Katie 1.0, 2.0?

     I once had an art teacher I was not a fan of-actually, I've had many of those, but this specific teacher taught me something that I have recently found applicable to life. Here we go: a color cannot be determined without comparing it to a neighboring color, juxtaposing it with something that allows the original color to appear altered when compared to it's juxtaposition with another [color]. I am Katie. Sometimes I am sarcastic, sharp, sardonic, maniacal, manic Katie, yet other times I am a carefree, sort-of-ditzy, mildly delirious, frenziedly comical version of said Katie.
     Depending upon who I am around, the version of Katie which I choose to exist as changes. Overly normal people have me showcasing my wild side-why would I ever want to act like another goose in a gaggle of brown geese when I could be the white one with the red spotted mohawk? Besides the fact that I wore red spotted shoes with Balenciaga-esque pants in a print that had my employers thinking twice today at work, who else would want to just be another brown goose? Other times I find myself around groups of people so loud that I find myself wanting to just be freakin'...quiet. On occasion, I like to pull a Lisbeth Salander (which I sort of am anyways) and retreat into a metaphysical fetal armadillo position. This way I can choose to ignore loudly gawking idiots within close proximity to my personal bubble as I put up my mental armadillo shield. When I go home I just act like a baby. I roll around and ask for food and hugs in a baby voice that parentals find themselves quite unable to deny. Moral of the story: babies win always.
     Double sometimes-I recently caught myself even dressing a certain way around different groups of people. Whether it is to intimidate slash (/) frighten some of my quieter friends and family members or simply make a personal statement I know not, but I do notice myself dressing bizarrely when given the chance to exist as a shameless fool around others who might tend to see me as just that. The concomitant ordering of my Doc Marten boots with my platform Superga shoes had a friend of mine wondering if I intended on taking courses in witchcraft while abroad in Europe. After all, I would be closer to Harry Potter himself.
     I do not deign to discuss how such discordance has arisen within my internals, but at least I now know why I develop frequent stomach aches? The ability to see myself as a person separated from the social situations in which I frequently engage is a tricky one. This makes me turn o'philosophehr on myself and ponder questions of who I am and why I am here-ew.
     

Camera Sizes

   This upcoming semester I will be traveling to a city outside of London to study abroad in hopes of expanding my ever-so-bubbled Boca Brain. Whilst doing so I intend to photograph the toes, knows, highs, and lows of the United Kingdom, Scandinavia, much of Western Europe and parts of Eastern Europe. Actually, Russians scare me. Regardless, in this case I aim to assimilate the "toes of Europe" to its histories and roots-sort of. But, I have one preeminent problem: lyke, what kinda camera do I bring?
     Here is when I will provide an odd list of parities for you all to learn before we commence. First, the camera I choose to bring can be equated to the type of experience my mind thinks I am going to have. As its size increases, the room left for the unknown and previously unimagined nears a limit-and this limit is zero (Mean Girls). As my friends know, my mind is not good at turning off. That button was lost in production and people close to me have been searching for a replacement part for years. A knack for fabricating preconceived notions is ugly and has been undoubtedly implanted into my mind. Essentially, my camera to backpack ratio has unfortunately remained an even 1:1. Now-my red Herschel backpack is always with me. This backpack matches with nothing and carries everything. Its leather tuchus and sunburnt skin will soon be worn and torn. My backpack represents me minus the fact that I am as porcelain as an albino Sasquatch. The experiences my backpack carries will depend on the size of the camera I bring. And, if I brink a honkin' monstrosity of a camera abroad, am I determining the shape my backpack will mold into (rather, the degree of the curvature of my actual back)? Do I bring a camera small enough to allow room for the unexpected to squeeze itself into the depths of my dirtied pack? But, I can't soil my pack in advance just in hopes of predicting the outcome of my studies abroad, right (well technically I did run over a bagged pair of new shoes with my car to break them in a bit, so that sort of goes against my point)?
     At this point, I am hiking through the ever-mountainous Switzerland with a King Kong-sized camera. My cousin said she saw me from her bedroom window so this is a true story. Not to throw out another bout of cheesed-up rhetoric, but, who wants their camera to backpack ratio to strike even? Also, who makes ratios like this? I think it's time I call Kenmore to find that replacement part...

I Think Too Much I Think

    Today my wisdom teeth decided to come out. Rather, they were forcibly extracted by a South African monster of mayhem who found it proper to shatter said molars through use of a giant drill (yes, that sentence did need that many adjectives). Though I was supposedly in a dream-like state induced by laughing gas and my sheer aversion to live, I found myself quite awake. At times like this, you realize how disorienting it is to live inside your own...flerghin'...head. 

     Imagine I put you in a box. Besides the fact that no one wants to be put in a box, you might start to panic. You may start to stew over topics deeper than what flavor pudding you will funnel down your swollen throat after the torture concludes. The theorizing that goes on inside my head whilst uninterrupted by foreign invaders (most other humans) is of prodigious proportion. For instance, I am going abroad; I began to wonder if I may create a new mental outlook for myself upon experiencing feats other than the ones I am currently involved in. Also, do monkeys go number two? Do penguins wear lipstick? It also makes me wonder why traumatic experiences and the like are required to invoke deep thought. Must I make like Charlie Brown and slide on my tuchus in order to realize that brussel sprout flavored ice cream really isn't that bad? In an odd way, this encapsulating mental state allows for a personal and cathartic therapy session. Therapists never really help anyways, right? I do believe their goal is to remain silent to promote your babbling. Actually, my source X has just confirmed this as partially true. Bam. 

     As some of my friends may know, I am claustrophobic. My past roommate, Allison, may remember the time I forced her to walk me half a mile down to the lit bathroom as we camped in the middle of erm, nowhere, situated near the Chattooga River. My flashlight blew out and I had just about lost it before I safely rolled out of the rain and into the bug-infested but lit restroom. I like to compare my mildly horrific occurence to the one I experienced in the dentist office today. Today I experienced a new form of claustrophobia. As much as I might enjoy being bagged and stuffed in a locked suitcase (likely occurrence), I do not appreciate this feeling of being closed off. Complete darkness is truly paralyzing. Darkness, sometimes cars, too many frogs, and an abundance of humans or bananas make me claustrophobic. It's the feeling of being truly isolated that freaks me. I feel as though I'm in the middle of the North Pole, there is a lot of snow, and I am in a small, ostracized igloo. I have no access to sunlight nor the ability to properly come in contact with others. Snow angels really weren't a part of this deal. Good luck moving to Chicago, Katie.

     Regardless of this information...my teeth are out,  though I unfortunately will not be expecting a visit from the tooth fairy. I suspect she only accepts whole teeth.

I Want To Be the Doer-Not The Dooee

     So tonight, I pull an all-nighter. Rather, I pulled an all nighter. That sounds odd-why is the word "pulled" used there? How can you pull an intangible object? Oh, that's mildly irrelevant. Anyways...I was frightened for a moment when I wasn't sure I had had an experience that was day-altering enough to blog about, then I realized I always have something fishy to find swimming around in my head (fish jokes). I have Gabrielle Brooks and Nicole Chessin to thank for taking me to the library after a campus crime alert drove me out of Hillel. Also, Tazo Awake Tea works magically well. And, just out of curiosity, who created such a great tea as the one named Tazo? A single person or group of concerned individuals must have found reason enough to create an herb-infused tea that promotes health rather than draining it from us. The instillation of false-alertness through caffeine injection-college life. And so, I do denounce the creators of Tazo Tea to be Doers; not the people who write about tea, the people who photograph tea, or the people who drink tea, but the very ones who initiate the golden creation of such a product. I, too, desire to be a Doer.
     In this world, there are two kinds of people: the Doers and the Dooees. The Dooers must be creative, must have a drive second to almost no one around them, and must go through life with peripheral blinders-you know, to ignore the discouraging idiots and buffoons of the world as they attempt to tear you down with their blind ignorance. The Doers are the designers, engineers, photographers, and movie stars don't study about acting or fashion, they create it. Doers do what dreamers fantasize about, what fashion stylists wish they were actually doing, and what "failed" architects such as Ted Moseby teach about (just kidding, Teddy). The Dooees, on the other hand, write about, manage, coordinate, and dreamily learn about doing, but never reach the point of true innovation. Self-derived deliverance requires a level of well, self, so much as to naturally inspire newness.
     Technically, CEOs and Editors-In-Chief are Doers-but, I find myself seriously unable to dub them with this honor. Have they actually created something...themselves? Well, no, but they do an incredible job of delegating. I suppose yelling at people to do things makes you a Doer. And it's fun. Especially when you don't know them that well. Sometimes, yelling at randos whilst walking down Avenue Q makes for a cathartic experience. And no, Avenue Q is not a street-it's a wildly inappropriate musical that my parents took my brother and me to when we were twelve. Awkward.
     As I sit in my library chair and scowl at the loud people, I begin to realize how peculiar this post is becoming. For this reason, we end here. Well, fellow fellows, I have emerged.........VICTORI...oh, wow-I really need to take a shower. Goodnight and have a lovely breakfast.

P.S. It is interesting to see the library newcomers arrive bright and early as they begin to mix with the crusty people from the night before (me).

The Dilemma

     Today I watched the Alvin and The Chipmunks Christmas movie. Alvin and friends sneak into the home of Dave, the main human character and songwriting "failure" according to his music business friend Ian. Eventually, Alvin and his fellows are discovered by Ian and make it big in the industry. Dave tries to keep them close to family roots as Ian tries to inveigle (one of my words of the day) them to perform on world tours and advertise a variety of ridiculous products. This, of course, is Ian's plan to achieve an even more extravagant lifestyle than he currently has. After leaving Dave and living a fancy lifestyle for awhile with "Uncle Ian," who incessantly purchases the 'munks presents galore, the mildly abused and overworked chipmunks just want to go home-to Dave, that is.
     Recently, I have been having much internal conflict about the lifestyle I wish to have in the future. Settling into a relaxed suburban home while still having an upbeat career inclusive of frequent traveling and unordinary experiences is probably close to impossible. I want nothing more than to do something incredible, something bafflingly extraordinary-something that has me on the front cover of something at some time in some "cool" place. Though, the thought of falsely celebrating Christmas (I am quite Jewish) with hot chocolate in cutesy mugs as I wear onesie pajamas and belt out offbeat holiday tunes could not be more appealing. How can I do that if I am somewhere in the Doobang-a-dork Desert photographing a rare ele-camelot species as the breed parades down a dune, all while they are dressed in my new line of ele-camelot winter wear? Exactly! I feel as though 'dis just is not happening.
     The existence of a comforting, nurturing home environment such as Dave's is one I would not live without, but what happens if life...happens? Traveling the world and living in areas X, Y, and Q seems to be a rare opportunity, but do I really want to spend Passover with me, myself, and my poorly functioning 8Tracks Passover Playlist? I have recently been planning stages of my life that I intend to live out: I must live in an uncomfortably remote area for at least a month at one point in my life, I should live in Europe for at least a year without a definite plan as to why I am there and what I will be doing the next day, and I definitely need to explore a coast other than the south of Florida before deciding where I shall permanently reside as crows feet begin to make my face their home. Though, how can I do all of this while retaining ties to my seemingly sacred "home" environment? Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros say that "home is whenever I'm with you" but first of all: who is you, what if I don't find you, would you really be willing to live off of caterpillar larvae with me as I scour the depths of...any Asian country, and also, I really don't like straw houses- caves are out of the question as well. Anyways, in response to Sir Edward's line, home for me is a place as well as the people one is with.
    I may have gotten off topic. When Alvin and friends moved to Uncle Ian's, the lifestyle to which I may have initially been referring is one possibly in NYC, LA, and cities that may promote artificial relationships and existences. Fun, monies, and chocolate all get to peoples' heads; can I not place my Charlie and the Chocolate Factory shack-of-a-home smack in the middle of LA? Am I allowed to ride around town with my Super Smash Bros protective bubble to ward off scary people? In the long run I am sure my career will be making most of these decisions for me and that I will be dragged along either willingly as I move into my new creative space at GQ or unwillingly as I set up office/camp at Firm X doing boring tasks Q, P, and B. Alvin, you really did get the best of both worlds. Please let me know how it is done and do teach me to hold a steady note-a minor musician such as myself should probably have this skill-just in case.

It Goes Like This.

     So, you know how you have those friends who you wouldn't normally be friends with or even consider liking at all if you hadn't been force to endure experience "X" with them? They are the ones who are really nothing like you, who probably detest the very rock ballad you broomstick-ballroomed to the other night, and generally do not understand your cheeky sense of humor. And, until you defaulted to befriending them, of course after the twelve frat stars around you implicitly rejected your friendship offering, you then realized you had made an odd variation of "friend."
     Well, what about the ones who sink to your specific level of quirk and identify with your "odderisms" in a way that has you reading each others' screaming subconsciouses from far across the room? Today I realized that these are, in fact, most of who my friends have turned out to be. This is also how I end up wearing ugly pants that somehow burgeon into seemingly less-ugly corduroy... or how my strangely notorious "half-clip" hairstyle came to remain as a personal commonality. Today I picked out my default acid-wash cuff jeans to wear. I bought them a couple summers ago at an LF sidewalk sale for twelve dollars. They do not stretch, are impossible to sit in, and are generally unflattering. Though, through the past two years, I have cuffed and ripped them (unfortunately also in the crotch area-no one will ever know) to the point of my satisfaction. The level of comfort and consistency I had established while wearing these pants had turned them into a winning favorite. People work the same way for me. Well, I don't always start out hating them-only sometimes. There must have been some redeeming quality I saw in them initially. I did pick them out and pay twelve dollars for them, yes? My twelve dollar friends, or pants, or both, I thank you for unintentionally drilling said thoughts of insanity into my noggin.
     To sort of conclude...the people and things that start out as uncomfortable extensions of who we think we are might be good. Those friends we make while in a miserable class together or stuck in the hills of an arbitrarily chosen southern state are ones who stick. Maybe I shouldn't only be friends with the drug addicts and high-class cross dressers I so frequently frequent. Maybe I, too, can make friends who will help me grow things other than long toenails.
   

Normal Things Scare Me

Hello again,
     I am restarting my blog in almost sole honor of the fact that there are too many THINGS inside of my head that swirl around at free will; and because of this, I must get them all out. I choose to do it here.
     Since I have forgotten any of the awesome anythings that have probably raced over my head within the past few days, I will start, not anew, but a-old. An odd man once made strikingly ridiculous and scarily valid statement; he is none other than the brilliant Stephen Colbert who was, at the time, interviewing the musician St. Vincent:
     "Are you one of those artists who has trouble with the idea that you might be ordinary? Not a bad thing but, most of humanity is common. Artists are trapped by their need to be extraordinary and they distance themselves for that very reason. Do you fear that by being an artist you miss out on some of humans' ordinary existence?"
      The funny yet not-so-funny thing about this is that, he is exactly right. Not to label myself as a try-hard but, isn't anyone who is willing to put the effort into picking out polka-dotted pants versus plain khakis technically trying hard? Do normal people wear orange lipstick? I don't really know-I wear orange lipstick. And trust me, most people are not willing to trot their tuchuses down the side of the road wearing the absurdities that come to rise from the depths of my Alice-In-Wonderland-of-a-closet. I wonder what would happen if all of the odd people in the world just did not make the effort to publicly showcase that they were odd. What if we just had to find out for ourselves? Of course, some people just look cool, but most of the time, extensive face-painting and weapon-like shoes, accessories, and attire contribute largely to this showcase. And I do love showcases. The problem is, when I dress like a normal person, I feel disgustingly defenseless. I cannot parade around university grounds in mere low-waisted shorts, sandals, and a dumpy tee shirt. Who does that?! OH-everyone. 
     So anyways, the falsely right-wing left-winger who is Stephen Colbert took the words right out of my subconscious. Why does St. Vincent write peculiar music and dress how she does? Mr. C has called St. V right out: she vies to vie against the grain of tradition and normalcy as her curly hair and red lipstick shriek in fear of blending in. 
    -Glad I was able to direct a thought or two onto my blog- Maybe next time my post will also relate mildly to fashion. Isn't that what I made this blog for originally? Oops. Well, I am off to email forensics professors and learn more about the varied patterns of blood spatter.