everyone gets lost in their own fog [see: monsters of folk]

I feel like graduation has been six months away for the past six months.

Figuring out how to daisy chain a crap-ton [when no other word describes it] of cable to plug into two dimmers and make light-up Christmas shrubberies work in a cue: Rather Fulfilling. Leave me alone in a room with edison to stagepin adapters, stagepin jumpers, edison extensions, and all of those sorts, I'm a happy camper.

Additional: Models have never made me hate my body. Ballet dancers on the other hand, make me want to hide away in shame. Their bodies are works of art. I mean, sketchers 'n painters would get a kick out of my cury-curves and plumpy rear, but those gals are where it's at. I'd like to say It's not fair, but I guess I shouldn't have quit ballet after failing the Cinderalla's Mice scene when I was five. The day I realised I was destined to be the artist, not the figure.

It just really is fascinating how no matter how we fight it, our life is easily traced back to childhood. Every inch of it. And the story goes on.