Scotch? Cigarettes? Nah just Christmas pajama pants.

Okay, in my last post I said I hated looking for jobs and that I wouldn't bemoan this fact; I would instead be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed about not what I loathe with a deep and abiding abhorrence to the very core of my being, but instead about what I love. Well I take it back. Sometimes a girl bloody well needs to vent. And I know I'm not British but their lingo is great, so sod off.

I don't know where to begin with my frustration on what it means to be an artist. My mind is such an erratic explosion of yearnings, aches, beauty, ugliness, irrational thoughts and mayhem, that sometimes I just want to paint my body, rip out my hair, run away, um wait, I do all those things quite often actually. Last week I started drawing up my arm with pen, a few birds, some pines, then took out paints and greened up the forest. But the paint was washable unfortunately and my carpet is white so I immidiately washed it off for fear of making a colossal mess in my nearly immaculate house.

For my brain being utter chaos, my house sure doesn't reflect the disarray of an artist's madcap mind. But I blame that more on the fact that I will do anything, just about anything to avoid my art. Laundry couldn't possibly pile up here because everytime I place so much as a sock in the hamper I think, man I gotta get caught up on laundry, and then while it's washing I decide to color coordinate my closet, then rearrange it by styles of sweaters and ponchos, then I do it to my boyfriend's side, then I refuse to let him touch or put away his own laundry because now I have a system that can't be trifled with, and of course when he does trifle with it, to, oh I don't know get dressed in the morning, I go and fix it in the afternoon, whilst muttering to myself that no one, not even Pierce Brosnan could possibly use this many Polos, then wash the shirt that is next to the bed that he only wore to sleep and still smells quite good actually, like his cologne I picked out, Acqua di Gio and his body wash, then I re-wipe down all the counters, fluff the pillows on the couch, sweep, make the bed (I have never in my life made my bed unless my grandma Sturos was coming over for a visit, and that was probably twice in middle school) and that my friends has killed a nice couple hours of my day avoiding my art and the job-search.

Then I bedrugdingly look for jobs again because Bank of America has ever so kindly emailed me my statement showing that I have $2.17 cents in my checking and $.10 in my savings, hmm, enough for a coffee at least, but it snaps me back to the reality that I am a penniless artist, so I pull up the job search and start the war between jobs that make me want to cry: Little Caesars line cook, apprentice meatcutter at Harris Teeter, assistant manager at Chik-fil-A...
And jobs that make me break out in hives: Senior Analyst of quality improvement and innovation, salary: $78,000 a year, I start to laugh like a hyena, $78,000 ha! ha! hahahaha! That's not a figure I am prepared to receive. Where is the $24,000 salary range again? How do I search jobs that are fun, fulfilling, outdoorsy, possibly involve traveling troupes of gypsies and/or elephants, and pay me what I expect I am worth which clearly isn't more than $50,000? So in short I obviously want to work for the circus. Actually I really do. Who knows if they are hiring? I am A-okay shoveling horse manure.

My anxiety is pulpating now. Okay. Just do what artists do I think. I get up from the couch and start to pace.

Aha! Listen to Vivaldi!
So I put it on. Gotta be honest, it started giving me more anxiety and slightly annoying me. Great! Great, I am not one of those people who gets going to Vivaldi. What kind of artist am I then?!
Okay, eat crispy lil Italian toasts with a smear of a fancy jam and a long cigarette and my hair a mess but still somehow fetching. Madcap artistry for sure. Well my hair is definitely a mess. Check that off. But in the midst of one of my many rants the other day I asked for one of my boyfriend's cigarettes--side note he doesn't really smoke except for on road trips and he had some left over which I told him he better smoke up because he wasn't allowed to smoke anymore, yes I am a bossy boots and really do hate smoking--and not only do I not inhale, but smoking the whole thing seemed much too bothersome and gave me a headache and slight car-sickness. So I rolled down the window, fanned myself, and complained the whole way to breakfast that smoking was oh so unsavory and made him vow never to give me another.
I ruminated a bit to tell my boyfriend, DC is what I call him, so I can stop being one of those girls who constantly slips the words my boyfriend into sentences, so anyway, I ruminated telling DC to bring me home a bottle of Scotch so I could get all Hemingway-esque and get drunk and edit sober. But, I really hate Scotch, and well getting drunk on wine, my drink of choice makes for a rancid hangover and then I just want to sashay about and demand attention with sultry bedroom eyes, (which are really just drunk eyes) when I am drunk, not go to my type-writer (or shitty old Dell) and bleed as Hemingway also put it.
I have now reached my desparation point and email the local paper telling them I will write for free. Was that too much? Will I not be taken seriously? I send it before analyzing, because like I mentioned--desparate. Just plain desparate.

Okay, so clearly I don't rank with Poe or Hemingway, getting drunk, ending up in a ditch somewhere but writing some of the best prose of all time. Okay, I accept that. And I am not a smoking artist, or a twiggy toast and jam eating little Frenchy with a raspy voice and sincere bedroom eyes who merely looks out at the mountains and has an entire sonnet written that ends up in an Indie Film intro. And I guess Vivaldi doesn't do it either.

But I'll tell ya what does get me going: the thought of being a crew member at Hardees, watching the Golden Globes and sobbing at speeches by fellow artists who struggled and toiled for their dreams and are then holding solid proof of their efforts, picking up my camera and not being able to get a quality shot of the mountains but instead of the rainy windows, church steeple and lights reflecting on the streets.

Well it's a start.

I guess maybe I will get dressed now too. That would also be a start as it is almost three and I am in Christmas fleece pajama pants, a ripped skull shirt and hot pink robe. Hey that might be a little artsy! Or just sad and quite embarassing. I am going to go with artsy though, as my hair is still mussed and I am writing.