Spicing up my morning by putting nutmeg in my coffee grounds and chain smoking to this jam. Also, found this beauty (hopefully whatever street corner she’s currently residing on has kick-ass wifi?)
I saw this denim vest and fell in love with it. Only problem is that it’s £180.00 ($277 plus shipping) and I’m pretty sure it’s only available in the UK. Yikes. Once again, I lost my damn mind and decided to devote hours to something because I don’t have a life.
I found a polka dot denim vest at Goodwill for $2.50 (it’s kind of ugly, but in a cool fun way), bought a patch on ebay for $9 and then I had a shit ton of studs left over from multiple other projects. For the bead work on the top back panel by the collar, I busted up a bunch of old necklaces that I had gotten at a yard sale and never worn, and when I ran out of those, I went to an accessory store in the mall where everything is $1 and bought 3 more necklaces. I would say total cost of the beads was about $5. Total cost for everything, including studs (which I figured to be about 15 cents a piece), would be about $18 max.
Yo, that bead work was some tedious fucking bullshit. They say if you line up every water bottle sitting in every landfill in the America, end to end, that it would stretch across the world 5 times - that’s how many beads are on this vest. Every water bottle in America. I would say total time taken to complete that bead work would be about 6 Roseanne’s, 1 episode of Cheaters, 3/4 of that episode of Fresh Prince where will gets shot and Carlton goes postal and about half of Teen Witch. The cigarette breaks alone took at least 7 years off my life.
I don’t know, I’m pretty pleased with it. It’s so wacky; it looks like something Pauly Shore would design, which I’m totally cool with.
The front still isn’t quite finished. I need to add more studs and jewels and stuff. There are some really bare parts. I just need a trip to the craft store or something. In all honesty though, I just want it to be finished. I might just wear it as it is and then add more stuff later. It’s also way too big so the sides need to be taken in about 2 inches on each side, but I really don’t give a fuck at this point. I’m sick of looking at it.
My mom’s style was ill. So was mine.
I’ve been working on a lot of small fashion projects lately. I basically love buying really ugly things for a few dollars and then making them better. I’m not good at explaining why or how I do things like this, but I figured I’d talk about it anyway.
I bought this pair of shoes for $2.50 on clearance with additional discounts (they were originally $38):
Hideous. Never been into snakeskin, or purple. And the wedge part (which is the tan part in the back) is made out of this grainy, braided rope stuff. I figured there was something I could do with them, though, so I bought them.
Then I started thinking about Jeff Campbell “Tick” wedges, which are $165.
I wouldn’t pay $165 for a pair of shoes even if I were a Rockefeller. Besides, it just looks like thumb tacks pushed in there anyway. So, I went to Walmart and bought 400 thumbtacks and a bottle of black spray paint and clear gloss finisher in “Flat”.
Here’s halfway into the first one:
It took me about two and a half hours to finish both of them. I ran out of thumb tacks, too, so I had to re-space some of them and there’s a few small gaps. However, I have these Kurt Cobain callouses on my thumbs now from hours of pushing those bitches into that rubber, so that’s kind of cool.
After they were completely “studded”, I took them outside and spray painted the entire shoe, let that dry, then covered it with a coat of the clear gloss. If you don’t cover it with the clear gloss, apparently the paint will rub off on your foot and you’ll look like an asshole.
Finished product:
Pretty pleased with them. Total cost was like $10 and about 3 hours of Katelyn labor, which is completely priceless. I like that they are all black because I’m a goth, but I could have easily spray painted them first and studded them second. I call them “Midnight Bubble Wrap”, which I would also name myself if I were a stripper with a heart of gold.
In 11th grade, the really cool thing at school was to go to this church thing called “Surge”. You would go, sit there and listen to whatever teenage anti-angst fundamentalist themed sermon the preacher had prepared that week, eat pizza and then play intense dodgeball in this big rec gym thing.
I fucking hate dodgeball. I like pizza, I hate dodgeball. I only went once (for the pizza), but my two best friends would go every single week. I would occasionally go with them and instead of going in, I would go to this dude’s house that lived across the street that I was sort of friends with and watch him and his younger brother play video games until it was over and then they would steal me pizza and bring it to me. It was boring, watching that dude play video games. Sometimes he would give me shit to do. “Here, draw on my shoes,” he said once. So I did, with gel pens and a sharpie. I fucked them up pretty bad, I think.
Surge dodgeball ended when these two rowdy dudes in my grade literally broke into the church in the middle of the night to play dodgeball because they were bored. Can you comprehend that? Breaking into a church to play dodgeball at 3 am? Fucking dodgeball enthusiasts. Addicts!! After that happened and word got around that there would be no more dodgeball, everyone stopped going. However, my two best friends kept attending and after a couple of weeks of hardly anyone showing up, they figured they could get them to bring the dodgeball back by getting more people to go. They basically offered free promotion for the church and promised no more break ins if they would just bring their beloved dodgeball back. So, they decided to make posters and hang them around school, except they sucked at making posters so they asked me for help.
I liked making posters. I would make posters for every single one of Jon’s band’s shows, and they were fucking awesome. I was really good at it. I probably still am. Anyway, I made these posters for something that I didn’t care about because I loved my friends and then we hung them up all over school while we were skipping class one day. During lunch, we saw a group of younger kids rip one of them down. Not because the poster was lame (the poster fucking rocked, I rock at making posters, I mean it) but because Surge was lame.
“HEY,” I said. “Someone probably worked really hard on that!” They shrugged at me and walked away.
So naturally, when I was watching “10 Things I Hate About You” just now and saw Julia Stiles rip that poster down in the beginning scene and then that girl walks up behind her with a roll of tape and a bundle of posters in her hands and goes “UH! HEY!” I was reminded of this whole lame ordeal. I fucking hate high school.
and you’d have to dig up freud himself to understand why “they” do it, but they just fucking do.
(via freecocaine)
(via freecocaine)
(Source: nicoirl, via g-uccinigga)
Anonymous asked: you arent as confident as you pretend to be. post a n00d and then well see
Who cares? All I said was that I’m pleased with my figure. I’ve decided that it’s a waste to worry about what any guy - or anyone - thinks about the way I look. Even if I become a mesomorphic blob of fat some day and small children start skateboarding in between my fat rolls, it doesn’t matter as long as I’m happy! And I am! And I should be! Also, I’ve never taken a nude picture of myself and most likely never will. If I ever do, it sure as hell wouldn’t make it to tumblr - an easily accessible free public website.
you know what? i like my body. it took me a very long time and a lot of work on my self esteem to get me here, but i think i’m finally happy. i could definitely lose weight, i know this, but it’s not a huge priority for me. honestly, i don’t really give a shit. burritos rule everything around me - NOT CHANGIN’! besides, how can you even stand to give a shit about what i look like? don’t you even realize how cool i am? and if you don’t, you must be spending a lot of time with anne sullivan at the water fountain, JUST SAYIN’!
[Flash 10 is required to watch video]
simple pleasures
My grandfather, Ernest Kinman, is my favorite person in the entire world. I’ve never known of anyone so lovely.
He sent me this card for my 22nd birthday:
He has a terrible case of rheumatoid arthritis, the crippling kind that twists and bends your fingers. When he writes, he concentrates very hard and positions the pen perfectly between his only two functioning fingers, while holding the paper with the other almost completely nonfunctional hand. This card alone probably spent him an hour of work, but he did it nonetheless. He never misses a single holiday, either. He used to send me checks of $25, but I’ve never cashed a single one of them and he eventually stopped. My cousins and my aunt and uncle steal from him so badly that I could never accept his money. The only thing I’ve ever asked him for was a new tire for my old Crystler, and I felt so guilty about it that I could hardly live with myself. I wouldn’t have done it, but I was homeless and jobless and my car was the only thing I had (a story for another day), and I was out of options. My grandfather loved doing that for me though. He loves to give.
Once, I was over at his house and he was laying on his bed reading his mail. He can’t walk anymore, so my uncle brings his mail to him and leaves it on a pile on his nightstand. My grandpa had given money to a charity that was supporting disabled artists. He saw the commercial for it on television, which showed video footage of men and women with no arms, holding their paint brushes with their teeth. After being guilted into donating, they sold his name to other charities, and sooner or later he was getting letters from about 25 charities a week. As I watched him sort through the mail, he looked at me with tears in his eyes and said “I just can’t give to everyone…” That’s the type of guy he is. He cries at the idea of not being able to help “everyone”, even total strangers with obscure ailments.
I have a journal about all of the stories he’s told me: The one about the time he smoked pot, the one about the time he ate tar, the time he spit tobacco in a barrel of dead bodies on accident, the time my grandmother left him, the time my mom ran away, the time my mom got drunk when she was 16 and puked on a preacher at dinner, Linda Blair style…
He means everything in the world to me.
However, he’s not my father. He’s my mothers father. And I’ve been spending the past two weeks staring at this card, wondering why the man that I share chromosomes with, my very own dear old dad, can’t even fucking call me on my birthday, let alone send me a card, when my crippled grandfather who actually endures physical pain by doing so, does every year.
I guess that’s just the way things go. I guess I’m very lucky to have such a beautiful, supportive male figure in my life, whether he’s my father or not, but I just can’t shake the disappointment I feel time and time again when my father further deems himself unloving and absent by intentionally ignoring me on these landmark days. Prom, graduation, my first day of college, he wasn’t there. A half a decade of Christmases and Birthdays have gone by, he wasn’t there either.
It’s ok, it really is. I’ll never let go of the disappointment I hold for my father, but having a dad is for assholes and I taught myself how to change a spare tire a long time ago and I’ve never been fond of baseball games or anything, so I’m cool, right? Who needs em, anyway, right? Right.
However, if anyone plans on marrying me one day and my grandfather is no longer alive, I may have the UPS guy, the guy from those diabetes commercials and that guy who helped me at Half Price Books the other day draw straws for who walks me down the aisle, so shit might get a little awkward. If you’re cool, I’m cool.
