Things are turning around. I think life just needed to deliver a swift kick to the ovaries so that I could get out of my funk...and what a funk it was.
On one had, I do believe it was a legit funk. I mean, there are times that I'm just whiny and down and there's nothing that can really explain it except that perhaps I'm not getting laid or I'm on that PMS-y type road...but this was an actual fall and crash--just no burning. But I think it was really just realizing that I need to get my shit together in a bad way that kind of got me to pull my head out of my ass. That and Geof basically doing the "I love you but seriously" talk.
So. My conclusion is that I'm 25. In some books that is still young, carefree, whatever whatever...but the way I look at it is that I'm an adult now. I can rent a car! I could buy a house if I wanted. Hell, I even have friends who are procreating (which blows my mind).
I need a career. Or something like it. Body painting, still pretty badass! Makes me decent enough money and I'm in-filtering markets like it's my job (which it is). Still could make more money, in fact, it would still be lovely to be aiming towards booking myself up so much that I can actually not carry a day job and still be fine. Scary thought, because you have to literally be working all the time, but to make a living off of your art is something that many many artists aim for and rarely accomplish.
Regardless, I should probably be aiming a little higher...? Maybe something with a salary? Something I can leave at work when I leave work.
Maybe I should just leave. Who knows.
Prettiness for the day:
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| <3 <3 Billy |
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| Brian sex roboting it up at work. |
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| Shelby being a babe at the Live Boulevard Circus. |
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| Live Boulevard ladies for Live Boulevard Circus at El Bait! |
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| Team India for the win. |
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| Grace Potter and the Nocturnals at Simon Estes! Double date with the padres. :) |
I hope you're having a fabulous day where you don't have to take pictures of scar on your face in order to prove someone actually did throw a beer bottle at you...because that'd be lame.
Love,
Emily
