Living Dead Girl

Let me start by saying the trip was great. It was. We got a good deal, the hotel was marvellous, the city was beautiful, the weather was perfect, the food was decent, etc etc etc.

We were planning this trip since last summer. The idea was a spring break getaway with the girls from my cohort in the MA program at Carleton; one last big hurrah before we all graduate and go our separate ways. As time went on, the nature of the trip changed. People backed out (as they are wont to do) until the two girls that remained interested in going were not in my cohort at all. Nonetheless, having gone through a devastating break-up and being stuck in life-limbo at my parents' house, I decided that I should still go for the purpose of escaping my misfortune and recharging my batteries.

Thing is, I'm not much of an escapist. I'm not the kind of person who can drown her sorrows. I also have a hard time putting things on the back-burner. Obviously, I do procrastinate; but not because I am able to effectively "forget" about things. As such, my entire trip was somewhat tainted by my knowledge that I would have to return and that upon returning, the same forces that sink my heart would be waiting for me in full swing.

So the long and short of it is: I went and had a great time, and now I'm back and miserable. Was it a waste of time and money? Probably not. I do have positive things to show for it; somewhat of a tan, some wonderful Mexican art, a new ring and bracelet I love, etc. Unfortunately neither of these things enrich my life significantly enough to brighten my short-term future.

For example, I bought an amazing Dia de los Muertos clay sculpture in Puerto Vallarta. I was exactly what I was hoping to find there, and when I held it up and I thought of how perfect it would look on my nightstand, next to my beaded-tapestry lamp, against a plum-colored wall in my very own place. The ugly underbelly of this reverie is that I don't yet have my very own plum-colored place, and will likely not have one for quite a while; the beaded tapestry lamp is marooned until I find a place, along with my precious sewing machine, my yarn, my favorite Thor mug and 80% of my wardrobe. I imagine some people could appreciate the clay sculpture without the emotional baggage, but I can't.

I'm reading a Chuck Palaniuk novel about a group of writers who willingly volounteer to isolate themselves for three months for the ideal environment to write their magnum opus; no phones, no internet, no friends, no family, no job, no interruptions of any kind. The idea, it is presumed, is that the isolation encourages introspection. Rather than make contructive use of the situation, the characters begin to envision themselves as victims of a horrible ordeal, one which would surely get the attention of the world when they finally escaped, making them rich and famous. In order to further sensationalize their story, they willingly maim themselves. It's quite twisted and hilarious, actually. My point is that this idea of isolation is starting to appeal to me. I think I'm starting to understand why people feel the need to suddenly pick up and relocate across the globe. I'm not feeling this need to that extent, but I am finally starting to understand it.

They say the orchid is a common tattoo, partly because of it's beauty and partly because of the fact that it is a beautiful flower that apparently only grows in shit. It is this symbolism that makes it a popular tattoo; people get tattooed when they need a rebirth of sorts; recovering from divorce, depression, loss of a loved one, etc.

My sister says I remind her of Kat Von D.
Are you thinking what I'm thinking?