Never a dull moment in this line of work

I work in a hotel.
You see some things, working in a hotel. Drugs, alcohol, needles, diapers of all stripes, mayonnaise on the ceiling (don’t ask, I still haven’t figured that one out). There’s rarely a truly dull day. Today I was making my last bed when I stubbed my toe on something very solid. “Somebody leave a weight?” I mutter, reaching down, picking up the thing and
“Shit!” I say, very wisely NOT dropping the very possibly loaded piece as I decide to call my boss on the phone.
“What’s up?”
“I might’ve slightly found a gun.”
“DO NOT MOVE. We’ll be up.”
We spend about eight minutes gawking at it before looking up the records and then confirming that yes, we need to call the cops and yes, I’m going to have to give a statement.
Never a dull day there…

The BDD Demon.

Today, my BDD was out in full force.

Sitting on the bus, a voice in my head repeated: “Fattie. Fattie. What happened? You were so good last week. One piece of toast a day! You can do it again! Maybe half! Do you want to stay like this? Fattie? Look at yourself. Fattie.”

It was all I could do to not scream “SHUT UP!” at the voice in my head.

The trigger?

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a shiny surface.

There is a reason why I don’t own a mirror big enough to see my body.

It took some mental wrangling to get myself to eat when I got home. Hell, I’m still hungry. But I’m also trying to shut that voice up again so I can eat in peace.

I mean, I was too sick to eat last week and the voice HEAPS PRAISE on that

It’s not easy. It’s not simple.

But it’s everyday.

… I better eat so I won’t get sick again.

Just some thoughts, and things making sense…

For the past few days—probably because it’s been close to the anniversary of the dumpage—my ex has been on my mind.

Don’t worry, I’m OK, nothing drastic is about to happen nor is it in any way shape or form risky. What’s been on my mind are the things about me that probably would have gotten me out of the “relationship” even without the circumstances that there were.

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Started from the bottom… 

I’m self taught.

Yet, I have the audacity to call myself a photographer.

I started from the bottom. Mom’s old film camera and B&W film and things in the backyard. When things went digital I experimented with the things she taught me using an entry level digital camera. It was like going back to class—which is a funny story. The primer she gave me over the years was so thorough that I was summarily booted from one intro class. I already knew the material inside and out. Unfortunately, the class I needed was two hundred dollars above my pay grade.

So I turned to books, articles, and the good old street beat. From instant Polaroid, to Kodak point and shoot, to now, I’ve gone from simply trying to catch what is in front of me to actively trying to blur the line between record and art.

But it didn’t happen overnight. I had to start somewhere.


Washed out on the way to the work shift.


They always happen after I’ve been left or ditched—the nightmares, that is—and getting back to sleep is a trial because I tend to fall back into them.

This time it was a combination of the ditch and the almost aggressive way I’m misgendered at work. No matter what I do it’s in one ear and out the other.

These things always leave me dizzy and exhausted. I’m not sure my “breakfast”—a double espresso used to shoot my meds—will do much against it.

And now I get to pull a mad long shift…


Almost a week removed from the collapse at work.


Tesla the kitten. We're all sure she's an evil genius.

I just woke up and am not photogenic so here’s my friends’ kitten, Tesla.

I think I am now in the “medications do weird things to me” phase of treatment.

I dreamt Pharrell was in my kitchen with a bunch of judges and we were trying to learn two things: how to make a good turkey flat wrap with country music on the side, and an indie 8-bit concept-punk game. (Yes it was sponsored by tumblr, why do you ask)

At one point he panicked and I had to talk him down from using HAM, which was banned… So naturally, red versus blue bass pumped low riders follow and we do that instead of the contest.

What hell, medications.


Part of the reality of being po’broke.

The thing about being really poor is that when you don’t make enough money to get yourself something nice for your birthday, it’s a mild disappointment. There is another thing about that fact: when you manage to make just enough to pay off all of the bills that you have that month, you still manage to feel accomplished.

This month is one of those.

I looked at this week’s paycheck and for a moment felt accomplished. I made an amount of money that had a two in the leading number slot instead of a one. I felt like I was getting somewhere. Then I sat down and did the math, and realized that I hadn’t had as much money as I thought.

You know, I actually don’t make enough money to save money for a rainy day—or, really, even a sunny day, most of the time. There just isn’t that much cushion. Especially when you live in such a situation when your rent isn’t even static. Mine’s about to go up for no other reason than it does: it goes up when the season gets better, so that it stays at a rate of 30% of my adjusted income. The little box that I had for my savings is going to be the thing that helps me pay the bills this month.

I’d meant it to be for something else, but that can wait for another day.

…I’d like to do something nice for my birthday, but I just don’t have the money to do so.

And frankly, just getting there and wanting to still be around at that point will be enough for me at this point.

Nine days.