Do you have hands? Excellent. That's a good start. Can you hold a pencil? Great. If you have a sketchbook, open it and start by making a line, a mark, wherever. Doodle.
- Chris Riddel
I might as well put it out there that I may very well occasionally be eight going on eighteen. I probably consume far too much coffee and far too little chocolate. I refuse to carry umbrellas and I haven't the foggiest idea how to use nail polish. Now that confessions are over - I'm glad you're here.
All tagged thoughts
Do you have hands? Excellent. That's a good start. Can you hold a pencil? Great. If you have a sketchbook, open it and start by making a line, a mark, wherever. Doodle.
- Chris Riddel
And yet, I don’t really want to tell her anything. “Oh Honey” or not, she’s definitely a lot sweeter than I am. She knows how to train 5 hours a day and then come home and do physics homework. She spends hours teaching herself how to count cards. And she doesn’t say “Fuck” when she drops a pencil. She wasn’t afraid of having “stuff.” Besides, who on earth would want a 4’11’’ kid walking around spouting unenlightened wisdom everywhere? Sounds like a bloody nightmare. She’d be fun at parties.
“I don’t think you understand. You want me to tell you when you’ll be sitting in your economics class. I’m trying to tell you I don’t know if I’ll let you stand up tomorrow. All I know about your future is that it comes one day at a time.”
I’m not a fan of saying words changed my life, but that one sentence truly did.
From that morning on, Masha (who probably liked 5-Year-Plans and little red planners as much as Mao) refocused the lens she used to see her future. I see “Today.” “Right now.” Usually a “Tomorrow,” but beyond that, who knows. I can tell you that today, at 5 PM, I’ll be writing, or doing Law homework. I can also tell you that “Next Month” pages in planners make me uncomfortable, no matter how much pretty lettering and how many stickers they’re decorated with.
I wouldn’t doubt I’ve had a day when I’d walk down the street feeling like the Real Cool Kid, listening to the Arctic Monkeys while wearing naturally-ripped jeans, slightly worn shoes and an unevenly smooth jacket. And then, I’ll check my phone for the right address, walk up to that big glass building, and instantly feel like a five year old whose only trip around the block has been on a tricycle. And maybe that’s okay. We all want to seem grown and tough and experienced, and yet, I don’t want to be like that fake-vintage, fake-leather bomber for $12.99 from Forever 21. For a while, I’ll sometimes be stuck being a little stiff. Awkward. Creasing in the wrong places and very very unsure if I’m doing all this right. And I guess that’s okay. I certainly can’t expect my friends and those I care about to all be Mature and Classy and Professional, and thank heavens for that. When worn in, leather will move and mold with your body. I’m sure my world will move and mold alongside me, while hopefully retaining a capacity for stupid nonsense that I know I’ll always have. Maybe it’s a good reminder to me to not be afraid to befriend those who have stood the test of time. We like the idea of worn-in, well-seasoned things: leather, denim, cast-iron. Tough material showing it can take a beating. Some day, if I’m lucky, I might be “Worn in a Really Cool Way,” but until then, I guess I’ll have to wear my unwrinkled novelty in the coolest way I can.
According to Motivational Mug I Got For Secret Santa™ I’m supposed to “Live a Life of Colour.” Maybe there’s room in that life for calling someone a “bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkeyshine.” I’ve dropped my fair share of four letter words on those whom I love this year. Another favourite two-word sentence of ours is “I’m sorry.” I can always drop an f-bomb, I do love the smell of Napalm in the morning, but I also dropped a plate yesterday. Out of sheer sleep deprivation, after a very loud word that wasn’t “Oh Fudge,” I said to it, “I’m sorry.” The plate is still broken. I never want my mom, or my friend to be. No matter how much of a boil-brained bloody bastard I may think them at the time.