I start school tomorrow.
I feel very much like a little girl going to kindergarten for the first time.
Except I’m 21 and instead of learning how to read books I’m learning how to analyze books. Is there a difference?
About $10,000 a year.
Okay, I kid.
The UCs are only like $9,000 a year.
A few days ago, I picked up The Lolita Effect by M. Gigi Durham, P.hD. I have not put it down since.
(I would like to take a moment to point out that I took the quarter off of school, and am yet using my leisure time and money to buy and read Women Studies discourse.)
(Because I am a loser like that.)
Durham’s argument is that 5 myths of sexuality creating by mass media have led to a confusing over-sexualizing of young girls. Because sex sells. And even in this sexual climate, parents and teachers and most adults in general have a really hard time talking about the sexuality of children, particularly female children.
Durham is a BAMF.
I have an intense fascination with the politics of sexuality and over-simplification of sex as a subject (ie the denial of politics in sexuality). It is so painfully obvious to see marketed sexuality, but because of complex rhetoric it is hidden in plain sight. The people I see, college students, are especially vulnerable to this ideology. College is a “culture of romance” which translates directly into a “culture of hooker-chic fuck me boots and the biggest cup of rum I can find.” Because we college students can read between the lines. Romance? Wha? OH! You mean PROSTITUTE. OBVIOUSLY.
So, I put a few things up on Etsy. Will they sell? I CERTAINLY HOPE SO. Do you want to buy one? HELL YES YOU DO.
Annnnnd if you read my blog, convo me on Etsy and tell me so and I’ll knock $5 off the price of one of my prints! Ooohhhh, ahhhhhhh!
I have about 5 more drawings that need to be scanned and uploaded, then taken to Kinkos so I can futz around with the copy machine. I swear a lot at when I’m at Kinkos. I swear like my mother when I’m at Kinkos.
Trust me, that is A. LOT.
A girlfriend of a friend of a friend is pregnant.
This would not be interesting except for the fact that it is.
Ever since I heard the news, oh, last night, I have been obsessed with this piece of information. I do not know this girl personally, nor do I have any real connection to her. Like I said, she is a friend of a friend of a mothafuckin’ friend.
However, the fact that she is pregnant, preggers, knocked up, has a bun in the oven, is scarier than shit. Because that means that it happens. To people. Really people. Not Lifetime specials people. People that I have the potential to know. Which means that it might maybe in some parallel universe happen to me.
Three words: F. M. L.
Being pregnant is something that scares me metaphorically and in a VERY REAL WAY. Like, I woke up the other night in a panic because I was having a dream (nightmare) that I was pregnant. And I cried. And the delivered the baby in the middle of the office where I work. The residents were very nice and they offered to drive to the hospital BECAUSE I WAS DELIVERING A FUCKING BABY.
This is up there with my fear of rapists in the bathroom, except worse because I may be likely to get pregnant. Rapist in the bathtub? Un-fucking-likely. Being pregnant? Somehow possible.
I don’t want to be pregnant, at least not now. Thankfully I don’t have to be. I’m sure I’ll be revisiting this issue when I’m 26.
And hopefully not a second sooner.
For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be an artist. Mostly in the romantic sense, because being an artist is cool. And sooo bohemian.
The only art class I have ever taken was last quarter at the craft center on the UC Davis. It was a life drawing class. Our model was a very nice 70-year old man named Robert. It was almost awkward, but because we were all ar-tists, it wasn’t. I mean, all artists like to sketch 70 year old men with 70 balls. Or something.
Recently, I have been a little bit more focused on becoming an artist and maybe even selling my stuff. I read the Etsy Quit Your Day Job articles religiously and I am constantly looking up successful painters and how much they sell their prints and canvases for.
And yet, I have yet to put anything up myself. Mostly because it’s scary and I’m big pussy. I have already drawn a few things I am proud of and want to put up, there is an invisible wall that seems to be blocking me… I have a fantastic self-sabotage mechanism and I don’t know why.
My goal for the next couple of days is to put a few of my prints up on Etsy. even if no one buys my work, and even if no one likes it, it’s worth it to try.
Maybe, if I get really popular, I’ll put my sketches of Robert’s 70-year-old balls up for sale. Cha-ching.