Friday, January 16, 2009

The leaves turn green; the sun shines a little brighter.

The reign of terror is almost over.

Fuck you George W. "Douche Bag" Bush (yes, I believe that they formally announced that at his resignation speech).

Obama, don't get shot... and pick this economy up a little bit -thank you.

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It's ok baby, no more tears.


Oh, and what the hell? A flock of birds takes down a GIGANTIC aircraft... really?
...REALLY?

That's like saying a litter of kittens could take out a train.

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O_O.


LMAO at my entry title before, my mouse is a little bit broken and it tends to click at random points in time. Hence The lurns, as opposed to leaves... thank you mouse.

Monday, January 12, 2009

Breathing art and a moving canvas.

I love tattoos. I have since I can remember. Like many other things, I blame my dad for this, just like I blame him for being the only five year old I know who had their ear pierced. He got his first tattoo in honor of me, and then two more following that for my brothers. Now he has a bunch of them, including a half sleeve. I think he's getting another one soon for my grandfather who passed away recently.

Anyway, I could not manage to wait until I was 18 to get my first tattoo, so as a graduation present I got my first tattoo in the summer of 07 when I was 17. Although I do regret not waiting until I was 18 and doing all the research I really should have before I got that tattoo done (which was very poorly done... thank you Snake Eyes from B52 tattoo who was drinking Jack Daniels and smoking weed like they were cigarettes the entire time), I got it redone by a really talented artist (Justin Weatherholtz) and I love it to death.

I just turned 19 years old this past October, 3 tattoos and 4 sittings later, the itch has returned. Now this posses me with a dilemma that I'm sure is common to many other people. Should I wait? Everyone tells me I'm too young to have all this work done, and especially too young to be wanting additional pieces. But what can I do? I had a very early start, and don't see a stop anytime soon.

I passed up on an opportunity to get some work done in a couple of weeks by Jeff Ensminger, I hope everyone is proud of me -_-.

Why would anyone possibly care about any of this?
...Yes, you might have guessed it, you probably don't and I apologize to those who read this nonsense.

Love,
Pat.

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Maybe I'll look like that guy someday, then everyone can say "I told you so!"

Friday, January 9, 2009

I used to be able to hold the world in my little hands.

It might be a little sad that I'm making two posts in such a short time, but this is pretty relieving... talking to myself and what not.

I was resizing pictures from my mom's birthday dinner, which was actually a lot of fun. Good Argentinian food, a lot of Sangria, my mom looked very pretty.

BUT, my dad brought up something very interesting to me (after a long day of drinking -_-). He opened up to me about his "worst memory ever." A memory that still gives him nightmares sometimes, needless to say I was interested.

I had the most amazing kindergarten teacher ever (I love you Mrs. Archer). We celebrated Cinco De Mayo for the god's sakes, she brought in tacos, a pinata, sombreros, the whole nine yards. Did your kindergarten teacher do that?! I didn't think so punk! Anyway, I managed to make it through kingerdarden *phew* and come graduation Mrs. Archer presented all of us with a blow up globe, our last little step in our little journey to discover the world. We were equipped with the A,B,C's, some simple mathematics, and the ability to finger paint, it was time for us to learn some geography. I actually liked this beach ball of a globe that I had, for some strange reason I used to stand in front of this giant mirror that my mom had on her armour and try to keep it from hitting the floor.

How does this relate to my dad's worst memory ever you ask? Why I'll tell you!

One morning my dad was sleeping on the couch and I was playing with that ball, most likely making a lot of noise, and he came into my mom's room grabbed that globe and popped it with his massive hands. He took the world in his hands and crushed it right before me. I'm sure I was crying or what not, I was five years old. I honestly don't remember though, I don't even remember what I was doing with the ball, my mom and dad described it to me at dinner. Now I know that it was a hangover morning, and he couldn't take the noise from me playing with that ball anymore. Now that I think about, I hope he yelled at me a few times to give me fair warning that he was going to pop that ball, and although I'm going to assume that is the case, I can't verify that.

NOW, I vaguely remembered this before he brought it up. I remember a lot of random things, but I definitely would not call it my worst memory involving my father, but apparently it touched a chord in his heart. He apologized to me about a trillion times and asked for my forgiveness, which I gave him. Afterall, compared to the things I've witnessed in my life, him popping my blow up globe is nowhere near my list of fatherly dissapointments.

Not that anyone cares (with the exception of maybe my mother), but me and my father have a very complicated relationship.

Pictures much more easily entertain people than words, so without further adieu, my dad's creative interpretation of him popping my ball:

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I also mentioned that my mom looked very pretty:

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I would never lie about such a thing!

Thursday, January 8, 2009

Marty McFly, you lucky bastard... let me borrow that Delorean.

It amazes me that people can say with confidence that they do not have a single regret in their life. I guess it could reflect personality, some people are carefree and content with the way they handle situations. I still can't decide if that is a good thing or a bad thing. I am a very ambitious person, I try to put myself in a situation to do what is best for me and my future, as well as the people that I care about.

There are numerous instances in my past in which I wish I could go back, relive and change. Make a better decision, make a different move, react differently. Most are as petty as taking a swing at someone who deserved it instead of swallowing my pride, or dancing with my mom at my cousin's birthday party when I was eight or nine years old, instead of being embarrassed (I'm sorry mom, I tried to make it up to you at Antonnettes wedding). Some are more serious, and affected people that I loved, or cared about. These things really bother me, and will always bother me. I am never intent on hurting anyone, but somehow I manage to do it a lot more than I'd like.

I am the master of making poor decisions, it plagues me like good looks plague Adriana Lima.
I simply can't escape it.

To anyone I've ever hurt (the majority of which will more than likely never read this) I am sorry.

Love,
Pat.

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