Damn I'm really bad at updating this website. I'm sorry, but ever since I got to college I've been the most unmotivated son of a bitch the world has seen. I never leave my bed unless for classes and very rarely going out to watch a movie. Shout out to the local theatre that plays all of my favorite pretentious and silly classic movies. It's the only thing that keeps me going. I've watched Raging Bull, and Cleo from 5 to 7. While I certainly enjoy American cinema and its violence and commitment to telling stories, I believe French films such as Cleo from 5 to 7 unveil the feelings lodged deep within all of us in a manner that most American movies simply can't.

Wait, pretty butterfly. Ugliness is a kind of death. As long as I'm beautiful, I'm even more alive than the others.-Cleo from 5 to 7

As someone who is incredibly self conscious and tends to place my worth on my appearance more than my mind since my thoughts tend to be less marketable in the world of frat houses and raves that I find myself in, the movie affected me deeply. What is the disconnect between the body as a object and a machine?
I stay in my bed most days, thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking. And this is what will inevitably be the death of me. I certainly wouldn't call myself "smart" but I think to some degree I can be decently knowledgeable, and it's this constant search for knowledge and cognition and understanding that has left me to neglect and deprive my physical body. Your mind can't function with a alineation to the body but in the past month, despite my knowing this, I've completely lost the appetite for food and motivation for health. I rather starve my body so that I can keep it in my mind as an alluring concept for others to appreciate, rather than appreciate it as a beautiful contraption that keeps me breathing and walking.

I'll be the first to admit that although I have my triumphs and my charms, I can't find the value in them if others can't see it too. I desperately want to be understood to the fullest degree by somebody, anybody (which is why I talk so fucking much), and because I don't have this I lock myself away to write stories and stories and stories of lives far more delicate and intricate than my own. My stories while nothing like my life in the literal sense, have always reflected my deepest fears and desires. It's only when I'm on the bus alone and I say the same line of dialogue I wrote for a character yesterday, that I realize how strange of a coping mechanism I've made. This is why I'll probably never publish them, as not only am I lazy, but I understand that what I write is solely for me.

On a less strange note, if you're asking why I'm already romanticizing my melancholic solitude within the first month of being here, it's because for an insufferable little person like me, I immediately assume I'll be intensly disliked by everyone I meet. I don't know why this kind of negative self attitude is so instilled in me, but I think when you're a little weird and esoteric, it's just inevitable. While I make friends every now and then, there's no one I've really truly connected to. ESPECIALLY the girls from the bay area who scare tf out of me. If us folks from socal have our head in the clouds, bay area people walk with their head right down on the floor. I'd be lying if I said I didn't appreciate their punctuality though. I've gone to a few parties here and there, and I've very proudly worn my Michelle Pfeiffer Catwoman costume to a halloween party, but I never get much out of it. I think I'm a dreamer at heart and that's why I find myself so dissapointed when I'm forced to wake up. My brain's been rotted by comics, books, and movies, but atleast I can pretend that makes me well cultured. The song I chose for this post is called Chanson de Delphine. Like the last song it's from the Young Girls of Rochefort. In this, my favorite actress of all time Catherine Denueve (I even infringed copywright laws just to have an actual poster of her #fuck you Cannes film festival) sings to her twin sister of her ideal man. She doesn't know his name, or where he is, but she knows of his voice, his mind, his eyes, and she is certain he exists. And while I'm certain someone exists for me, only time will tell.

Illusion of love is not love found

The song lyrics cruelly remind us. I'm not willing to settle, and even though that sounds presposterous to some people, I'd rather die alone than try and show my affection to those not meant for it.

I'm aware the way I think can be comical and irrational, something which I'll probably have to work on in my next 4 years here, but what really needs work is my taste. I'm hooked on himbos that look like Greek Adonises yet desperately crave someone with the mind of an artist. I sometimes think the only likeminded people out there are just as neurotic as me, too afraid to talk and step outside, and if that's the case I can only hope one of us grows a pair.

I've done some fun things here and there. I got to see Matt Bennet who played as Robbie on Victorious live at a DJ show, I dressed up as a scene girl from the 2010s which was fun. I went to the beach with my parents and beloved little dog who came to visit for my birthday. Made pumpkin bread for white girl fall (my favorite holiday season). I'm kind of sad right now cause this neat guy at a art gallery offered me a job and then later never called back, but oh well, that's life, and I appreciate the temporary happiness it gave me. My mom said that it's cause I waited too long to call them, but I don't think I had the job to begin with considering I have no prior experience as a art gallery social media manager, besides AP Art History and this website which has 50,000 views!!! WOOO! Half of those views are probably from me though lets be honest. I just hope one day I'll be able to make art even though I'm a yucky business major. My professors are pretty awesome, especially the one who teaches Modern Physics for Poets (most rad name ever), and I did pretty good on my midterms, so at least there's that. I could have the worst life in the world, but as long as my grades are good who cares? I spent most of my childhood thinking I was the dumbest person alive cause I couldn't grasp certain concepts or be normal and pretty, but as I've grown I've learned to appreciate my mind more, maybe to a harmful extent. I went to Sprouts the other day to get some niche strange snacks. I got pork cracklings, sauerkraut, giant kombucha, and lions mane mushroom. I'm hoping the lions mane mushroom turns me into a evil super genius who can do anything, will update!

- Machine Girl xoxo