I’m feeling kind of inspired today. I’m slowly dragging myself out of the Slough of Despond (hey, Pilgrim’s Progress reference!) and trying to get that loving feeling back over new endeavors, new ways to market myself, sketching some projects, baking muffins. Oh, the excitement! Then I made the mistake of turning on the news and seeing the most recent unemployment figures with people saying they’ve been looking for a job for a year, and I started wishing I hadn’t LOST my job, but if I found that particular one again, I just might wander into the woods, sans bread crumbs. Hey, Hansel and Gretel reference!
So I’ve decreed that this blog needs some inspiration. It’s inspiration Friday! And I figured out how to work my scanner today, so that means oodles of fun. This opens up great possibilites. For starters: I cleaned out the stack of old Vogues and ELLES under my bed (Remember: I won’t be buying those wastes of trees in the forseeable future) and did what I always do: clipped the inspirational pictures for future projects. And then I clipped pictures of my favorite actress in the entire world.
Ah, Maggie Cheung. J’adore. I don’t know what you’re doing in Tarantino’s Inglorious Basterds, but I’ll always have 2046 on DVD, since I can’t afford to go out and buy Irma Vep on special edition.
Although this is from last fall, it’s always good for ideas. Going to the mall today, I got very little inspiration. Everything I saw looked like a giant slice of hot-buttered ass. Colors were popping, ’tis true, but to many shapeless tops with super tight leggings. As someone who survived the first round of leggings and stirrup pants, I fear I must reiterate a maxim I once coined in college: Stretch pants are a privilege, ladies, not a right.
I’ve also had it with the flowing, cheapo looking scarves that some poor kid in Bangladesh made for sweatshop wages. Gals, you aren’t the second coming of Freida Pinto in Slumdog. It is not written.
I did PAY for a little inspiration, today. After walking around Sephora for about 20 minutes, I simply got what I came in for after quizzing the nice saleslady. Money’s tight, but lil’ mama’s out of blush.
I bought some NARS blush in Orgasm. Which thankfully, won’t be the only release I’ll be getting.
I’m about the close this puppy down for the weekend. But I couldn’t STFU without talking about the giant silo explosion that is American Idol. I am officially done. What a nightmare on tuneless street. Good singers thrown to the curb whilst tone deaf twats get through based on supposed “commercial” appeal. What commerical? The one for the hemmie lube they show at the end of Wheel and Jeopardy! every night? (check it, I think it’s called Baneol…) Anyway, I’m so sick of Cowell throwing out J Hud’s name every year like she’s some saviour of the show, when we all know how SHE was treated. Abominably. Gah, I thought that year was bad, but this is officially the whitest year of Idol ever, and I can’t bear it. I feel like I’m at an Aryan Youth rally! I’ll stick to RuPaul’s Drag Race, thank you kindly.
Have I gone too far? I don’t care! Go over to my sidebar and listen to the hottest track I’ve heard this week: The divine miss Jennifer Hudson herself featuring Hotlanta’s own Ludacris. It’s called “Pocketbook,” as in don’t make me hit you with it, and all I can think about is Aunt Esther on Sanford and Son. Shades of my youth, coming back. Laws, but I loved that show.
Folks, I don’t know what the future is holding for me and mine, but I’m feeling alright tonight.