Little Yellow Spider

hat and shoes : f21
sweater "dress" : a local clearance shop
tights: CVS
bag: vintage
beaded collar and necklaces: vintage




The men of Heypenny looking fricking awesome. Photo stolen (with permission) from their myspace.

This outfit was worn out on Saturday night to see the band of a friend of the fam's, Heypenny. They are coming out with an album in the near future (like next week I think) which will be available on itunes. They play charming indie pop... and as always... check them out!

I recently went shopping and purchased this yellow sweater for a mere $20, which is extremely reasonable. Technically, it's a shirt, but if it covers your ass, it's a viable dress in my book. Recently I've been a big fan of short hemlines so it was only a matter of time before I just didn't wear pants. I am so glad that it's chilly enough out to wear tights at night because then I can really really push it with the shortness. I've been wanting to buy more "supplies" for fall, but my closet is such a tragic explosion right now that I don't feel like I have the right to buy many new clothes. Things that are currently on my wish list are some more platform hooker shoes, lots of American Apparel, a bad ass black bag that has yet to be determined, lace up boots, a nice bowler hat to replace my crappy F21 one (because Lulu and all her child/hat analogies have made me feel guilty, thanks a lot!)

More than anything I just want a clean house and to not fail out of school. Those are my top priorities right now. You'd think that would be easy, but for someone like me, who spaces out for days at a time doing nothing but drinking beer/ diet soda and wasting my life on the internet, sometimes it's more difficult than it sounds. I'm sure I'll be back to my blogging/studying/laundry doing self in no time at all. (Power of positive thinking?) I certainly hope so.

That said last week I was m.i.a. due to working on my story. It is by no means good or finished in a final sense (are pieces ever, really?). Here are some excerpts from it. This isn't the story, just a few randomly selected paragraphs from it as I don't think anyone has any interesting in reading a ten page story on a blog. I am also not reposting the beginning of it because I have already posted it here, though I did edit it since then. If you do happen to decide to read on for whatever masochistic reason you may have, reader be warned: it's kind of gross and fucked up. If I had any sense at all I wouldn't post it, but I don't have any sense.



The couch was covered with old patchwork quilts and cigarette burns, and sitting on it, surrounded by all of Noah’s trash and artifacts, I could imagined his house as a dilapidated flat in Cuba where it would smell like pipe smoke and time could barely cut through the heat. I imagined that we would listen to Dixie land jazz and drink tall boys out of brown paper bags and laugh at everything that strived...

Noah and I always woke late in the afternoons to the hot midday sun and the smell of car exhaust coming in through the window. On the first afternoon we woke up together he rolled over, propped himself up on one elbow and stared at me with watery, blue eyes from beneath his shaggy, blond eyebrows. He had a large, bushy strawberry blonde mustache and thick horn-rimmed glasses. His course, blond hair stuck up in peaks, and I found him to be a little ugly. His breath stank of morning and beer, and he reached behind himself and took the electrical tape off the makeshift bedside table and placed a strip of it over my mouth as the sounds of hollering neighbors, sputtering cars, and barking dogs wafted innocuously through the billowing sheet tacked over the open bedroom window.


Thoughts ran through my tiny squinting mind: I stink, I need a shower, my hair is greasy and matted, I bet my bangs are doing something stupid, my stomach is fat and white, a dead fish belly, I bet I have a double chin laying here like this. The thoughts continued like this, rabid and undulating, as I let him tie the red bandanna he wore around his neck over my eyes, and I lay still, staring at the warm red of eyelids, as he finished taping my wrists and ankles together. My anklebones ground against each other, and thick, warm air wafted through the window as he poured water from the bottle next to the bed onto my face. The water trickled down my forehead, ran down my face and up my nose. The claustrophobic blue of suffocation muffled the racket of cars and dogs and hollering and all my thoughts about my fat, ugly belly and human stink....

The inane tape playing in my mind unraveled completely as something cold and hard pressed its sharp edge against my white fish belly. Noah asked if I was afraid, if I thought he might actually kill me. His voice was soft and far off; as if maybe he’d just asked me if I thought God existed after all. The knife’s edge traced up from my stomach to my chest and then neck, and I tried very hard to imagine, to believe, to digest, and to understand that I was going to be murdered, bled out right there on the mattress. I tried to imagine my blood dampening the merry cowboys and soaking into the circus elephants...

The sound of my own blood beating in my ears drowned out my worries about my smudged mascara, the awkward smile I always had in photographs, all the books I owned but had never read, the shame I felt whenever I didn’t know what a word meant. The fear was frothy and sweet. Nothing but it existed: not my matted hair, not my belly, not years or days or notebooks or ice cream parlors. He took the knife off of my neck and cut deep into my forearm. Blood seeped out of the deep cut, and the walls of my narrow mind crumbled away into something so vast and so kind, something entirely white and blue. The paved and carpeted world fell away beneath me, into my bright white fear, and I floated up high in the sky, towards the river, until all my thoughts finally dispersed, grew tiny, and blew away. I was so content... Afterwards, we went for French toast and coffee on a balcony overlooking Royal Street...

I turned the previous days events with Noah over in my mind as I worked, mouthing them. They tasted like pennies. I wanted to take to the streets and ingest all the gristle and hoariness, but I bought high heels on my mother’s credit card and studied the paintings of Manet instead. I spent my evenings drinking cup after cup of black coffee at the Rue de la Course on Magazine Street, pouring over my art history book, until the caffeine took over where the cocaine had left off. When the coffee shop closed I always went to a bar, looking for a man that could make me forget my name. I read my books in public, flashing the covers conspicuously, waiting for some liberal arts drop out with a drug problem to come talk to me.

... When I came back to the kitchen he had sliced the eggplants thick, rubbed them with olive oil and kosher salt, and carried them on a plate out back to the concrete patio, where weeds sprouted up between the cracks like fugitives. Two lawn chairs, a tiny grill, and a deflated kiddie pool were scattered across the uneven pavement, and a chain link fence partitioned off the patio from a concrete wall. He lit coals in the grill, and smoke snaked its way up into the muggy morning air as the slices of eggplant roasted over the ashy coals. We ate the spongy, salty slices of eggplant right off the grill, burning our hands. As the sun began to rise higher in the sky, white balloons began to rise with it, coming from somewhere far away, behind the concrete wall. More and more white balloons began to float up from behind the somber concrete wall until hundreds of white balloons filled the blue sky. It looked like the rapture, sudden and unexpected, and we watched as all the buoyant white orbs blew high above our heads, floating higher and higher towards the river, until they finally dispersed, grew tiny, and blew away.