someone please have my photos developed.

It is so strange that August and October are only seperated by a month. It's like brothers who are nothing alike.

Wait! One more! It's like a music video for Mountain Dew.

Transformers 2 is the biggest piece of shit I've ever smelled. It's sound affects over shitty computer illustrated animation over skanky bronzeration over one young, Jew-ish kid who's just trying to seem natural in a world made of green screen and 12 second snippets of the worst music I've ever avoided hearing. I won't even mention the ghettobots. It's like a seven layer dip of masturbatory waste.

And the creators are all rich.

And I am not.

I should have listened to Saville. He said he'd rather go to bed.

Remember when people were counting down the days til the Olsens twins were legal? I remembered that just now and it really tickled me.

I have freckles. Maybe not in the traditional, redheaded sense, but I think I'd still call them freckles. There is a dusting of maybe 40 little spots across my face. Particularly around my mouth. I find that to be strange. My own knowledge of said freckles is completely due to two people:

1. The crackheadish woman who lived off first street in Yakima who used to babysit me. She said to me, "I love that beauty mark. It reminds me of Cindy Crawford." I was maybe 8 or 9 and I looked in the mirror and for the first time I saw the mark she was referring to. It was extra tiny then and is much bigger now. *

2. My friend's sister, Stephanie who I have always know to have a bit of magic to her. She said "Oh my god. You have freckles on your lips. That's so cute I could fucking bite you," and I looked in the mirror and realized I did have many tiny dots on my lips. And wondered if it was cancer.

That is all.

*I think it's best if I die young. My freckles are growing, and that can't be good.

Once, I hooked up with a kid who was nerdy and seemed deep and told me he was a teacher. For some reason, I wrote down all the dirty details in plain, scientific wording in this journal I was keeping at the time. It's good that I did or I probably would have let the whiskey carry the whole experience into that booze-induced blackout/shame-induced block out place. Anyway, I was trying to sleep tonight and his name popped into my head and I googled him and-surprise!- he's an artist and a photographer. I bet we would've liked each other if we didn't show each other the things we showed each other so early on.

My Spirit, Animal Style

Halloween. It's upon us. What will I be? In staying with my theme of woodland creatures, I was thinking something like this:

or this:

or even this:


Then I stumbled upon this website, www.northfur.ca/ which may as well be called somepeopletakethingstoofar.com. Not to be confused with girlswithflattops.com which is not really a website, but should be. Anyway, here's some of the horror:

What is this????




Why is it that costumes that are meant to look like fun friendly animals end up looking so much scarier than scary costumes? I'd rather end up in an abandoned elevator shaft with Chucky, Jason, Mrs. Gorf, and an army of rapists in that ghost mask from Scream than this guy and his blatant disregard for all things cute:


Gross.

A man named Michael Jackson was staying at a hotel I may or may not work for. He was not The Michael Jackson, but he was A Michael Jackson. He was a tall, black man in his late 40's-early 50's and was nice. He was having dinner with his friend whose name happened to be Josh Groban. We joked about their names (Michael got a lot more shit for his name than Josh did, obviously, because nobody knows who the fuck Josh Groban is) and then we all went about our respective business. A couple weeks later another man named Michael Jackson died. It was big news, since this Michael Jackson was arguably the most famous person in the world. Some people sang, danced, donned shiny gloves. Some people mourned, claimed to see the late pop-star's face in the clouds. Some people said the phrase 'the late pop-star' a whole fucking lot. Some people just tried to ignore all the carrying-ons. Amongst all the chatter and nonstop barrage of The Michael Jackson's entire musical catalog, if you looked past all the youtube videos of inmates doing Thriller and the poorly designed tribute t-shirts and lighters and hats and seat covers, somewhere in the middle of America, another Michael Jackson had a weird couple of days.





(Also, Michael Jackson was, for months, the name of Saville's imaginary friend. He has since befriended a new eerily-named invisible creature, James Brown. I am not making this up.)


((This post is dedicated to all the girls out there who just want to have regular hair, regular waist-to-hip ratios, regular lives but live in the shadow of someone else who bears the same name. Keep your heads up, Beyonces of the world. Keep your heads up.))

Glares, Small Dough?

Where am I?

Here's a hint: The number of beers on tap divided by the number of boys in plaid equals 213, which is both the area code in which this spot is located and the time of day I found myself shitfaced from a extra bubblegummy, bananarific hef.

Where's Geraldo?

Here's a fun game: Where was this photo taken? Hint: It's really, really easy if you know LA.



Hmm. Considering the how the males within my chosen peer-group have a pension for covering receeding hairlines with fedoras, beanies ala Zissou, and a plethora of different shaggy haircuts, maybe I should reconsider changing the name of this post to Bears Baldo. Not that this particular kid was bald. I'm just saying. Also, as far as I know, there is no one named Geraldo in this picture. I figured I should note that before anyone spent hours looking for the one Waldo without a shoe or the one early 30's freelancer at the Pho spot without a beard.







Fuck. I spoiled the game.

There is something so pathetic about insomnia. What kind of asshole is incapable of the simplest task ever, an activity so easy a baby could do it?

B

Hey.

Remember that time we went karaoking in Williamsburg and I overdid it and someone dedicated Where Is My Mind to me because all of the things we associate with humanistic behavior had been replaced within me by something feral? And remember how when you came out of the bar I was standing proud on top of a van, like a lady mountain goat? And remember how I refused to be talked down until the owners came? And remember how they weren't even mad but weren't entertained either? Remember that tiny glimmer of smiling disappointment in their eyes, like my mom had found her way from one coast to the other at 3am just to make me feel bad?

Thanks for still being down.




W

P.S. When the man held my hand to help me off of his van, I knew what a stripper feels while collecting the cash after her dance.

For Saville.

(With a special thanks to Elmo and Mr. Paul 'If You Weren't Already Married..' Rudd.)

Signs

I saw this and thought "You don't know me."

Flat Red

Lens flare/aura

Ari