PHOTO JOURNALISM!
A rash of events have transpired in the steamy weeks that made up the end of summer and the brisk mornings of the oncoming autumn. (Ah, the delights of pomegranates are but a breath away.)
The most substantial and terribly affecting of such events included an odd trend that emerged, beginning with my dear friend Jeffrey Puhutski.
As aforementioned, around the time of Jeff's death, I was hospitalized for exploded ovaries. An exact month after Jeff's tragedy, my uncle was to be found with a bullet hole through his cranium.
There was much speculation amongst the members of my family as to the culprit of this crime. Was the fatal injury at his own hand or that of his unloving wife? (Whom I may add never shed a tear nor wanted to spend even one measly coin on the funeral of her husband. Curious, indeed.) Upon my devastated family's return home from the dry plains of Yakima, I took it upon myself to jump from a truck and smash my ankle on a stone, fracturing a chunk of bone clean from the tip of my fibula (the X-rays are glorious), and yes, returning to the sterile smell of the ER once again.
Several entities around me began to comment on the idea that tragedies come in threes. I'm not sure if I am to believe that this is simply the natural order of the world, or if those mere words spoken put a hex in the air, but exactly two months after dear Jeff and one month after my uncle, my high school best friend's mother lost her battle with cancer. Three deaths in three months. And now I await my third hospital visit. A terrible and tragic end to the summer.
[Picture Utterly Unlocatable.]
Outside of such distresses, the wonderful Daniel Schales and I have been feverishly researching schools and universities to fill our wondering noggins with new whims and wonders and have finally settled on the universities we are to attend in the quickly approaching near future. As an award to a decision made, an attempt to dispel some of the tragedy of the summer months, and a late birthday present that the boy presented to my person, he and I took a vacation to the northwest beaches. Our stay involved fabulous cuisine, a slew of flirting with said boy in the confines of the hotel pool (that was rather reminiscent of my pre-pubescent days), walks on beaches and sand castles and a dead eel looking creature that a one-legged seagull was trying to consume. Utterly glorious? Yes.
In other news, Tara asked that I would accompany her in a venture to support a Vegan and Earth-friendly affair that was to occur in Seattle and upon agreeing I soon found myself to be a runway model in the Hatch: The Rebirth of Fashion fashion show that featured designers who use alternative, cruelty-free materials. Suprizingly enough, my picture even ended up in the Seattle P.I. in the local fashion section. It was an interesting experience to say the least. I had the sweetest of faux hawks that has ever existed. Though these pictures do it little justice.
In recent days I have also reconnected with one Jeremiah McGuire and a Garrett Kruger. Dear friends from my past that, through circumstance, disappeared for a spell. It was an utter delight to hear from such lovely creatures.
Besides such things, I've been arting it up to the extreme and playing the keys like I'm auditioning to go to Juilliard.
And a final thrilling tale: A couple days ago I won a picture disc on Ebay and arranged to meet with the seller to exchange money and LP. I showed up to find a handful of kids yelling my name from an upstairs window. They threw fireworks at me. Then they kidnapped me. They made me go to the mall and to terrible stores like Banana Republic and Ambercrombie & Fitch. I couldn't get away! They made me tell them story after story of working with clients that wanted "happy endings" and how I've had to throw people out of my massage room. They made me tell them why I lived in Olympia and questioned all the details of my life. (My all-time favorite quote of the evening from one of the guys was: "It doesn't matter how drunk you are, it's impossible to be drunk to the point that you wouldn't be able to resist making out with some hippie chick. Gross. Dreadlocks. And armpit hair. And nipple hair.") Let this be a lesson. Never meet up with strangos that you only know from Ebay. The end.
The most substantial and terribly affecting of such events included an odd trend that emerged, beginning with my dear friend Jeffrey Puhutski.
As aforementioned, around the time of Jeff's death, I was hospitalized for exploded ovaries. An exact month after Jeff's tragedy, my uncle was to be found with a bullet hole through his cranium.
There was much speculation amongst the members of my family as to the culprit of this crime. Was the fatal injury at his own hand or that of his unloving wife? (Whom I may add never shed a tear nor wanted to spend even one measly coin on the funeral of her husband. Curious, indeed.) Upon my devastated family's return home from the dry plains of Yakima, I took it upon myself to jump from a truck and smash my ankle on a stone, fracturing a chunk of bone clean from the tip of my fibula (the X-rays are glorious), and yes, returning to the sterile smell of the ER once again.
Several entities around me began to comment on the idea that tragedies come in threes. I'm not sure if I am to believe that this is simply the natural order of the world, or if those mere words spoken put a hex in the air, but exactly two months after dear Jeff and one month after my uncle, my high school best friend's mother lost her battle with cancer. Three deaths in three months. And now I await my third hospital visit. A terrible and tragic end to the summer.
[Picture Utterly Unlocatable.]
Outside of such distresses, the wonderful Daniel Schales and I have been feverishly researching schools and universities to fill our wondering noggins with new whims and wonders and have finally settled on the universities we are to attend in the quickly approaching near future. As an award to a decision made, an attempt to dispel some of the tragedy of the summer months, and a late birthday present that the boy presented to my person, he and I took a vacation to the northwest beaches. Our stay involved fabulous cuisine, a slew of flirting with said boy in the confines of the hotel pool (that was rather reminiscent of my pre-pubescent days), walks on beaches and sand castles and a dead eel looking creature that a one-legged seagull was trying to consume. Utterly glorious? Yes.
In other news, Tara asked that I would accompany her in a venture to support a Vegan and Earth-friendly affair that was to occur in Seattle and upon agreeing I soon found myself to be a runway model in the Hatch: The Rebirth of Fashion fashion show that featured designers who use alternative, cruelty-free materials. Suprizingly enough, my picture even ended up in the Seattle P.I. in the local fashion section. It was an interesting experience to say the least. I had the sweetest of faux hawks that has ever existed. Though these pictures do it little justice.
In recent days I have also reconnected with one Jeremiah McGuire and a Garrett Kruger. Dear friends from my past that, through circumstance, disappeared for a spell. It was an utter delight to hear from such lovely creatures.
Besides such things, I've been arting it up to the extreme and playing the keys like I'm auditioning to go to Juilliard.
And a final thrilling tale: A couple days ago I won a picture disc on Ebay and arranged to meet with the seller to exchange money and LP. I showed up to find a handful of kids yelling my name from an upstairs window. They threw fireworks at me. Then they kidnapped me. They made me go to the mall and to terrible stores like Banana Republic and Ambercrombie & Fitch. I couldn't get away! They made me tell them story after story of working with clients that wanted "happy endings" and how I've had to throw people out of my massage room. They made me tell them why I lived in Olympia and questioned all the details of my life. (My all-time favorite quote of the evening from one of the guys was: "It doesn't matter how drunk you are, it's impossible to be drunk to the point that you wouldn't be able to resist making out with some hippie chick. Gross. Dreadlocks. And armpit hair. And nipple hair.") Let this be a lesson. Never meet up with strangos that you only know from Ebay. The end.