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I find myself doing this quite often nowadays, communicating through unusual portals. I think it because we are erratic-not the human species, but us specifically, or at least me-filled of acute uncertainty, always longing to wander where the wind catches your hair and the sent of exploration fills your lungs like sweet lemonade. I miss the way you walk: taking everything around you in, or how you embrace the unknown on a daily basic. You need to be here. We need to gallivant through the night: downtown, santa monica, westwood, venice, the works. Destroying everything in our path and only leaving a trail of flowers, bubbles, and Benzoylmethyl Ecogine to show we were there.
Two girls cast love spells and chase each other through time, space and dimension on a Friday night in their bedroom. Directed by ZFCL, Sextape by Deftones
There’s this rift in time when I think back, these fragmented memories. It feels like I’m thinking someone else’s thoughts, like I’m seeing someone else’s past. I miss the days when we were gallivanting around town after midnight on our bikes, my calves burning as I pumped my pedal to keep in pace with you. I remember the four of us drunk off (terrible) beer, or maybe we were just pretending, goading each other into harmless dares and screeching into the creases of our elbows when we actually did them. I remember having a tear stained face because I couldn’t understand why this was happening to you, or her, or me. I remember being your best friend. I want to blame myself because it’s easiest, I want to blame you because it all hurts, but I’m just confused most days. I can only think about our secret names for the people we hated, for the people we wanted, and being shoulder to shoulder as we walked, glaring at everyone. I love you. I loved all of you. The bad doesn’t matter anymore, in the long run. I’m sorry for everything I’ve done, everything I didn’t do, and everything in-between. I want to ask someone if this is a part of growing up, but I’d feel whiny. You stop being friends, it happens, it’s natural. But when you’re fourteen-fifteen-sixteen and crouched together on a squeaky bed, after scarfing down Chinese food and walking around in the dark, you don’t think see a future without these people, these friends, these sisters. Oh well. Also recommend by Deftones: entire White Pony album, Change (In The House of Fire), and Diamond Eyes.
Its 10:10pm Tuesday night. my hippy gal Dejuan text message: “I want to get some Ice Cream. With an 8:00am class in the morning, It only seemed fitting, and reasonable , to take a late night walk and get some ice cream…And thus the adventure to SWEET ROSE CREAMERY was born!
Oh.My.Word. This place is pretty ah-mazing. I got two scoops of the ‘Frozen Tart Yogurt’ on a cone ($6.00) and it was perfect. They also have non-dairy ice-cream (not sure how that works) but hey, for all my vegans out there: this is the place to go to get your ice cream fix. Great, now I want Ice Cream.
225 26th St #51 Santa Monica, CA 90402
You know you’re alive very time you get up. That moment floating through consciousness, where you’re aware enough to know you’re awake but not functioning enough to give a shit. You’re just remembering to breathe and you aren’t quite thinking, only squinting because it’s too bright, listening to your heart hammering against your chest. Breathe in, breathe out. Then you move the wrong way, or stretch for too long, and you come crashing down. Your moment gets ruined by anxieties and fears, and this gnawing sense of being uninspired and not being articulate, or intelligent enough, to express it coherently. You’ve always felt empty and only recently, you’ve been learning why. — scribbled at 4am
Skye genuinely inspires me. My four year old niece is this bundle of energy and innocence and that hyper awareness you used you hold for the world around you. I wake up daily and practice the same routine: left leg straight, don’t step on it, hobble around and push responsibilities, push the real world outside for a bit. Until you can walk, until the scar that runs diagonal, that takes up the space underneath your knee, looks less pink and raw, until you can pretend that it isn’t noticeable. A lot has happened, and I’m thankful that one of us has kept Dolce de Skye alive. I promise to be around more, that Oscar post is months late, but it’s coming, and I have a lot to say. I’m grasping to figure out how to say it.