June 11, 2014 § 2 Comments
And now, for some things:
Let the record show - I’m a fucking champion. *Licks finger, holds it against butt, makes sizzling sound*
Case in point:
Psychologist David Keirsey identifies ENFPs as “Champions,” which he suggests are rather rare. “Champions can be tireless in talking with others, like fountains that bubble and splash, spilling over their own words to get it all out,” Keirsey suggests. “And usually this is not simple storytelling; Champions often speak (or write) in the hope of revealing some truth about human experience, or of motivating others with their powerful convictions.” In addition to having an abundance of enthusiasm, they also genuinely care about others.
Go onnnnn *bats eyelashes excessively*
While they are great at generating new ideas…not seeing them through to completion is a common problem. ENFPs can also become easily distracted.
You sir, should have stopped at champion. But I have to admit, it’s so on point it’s freakin’ me out. Whoever is in charge of ADD meds please mail my ration asap.
And now you - do it.
I love a good commencement speech! I love the thought of fresh grads stepping out into the world with their dewy faces and twinkling eyes. Before the panic sets in, before everything good is laced with the promise of pain. When they are still full of faith and determination that they will, someday, get to live their truths. It just fills my heart, ya know?
I guess I’ll throw in some advice for any new grads while I’m here – Treat day-to-day decisions with respect. They mean something. Nothing is isolated. They accumulate and build exponentially. They will transform you. They can lead to something great or they can cost you dearly but either way – they matter. Those seemingly insignificant moments add up to a lifetime. Your lifetime. Remember that. Pay attention to your choices. Pay attention to your life. Time is the only currency worth worshipping.
And Lastly: This Goat with Sweet-Ass Parkour Moves
Sick to Death of Looking at Pretty:
May 22, 2014 § 1 Comment
This is by definition procrastination. I’m writing a blog post instead of doing all the other shit I really need to be doing. Like seriously need to be doing. I guess this is part of my process?
How about I tell you a story?
This is the story of when I stole a car before I had my license, drove to Oakland to attend a REM concert but got lost and never made it. ‘Borrowed without asking’ is really much more accurate since it was only my parent’s car but ‘stole’ makes it sound dramatic and hood so I think I’ll stick with that version of the story.
If you know me, you know I tend to lean towards the fly by the seat of my pants (but while still making it to work the next day and also visiting the dentist on a semi-regular basis) end of the spectrum which has served me both well and terribly throughout the years. This night was a mix of both. I’d give almost everything I have to be back at that night. Not because it was so great but because I was fifteen and truly did not give a fuck, the way only teenagers can.
I can almost barely remember what it’s like to not give that much of a fuck because as an adult even when I pretend to not give a fuck, in the back of my mind I’m really thinking ‘this is going to be a fucking mess’.
But when you’re young, you are blissfully unaware. You are living in the now, believing that the happiness of the moment is worth any fallout because in reality you don’t know how truly terrible the fallout can be.
In those days there was little I needed to truly be happy, mostly just an alcoholic beverage and a lot of attention from whoever I wanted attention from most in that moment. Maybe that part hasn’t really changed.
Anyways, these were the days before GPS was really a thing so that night when we got lost, we were really actually fucking lost. We pulled over and I hopped out to ask a gas station attendant which way the stadium was. I remember it because it was such a strange interaction, one I still think about. Immediately I could tell he hated me but in his defense I was being myself.
I think maybe he didn’t really hate me as much as the thought of me - a 15 year old drunk girl lost in, essentially the ghetto, asking for directions to a fucking REM concert on a Tuesday night.
I don’t blame him, I would have also hated me.
God, I’m realizing how anti-climatic this story really is. I apologize. WELCOME TO MY JOURNAL!! HERE ARE SOME PRESSED FLOWERS 0_0 Ok, let me fast forward —
— we never found our way to the concert, instead we bought wine coolers, found a parking spot overlooking the bay and sat there on the hood of the car talking about the things bright eyed bushy tailed youths talk about, while occasionally taking breaks to pee in the nearby bushes. I got home around 3AM, was grounded for a week and that’s it. That was the night. But for some reason even writing this now makes me smile. It was a good night.
Speaking of home, whenever I visit I sleep like a coma patient, heavy but weightless, sweaty with flickering eyelids, sometimes for 12 hours at a time. And whenever life gets hard I find myself wanting to bound home like a lost puppy, curl up in my childhood bed and sleep, blissfully unaware, like I used to.
The Simple Way of Complicated Things: