I am Dr. Phil of Drunk Dials

Steven only calls me when he is drunk (I don't blame him, as my humor is only fully appreciated by brains completely soaked in booze.) The funny thing about him calling me the other night, was that I still to this day have not yet saved his new number on my cell phone-- so every time he calls I mistake him for A) some random O.G. that I've been exchanging texts with, who has not yet fully realized that I'm not his homie by the name of 'G-Money' or B) Ingraham, who has decided to cut off all communication with me because of my extreme flakiness (this is true) and that he wanted to remove the only hilarious female ethnic to ever grace his white-male existence (also, TRUE!)

Anyway, I totally thought Steven was the aforementioned Ingraham and got all hopeful and happy that he wanted to talk to me again-- which was obvs. not the case. However, despite the slight confusion and initial drunken chuckles, we were able to have a nice long conversation about how fucked up his obsession with ex-girlfriends is (i.e. how calling them to leave long, whiny, guilt-filled voice mails-- we concluded-- is not the best way to get her back) and ultimately, how much we've both changed since we were 21 (and for the most part, not with each other any more.)

Maybe I was so kind with him because he's on the other side of the country and no longer in my life (maybe?) or because so much has happened to me in terms of forgiveness, patience, and death in the past 4 years-- that I can't afford to keep chips on my shoulder any more. For the most part, it felt good to console and empathize the very same person that I had some of the worst fights in my life with. It felt good to return back to the friends we used to be; staying up late with a bottle of Gold Label, talking obsessively about Star Wars, legos, and failed relationships-- but being fully aware that we are never, ever meant to be together again.

I told him that every moment we're alone is for the betterment of ourselves-- because no matter who you've been with or for however long, the road after you die is one made all by yourself.

He told me that was the most "Dr. Phil" advice he'd ever heard.

"I'm glad I called you."

Project Proposal

Just an excerpt of a recent proposal I sent out to a teacher at school:

A large amount of my art making practice here at CalArts deals with
packaging design and the psychology of how we as zombie-consumers approach
"packaged" materials; specifically as to how a container can effect the
buyers behavior/attention, regardless of the quality/importance of the
containers contents.

In response to the overwhelming amount of damage inflicted onto the
equipment of the Print Lab-- despite Orientation attendance/acknowledged
fear of Dansby's Wrath-- I want to create a comprehensive "packet" of lab
info that students can keep either on hand (pocket-sized brochure) or
receive upon attending orientation (potato-chip-sized package with
booklet). The packet will re-iterate info already present on the print lab
website, but I will attempt to re-contextualize the information in a
booklet that is easy to read/access. In regards to packaging, I want to
create a simple, but curiously stylized packet that will entice students
to further understand the responsibilities & policies of the print lab--
if not grind it into their skulls that precious dollars/kitties are wasted
away each day whenever something breaks and/or is irresponsibly handled.

A futile task? Most likely-- but for the record I once completely sold-out packets of my own hair and nail clippings for $1-- all as a result of how the items were
packaged. Doesn't say much about the students of CalArts, but it makes as
a funny story.

I don't want to be busy on my CalArts dime anymore-- despite my classes already lacking in terms of actual "schoolwork." I'm currently welding my own bike frame (see also: spending way more money as opposed to just buying a finished one) avoiding work on my interdisp. grant project, and managing a sewing club at school.

But all i really REALLY want to do: watch Battlestar Gallactica. And. Eat. Chocolate.