Fireworks Will Never Be the Same...

As I watch this video for the millionth time, my thoughts are still the same: Why can't my breasts be as talented as Katy Perry's? Forget about her voice; Those breasts need their own reality show.

We No Speak Americano

This is too cool for words. Look at that intense, stoic expression. If only I spent all my time choreographing hand dances.

Make It Vegetarian

All Tatted Up

Last weekend I got my second tattoo.

OHM

It's the Ohm symbol, commonly used in meditation. It represents the four states of consciousness: Awake, Asleep, Dreaming, and Transcendent.

The tattoo is between my shoulder blades on my upper back, not visible in most of the things I wear. It's the first stepping stone for a full upper back tattoo that I hope to build over the years.

My mother, who I've seen once or twice a year since I was five, calls me up last night. She has no idea I've gotten another tattoo (In addition to the Heroes helix symbol on my right wrist. Yes, Heroes, as in the television show. I AM that ODD). 

Heroes Helix

Still, she tells me not to get any more tattoos. I feel extra naughty now, as I have my second tattoo already. I ask her why. She replies, "Because men don't like women who are all tatted up."

Hold the phone.

Take a breath.

Excuse me?

I reply, "I don't really care what men like."

And this is true, for the most part. Sometimes I'm sad that none of them really want to get to know me or seem interested in me, but I won't sacrifice what I like or want just because men don't like it. Hell, what kind of life would that be?

But, here's the BEST part.

Seconds after she tells me not to get a tattoo, she tells me she plans on getting her first one. Not just any tattoo. A TRAMP STAMP of the name "Teddy," a guy she's been living with for about a month and who she already plans on marrying. My mom isn't the brightest crayon in the box, and I love her to death, but really? I spent the most part of the conversation begging her not to get some guy's name on her backside. Finally she agreed to not get his name if I would design her tramp stamp. Wow. This is my life.

Me and My Mom, Davena

~ODD~

"Piece of Shit Headsets" and Other Things I Hear in the Studio

Just various things I hear in the HTV Studio and Production: 

"You did very well on your set layout. Your measurements were accurate, your blueprint easy to translate, your dimension key thorough."

"I'm going to take your PSA scripts home tonight and laugh my ass off."

"These are piece of shit headsets. They've been pieces of shit for two years."

"You described a man with drug addiction. He has two young children. He's going to college after seventeen years of being out of school. You didn't tell me his obstacles."

"You don't have a name. You're Camera 2."

"No matter what you do, you're going to be bitched at from all angles."

"READY ONE. TAKE ONE. READY TWO. TAKE TWO. READY ONE. TAKE ONE. READY THREE. TAKE THREE.  BACKGROUND ONE. TAKE ONE. FADE ONE. PULL THE LEVER!"

"What did we forget? White balance?" 

"THIS is a snake."

"AUDIO? WHERE'S AUDIO?"

"Every now and then you get an idiot in here who steps on the cables."

"We got lights. This isn't a crime scene drama, this is a talk show."
 

An Egotist's Showcase of Shitty Photography

This is what happens when I start pretending I'm a photographer: 

We Make Our Mark

And Fuck You, Too

The Man Who Grew Too Much

Alleyways and Payphone Calls

Untitled

Revolt

Fuck the System

Destitute

No Girls

Dead End

My Weekend, Exhaustion, and Worrying Sick

You begin to see things that aren't really there. 
You begin to believe they are.

I haven't been sleeping very well. I haven't been eating very well. I haven't faithfully done my homework. I've been moody, paranoid. I've lashed out, I've curled up, shelled up tight like an oyster. I've stumbled to my desk, grasped railings to stand, lost my breath, gone numb.

Over the weekend I was, however, fortunate enough to have the little dorm to myself. Saturday, after sleeping in my roommate's bed, I ventured outside and explored the town. At first, I wondered around, looking at old buildings and admiring the preserved architecture downtown. Eventually I stumbled upon a new hookah lounge dedicated to smoking, activism, and charity. One charity the lounge collects for is Race for the Cure, the tagline of that particular effort being, "Help stop breast cancer while you get lung cancer." I stayed for a bit, which was awkward considering I was the only one there at the time. Conversing with the owner was funny because he reminded me very much of a scrawny version of the caterpillar from Alice In Wonderland, perched high upon a stool and sluggishly smoking a towering hookah pipe. I pretended to read, prolonging my stay and my intended rest from walking, then I was on the streets again, observing all at twilight and scouting out places I'd like to photograph. I made my way to a little cafe with a sign outside that advertised karaoke. Though I had no intention of singing, I went inside for the entertainment, and entertainment I received. Everyone was very friendly, even though I was obviously a misfit newcomer. Some people introduced themselves, others just smiled, but the environment was warm and welcoming, so ended up sitting silently and observing the others, eating and having a good time. When I left, it was dark and had rained. The walk home was fast paced due to my nervousness, but once I arrived I knew I had truly accomplished something: I'd allowed myself to experience something new.

That said, I really should go to the nurse. I keep expecting myself to feel better, which is why I've been waiting. Growing up, if you weren't dieing (and often even if you were), you wouldn't be taken to the hospital for anything. You were to put a band aid on your wound, take an aspirin, and carry on. I guess being brought up that way has conditioned me to avoid nurse's offices and hospitals for any reason. And truly, I believe the only remedy for my malady is sleep; sweet, peaceful rest.

The trouble is that I can't sleep because my mind is going a million miles an hour, worrying about everything I have no control over. I worry about the one crooked tooth I have, marring the perfection that would be my smile. Then I worry about the things I DO have control over. I worry about gaining the infamous Freshman Fifteen. I worry about the assignments I don't find the motivation to do, the tests I don't find the energy to study for. I worry, and I worry, and I worry until my arms are covered in hives and my eyes are black sockets. I worry until I've created monstrous insects clinging, creepy crawling from my ceiling and until I'm sure a tornado has torn through my building. My mind makes great fantasies, great nightmares, until everything I originally worried about is magnified, and all the details overwhelm me. I worry until I'm sure I've gone mad, and then I worry about going mad.

I suppose the ODDyssey wouldn't be the ODDyssey without a perilous and insane journey.