Yikes! Sorry for the total lack of updates since I left Jamaica–I’ll try to be better from now on, but no promises.
I’m now here at school, finishing up (I hope) moving in and decorating my room before classes start. This year I’m living in a two-story tall suite in Pforzheimer House, and I’m totally psyched about it: when people ask me where the bathroom is, I get to say “upstairs”.
We’re painting the common room a cool stripey pattern (and by we, I mean our next door neighbor-slash-interior designer Davone). This morning, however, I spontaneously felt like doing some touch-ups. I figured that I would only be doing little brush-strokes so changing wasn’t necessary…
You see, I was wearing my favorite brown dress, which is now drying after being thoroughly soaked in the sink. I discovered about 10 minutes too late that I had gotten a glob of blue paint on my back (I still don’t know how!), and no amount of washing is going to get it out entirely. I’ve already told myself how stupid I was many times, but I guess, on further reflection, that I know exactly why I did it.
I’ve always identified strongly with this comic, because I really do believe that if someone in the future is going to not hire me for some shit I say on the internet, I probably don’t want to work for them anyway. However, I guess I also have a similar philosophy about my stuff that I never consciously realized until now. I was mad at myself earlier for not being more careful, but I could never really be one of those people who took extra special measures to make sure that nothing gets damaged. You know, the people with the plastic covers still on their couches, who freak out about wood getting warped (hi Dad) and follow all of the instructions on the back of clothing tags to the T. My stuff is for using, goddammit, not for hiding and behind sheets of plastic and dry cleaning.
So here’s a declaration of independence from my stuff. Stuff: I own you, not the other way around. You’re nice to have around, but if push comes to shove, you can always be replaced; my already tenuous hold on spontaneity can’t. Fuck doing stuff because I don’t want to mess up my hair or my clothes or whatever. Fuck not dangling my sandals from a carabiner while I rollerblade because it’ll stretch them out. Fuck not climbing hills and traversing swamps because it’ll mess up my shoes. And, of course, fuck stuff that’s just constraining by nature, like high heels and make-up and all of that. From now on, all of my stuff is either helping me have as much fun as I possibly can, or too bad–the weak will be culled.
That said, though, I heard Goof Off works pretty well =)