With My Own Two Hands

Listening to Jack Johnson is not conducive to realistic thinking. Still, I like a little optimism every once in a while.

Actually, life's been goin' pretty well as of late. That whole making friends thing? Doin' that. I like hanging out with Samia and Travis and the rest of 'em, but I like having my own people, too.

Work is nice. I mean, I like pretty much everyone I work with, so I actually just feel like I'm going in and goofing off all the time. Which might be because I do goof off a lot, but not... you know. I do my work. It's a little like being back in lit mag (sorry, Haag [Ginger? (I don't know what to call people post-high school)]). I did my shit, but I did a lot of stuff I didn't have any reason to do too. Which is what makes it fun. I want another moment like when Tim (R.I.P., fucker) made that sad little boat man. Only slightly less depressing in retrospect (I don't want to have an metaphors later).

I've kind of put myself in a socially awkward position, but nobody but me knows how awkward it is, so I guess that's not a real issue.

And! I finally got back to the Art Institute.

I've have been putting this off for so long. I don't even know why. I'm not scared. I'm fucking excited. I want to go out and do what I feel right doing. But everyone else is concerned, mostly with the question of how the fuck I'm supposed to afford it. And you know, that's valid. But that's not a reason for me to avoid the act of going to the right school for me. So fuck it. I made the appointment to finish up the application. I've started on exactly one of the ten pieces I need in my portfolio to get into the place. (On that count, to be fair, I lost the requirements sheet. I would've started on the folio earlier, but I only have a vague idea of what needs to be in it.)

Anyway, there it is. That's where I start. Fuck everything behind me, because that is where I start.