Forgive-Me-Not

i’m so angry. i’m so mean. i expect total leeway for all shortcomings and failures, but i give none. i expect everyone to fit my tight definitions of what i desire in people, and i have such a hard time accepting–and enjoying–people for their individual selves. i expect the show always on while i’m always still adjusting my costume.

this is an easy out, but Facebook does this to me a lot. i see people’s stream of conscious, and their grammar might be bad or their topic may be obscure, and i’m frustrated: “why aren’t you the you i want you to be?!?”

and to myself. i get so mad at me. why did i make that choice? why am i afraid of the post office? why do i hate going outside?

right now i’m stuck on this tattoo. my artist called me once, it’s been a few years, and she said money’s tight. i’ll tattoo you as long as you can sit for a certain amount of money. and man was it a bargain. here’s the catch: i didn’t get the tattoo i really wanted. i sold my arm for someone else’s rent money.

why the hell did i do that? there are so many ways each and every one of us are prostitutes to something, but i actually sold skin. i am permanently marked for a big fucking mistake.

i’m trying forgiveness today. i’ve changed the name of the flower. it was supposed to be a gardenia in honor of my grandmother and my husband for sentimental reasons. i’ve come to realize it looks more like a camellia. flipping through a flower book trying to see if there was something i wanted to paint, i saw a magic answer. it said that camellias mean “you’re adorable.”

forgive me, Chrissy; i’m adorable.

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archivally safe label adhesive

today, right now, i love me because of something a friend wrote and a commenter said. my friend wrote that she was always questioning seeing the world beyond the labels she was taught. a commenter wrote their own blog post in the responses that as an expert she declared my friend a label perpetuater. and i felt validated: i label. happily. gladly.

i think i was born to archive because i love labeling. americans (label) love labels (label), and highly identify with their jobs (labellabellabel!!!).

i was actually taught not to identify with the american dream of the label of job, but i’ve actually learned to embrace my job label. i seriously love being an archivist, and i wear it proudly like a badge, like that one time i was on a committee with my friend Koichi (japanese immigrant, archivist, really great guy) who basically steered for us both (proactive, Type A).

the weird catch is that i loved being an archivist before i was one professionally (graduate student worker), took a mental break from loving it (harsh reality), and now love it again that it’s threatened (disabled).

double threat: i’m so disabled i have a hard time working the number of hours my boss expects–and, well, i’m contracted for (supervisor)–and i’m so disabled i have the threat that really i can’t keep up with the damn job (sad).

(are the labels getting boring? [concerned, sensitive, paranoid])

so, i love these labels: i embrace these labels. weirdo, wife, alternative mother, archivist, and, the dreaded, DISABLED.

much love friends, lovers, enemies,
xoxtine

PS: you know what label i do hate? “Grammar Nazi.” i prefer “Grammrrr Grrrl.”