Blood Tangent is coming to an end. And I guess I am moving on to bigger and better things—but I’m not sure, definitely not cured, a little allured, and maybe a bit more matured.
Over the past four years I’ve gone to more shows than I can count—or even remember—I’ve interviewed this semi-famous musician and that famous artist, I learned about czarists and marxists. I’ve written a lot of articles, taken a lot of photographs, and rearranged a lot of paragraphs. I’ve moved twice, I still give bad advice, I found my soulmate who I equally love and hate. I’ve gotten into many verbal fights and made a lot of love bites. I bleached my hair blonde because I wanted to be like Edie Sedgwick. I am kind of a lunatic. I walked home from bars with friends and never made amends, I walked home from bars alone ignoring my cellphone, I was meeting deadlines and drinking cheap wines. I’ve seen a nutritionist, a therapist, and a psychiatrist. I’ve lost appointment cards, canceled sessions, filled prescriptions, any questions? I’ve missed birthday parties, holidays, and anniversaries. I’ve spent the last two years mostly inside, especially in summer. I’ve retained my vampiric pallor, I’m best friends with my cat, everyone calls me a brat. I stared in a mirror at a stranger’s apartment. My hair has grown a few inches and I’ve gotten out of a few pinches.
I’ll be graduating soon and I’ve never been one for normal; I’ve always been the freak show, the weirdo. But it’s okay because I never wanted to be normal anyway. But now, I have to think about “normal” things, not why films have sound or how cameras work, not what Sid and Nancy would be like if they lived, not about feminism, punk or art or maybe Descartes. I have loans to pay, jobs to apply for, I have to decide if I want to move to New York or LA or maybe San Francisco Bay, or maybe I should just stay.