Really Bad. The last time I touched it was 2008.
It is here if you're at all interested.
But I much prefer my photography tumblr anyway, since all my favorite photos are on that already.
Or my JPGMag profile.
I think today I am going to run around the Northside/Wick Park for a walk and try and take some photos of things. Depends on the business of 5th and Elm because I really don't feel like getting hit by a random car.
Also looking through my behance projects are like killing me.
I am both impressed and painfully critical of my work.
Here are some I am most proud of:
It is weird when you go back to your old work in photography or writing you're always screaming in your head, "I can't believe I did that!" Just with different inflections based on quality of the work. I once wrote a strange coming to age novella called, "Locking," when I was 18/19. I found it on an old flash drive about 9 months ago...I read it. It was like 150 pages or something. And some of it was absolute crap and some of it was really profound. I just stared at some lines thinking..."Wow...that is really poetic." "HOW did I do THIS?!"
The funny thing is I remember the two days I spent writing that story. Yes...only two days. I locked myself in my bedroom with some crackers and coffee. I just wrote. Two days straight. I didn't sleep. I just wrote and cried and edited and wrote more.
When it was done I decided it was crap.
And I threw it in a folder on my flash drive.
And forgot about it.
A similar thing happened when I was 16 and took a creative writing course taught by teacher and author Janet Britton. The first day she told us to write whatever we wanted. I wrote an entire musical about a family of talking ducks going to a place called "Chicken City." Which is like, Las Vegas for birds. I am pretty sure, about 85%, that she thought I was insane. Because I just gave her my notebook that I had filled with songs and dialogue after about an hour of class.
I wrote really fast.
She thought I was insane but for some reason she loved me. She gave me another note book and told me to write a story. About humans. So I gave it some thought. And everyday for an hour of class I started writing a romance novel. Because I knew she liked them. So I thought I'd give her something she'd like to read. It was hard for me because I don't tend to write... happy endings. Because I don't know... I don't know what a happy ending is supposed to feel like. I like to write what I know. And to me when I write I want my endings not to be trivial feeling. And to capture raw emotion I think you kind of need to feel it.
Anyway I wrote this awesome story. I know it was awesome because she loved it to pieces. She kept inviting me to come to her writing group (a bunch of authors from Ohio get together and talk about writing). I went once. I felt out of place. I was 16. Everyone else was in their 30s and 40s. I felt...so inexperienced. So untalented in comparison. But when I showed my work...I was praised. Treated like I was a lot older. Because I think my work, my poetry/non fiction, kind of gave off that vibe.
Somewhere in a folder at my house I have a gigantic stash of my high school creative writing class' daily print outs of work. After I finished my notebook story I started going to the computer lab during class and just wrote stream of consciousness poetry. And I would just hand Mrs. Britton a gigantic stack of paper at the end of every class day. She wrote tons of comments on it and praised the shit out of all of it.
She forced me to submit work to a few contests. All of which I placed in. And even...after all of that...I still wasn't confident in my work. Even in college when I got comments on stuff. If I put all of my compliments in a jar and then all the criticism in another. The compliment jar would look more full...but the criticism jar would feel heavier. When someone compliments me now...I can accept it on one hand and on another feel as if they're being facetious.
Last night I got super drunk with my best guy friend. We've been friends for years and years now. He's never really quick to compliment anyone, unless he wants to win favors. So when he compliments me I tend not to believe him outright. Anyway we got super hungry when we were at karaoke and after discussing potential food options we decided it would be cheaper to just go cook something. Well, it was quicker to cook at my place since I live like 3 minutes away. And if we drove out to his place (20 minutes) he'd have to drive me back or whatever and that would just be a waste of time.
So I was pretty messed up. And when I am messed up I don't really look like it and you can't tell exactly if I am. I act like myself...just more...crazy and giggly. So I started cooking and at this point in the night I was narrating my thoughts. I cut some chicken and basically kept saying things like, "Using sharp objects when intoxicated...this is not a good idea." and "I hope we don't get salmonella because I am too drunk to understand time."
But yeah, as I cooked Jerry was watching South Park on his phone completely oblivious to me. I was just over there...narrating what I was doing. Talking to my stove. Saying strange things. Purring at my sink. Pretending my plants were alive and talking to me. Basically everything I do in my head...just out loud.
Jerry would interrupt periodically to say things like, "Seriously, you better cook that chicken enough so that I don't get sick tomorrow. I don't trust you when you're drunk to cook."
Anyway. I cooked awesome chicken with pasta. It was so good. Jerry was very impressed. I mean, I was also pretty impressed. I know I am a good cook when I make recipes up in my head but this was exceedingly good for me being mildly intoxicated. Anyway, I thought he was being a dick and being sarcastic about my cooking so I kept getting defensive whenever he'd compliment it.
So yeah. Awesome.
I am awesome.
Sometimes.
But mostly, hilarious.
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