he had crashed the t-bird twice

After work and dinner I made some tea and put my hair up and sat in the bathtub reading this book that Kash introduced me to when we were 15. The Weetzie Bat books? Sure, google them and look at the trashy-looking glitter teenage covers with '90s photography and pink fonts. I secretly was unimpressed and a bit embarrassed when Kash handed me Weetzie Bat. Then I, you know, read them and they were filled with beautiful magical realism prose and the most beautiful things.

Anyway. Along I went with Weetzie and Dirk through the streets of L.A. and their little cottage with the aqua room and the rose room and the rose bushes and lemon trees and, you know, punk rockers and babies and taffeta dresses, and I felt comfortable and familiar with the words, with my green tea and flower-smelling bath, but...

I also felt a bit bummed. I think that's normal.

After my bath I looked in the mirror and saw pale skin and hair and eyebrows and mouth, almost stupidly dark glasses frames. Highschool ripped band tshirt and the underwear that I've had every first time in (inadvertently). Part of me wanted to punch myself in the gut. The rest of me just wanted to shake some sense into that pale shell, that baffled-looking weird face.

I'm working on a series of portraits of old French dudes for our kitchen. I think they are going to be pretty swell.