![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
homoneurotic(TW: skin injury)
The itching phase of the tattoo has commenced. Nothing some unscented soap, lotion, and a good ol' slap haven't been able to handle, though. The tomboy in me that never quite grew up is begging to rip open the scabs. But then I just remind her just how much money came out of my account to get this thing, and she doesn't have much to say after that.
I managed to get outside the other day as a small reward for finishing my graduate work. I wandered around the city without much of a destination in mind, sticking mainly to residential streets. Lots of interesting trash on the curb, including this green stool that would be perfect for my partner to rest their razors on when we shave our heads outside. Couldn't tell if it was actually on the curb as trash or one of those distressed garden decor things, though, so I let it be. Maybe I'll swing by that street again later, and take another look.
Let it be known that, despite unpopular opinion, trash is one of my favorite things about living in the city. There's just something so alive about walking by bodegas and barber shops with old CRTs on the curb, trashed up recliners, particle-wood bookshelves, discarded lotto tickets. Maybe I'm part raccoon.
The itching phase of the tattoo has commenced. Nothing some unscented soap, lotion, and a good ol' slap haven't been able to handle, though. The tomboy in me that never quite grew up is begging to rip open the scabs. But then I just remind her just how much money came out of my account to get this thing, and she doesn't have much to say after that.
I managed to get outside the other day as a small reward for finishing my graduate work. I wandered around the city without much of a destination in mind, sticking mainly to residential streets. Lots of interesting trash on the curb, including this green stool that would be perfect for my partner to rest their razors on when we shave our heads outside. Couldn't tell if it was actually on the curb as trash or one of those distressed garden decor things, though, so I let it be. Maybe I'll swing by that street again later, and take another look.
Let it be known that, despite unpopular opinion, trash is one of my favorite things about living in the city. There's just something so alive about walking by bodegas and barber shops with old CRTs on the curb, trashed up recliners, particle-wood bookshelves, discarded lotto tickets. Maybe I'm part raccoon.
