I missed 69 / music is awesome

I had it all mapped out. When the sixty-ninth person followed this blog, I was going to write a really long post filled with every kind of sexual innuendo I know. And knowing me, that’s a fairly long list. Anything you say, there’s a 69% chance that I’ll be able to turn it around. It’s that low because I have difficulty with things like “I went to see my grandma last Friday and we had sushi”, and “my dog is a drama queen”. But still, it was going to be glorious. But then I got swamped with things, and before I knew it, three lovely people decided to honour me with their shadowy cyber-presences, and I’ve missed sixty-nine all together. 

That blows. It’s really hard for me to swallow, you know? I’m almost choking on it. I’m pleased, don’t get me wrong, I mean, I’m practically gasping with pleasure, but it still sucks. Welcome, newbies. I’ve been posting sporadically as of late, but hey. 

ON ANOTHER NOTE: my local arts centre has a monthly open mic night, and tonight my band played a couple of our songs for a real live audience! I was jittery about singing live in front of so many people (haven’t done that in a few years), but it was fine. My mom said we were good, anyways (my parents came, how cool is that?). No, but really, it went really well. We sounded good. I’m super excited for the recordings we’re working on to be real things that I can link you guys up to, because (I’m biased) they’re going to be really great. Really. Really really really. 

It’s late. I have a blasphemously long and complicated day tomorrow (at least it ends in good beer), so I’m off to bed. Love ya guys. 

Tulle is a Weighty Passion

Fabric is a strange animal. It can crease in all the wrong places, feel like pissed-on cardboard, and smell like mothballs, or it can drape and cinch and seduce your skin with textures and patterns you never knew you loved. Sometimes, I hate tulle. That wispy, good-for-nothing fairytale of a fabric, embodying my best memories of dressing up as Glinda the Good Witch when I was seven years old.

Lately, and by lately I mean in the past two years, I’ve had a strange fascination with this one dress, tea-length, with a full tulle skirt flaring out from a satiny dropped waist. I wanted it for my graduation dress, but I would have had to order it from overseas and that’s just a little too much of a gamble for a cynic like me.

I have a shortcut to this dress in my bookmarks bar. When I feel stressed out, unhappy, or just fed up with the world, I click on the link and take in all the soft, sweet curves of this dress. Everything about it, the suggested shoes included, make me sigh with the perfection of some things on this earth.

So here. Have a little taste of tulle perfection. (click on the picture to see the rest of it)

Look at this. Ignore the petulant look on the model's face and just drink in the quiet, understated beauty of this garment.

Look at this. Ignore the petulant look on the model’s face and just drink in the quiet, understated beauty of this garment.

I think it’s like cars for some people.

The Dressing Room

The Dressing Room

I was a ballet girl (though I loved contemporary better) for twelve years, and volunteered in a costume shop for two.  This is not my best rendition of a hanging tutu, but it was what I whipped off in preparation for the second juried art show this month. This one got in, which is cool. Feels like too-pink nostalgia.

Alive and Painting

I’m still here. Starting to paint a few new pieces. Yay, canvas! Hopefully the smell of acrylics will drive away the rest of this damn cold. I’m less than impressed with being sick, but my baby sister got her wisdom teeth out this morning so I can’t complain too loudly about my headaches and fevers and hacking and wheezing. Poor girl. She’s muddling through a haze of tylenol 3’s and antibiotics and steroids, which is more than I ever got. I made the most of the codeine, but she’s not looking too peppy. 

But paint. Paint I will. In between playing soup/yop/drug dispenser. 

Also, just a reminder? I like you guys. Y’all are a pretty nice crowd. ❤

hello, wildfire

I consider myself, sometimes. And usually, it’s in a pretty goddamn flattering light. I’m great. I’m pretty goddamn fantastic. I have top-notch self-esteem. I know other people have low days, hell, have low days, but as low days go they’re pretty damn high.

But when you’ve got a WordPress closet full of unpublished bling because you’re too lazy to touch it, a living space that took you eight hours to excavate out from all the knee-deep crap that’s been accumulating for the past few weeks and you haven’t even begun your homework or the laundry, well, it’s pretty damn easy to say “I suck”.

And then that tiny “I suck” morphs into this massive all-consuming tidal wave of fiery self-doubt that hovers over you all day, roaring in your ears, screaming softly into your unsuspecting ears

“You are not good enough”

“Nothing you do matters”

“If money grew on trees, you’d be damn successful–as it is, good luck ever moving out of your parents’ house, you underachieving good-for-nothing self-serving piece of self-centred shit”.

That was yesterday.

Today, I’m feeling unbelievably sexy. Seriously, people, come at me.

I will charm your socks off.

© Emily Bragg 2013