Sweatshirt Oppression! Work made me turn my "Shit Happens" shirt inside out. I was caught in an obvious walk of shame, hair unbrushed. They could've asked me to go home and use shampoo. My inner seventh grader was offended to her core. She threatened to turn it right side out the minute she clocked out, flipping double-fisted birds and shouting "Wake Up, Sheeple!"
I've decided I'm going through a second round of teen angst, stomping down the sidewalk in combat boots, "Mr. Self-Destruct" blasting in borrowed blue headphones. I forgot about headphones! How anti-social they make everyone- provding the solipsistic soundtrack to the film unfolding around you.
C & I discussed renewing the lease on the house out of spite: to snake the well-adjusted assholes asking for a second walk-through, who know where they're gonna be in eight months. Our psychotic schedule could be totally determined by being reactionary! Just don't allow a good-looking couple who expects their love to last get our house before we can.
Also, decided to start wearing knee pads for no reason, being into anime, hair dye, Urban Decay makeup and hanging out at the bar in the church where My Life with the Thrill Kill Cult is always playing. I'll have the adult sex life as that I always imagined I'd have as a teenager, and retain the emotional immaturity.
(Relatedly, a portrait of the artist as a 13-year-old, in the simpler year of 1996. The t-shirt I'm wearing either had a sparkly robot or a winking kitty with long eyelashes on the sternum. The mixed media edit is mine, from the time.)