This weekend proved to be a tad surreal. On one hand, the old familiar framework was in place: attempting to sleep late while Freyja pawed at my covers and Plath screamed in my ear; working on freelancing for hours on end; watching Netflix DVDs; and exchanging messages on Facebook. On the other hand, it also involved a bounty of two activities that I almost never do: drinking and socializing.
On Friday afternoon some coworkers and I went out for a long al fresco lunch and each of us enjoyed a glass of sangria while there. Pretty tame, admittedly, but it’s also like, Ohmigod! We’re drinking! On our lunch break! And then we have to go back to work! Ohmigod, we’re so scandalous! Sometimes being a stodgy old fogey is just grand.
On Friday night I was off to a coworker’s farewell party—which also turned into an early Oktoberbest celebration (at least in name). I had some bottles of English cider left over from the Princess Diana death anniversary party, so I took those along and some people were really excited about it. I grabbed one of the bottles for myself and enjoyed my time with the assemblage of coworkers and significant others who were there. The weather was great and it was a perfect evening to hang out under the party lights and trees. One of the benefits to parties thrown by my coworkers: all the food is vegetarian. In fact, the hostess of this particular party even labeled which dishes were vegan versus vegetarian. I love it.
Last night I helped another coworker belatedly celebrate her birthday. We had dinner at a Mediterranean restaurant we discovered in Georgetown two years ago, then spent a bit of time drooling over all of the unattainable goods in Anthropologie. Although talking myself out of buying a gigantic metal J for $98 wasn’t too difficult, talking myself out of buying a tabletop metal and wood J sculpture thingy for $28 was a lot more difficult. Oh how I coveted that damn thing! But sanity prevailed in the end, disappointingly. Afterwards we headed to Strike Bethesda, as she really wanted to go bowling (which would also mean kicking my ass at bowling, because let’s face it—I’m not exactly athletic). Once we got there and saw how ridiculously high the prices were ($35.95 for one hour’s use of a lane? Come on!), we decided to scrap our plans.
On a whim we headed over to Dave & Buster’s in Rockville. We had drinks, played the various games (well, Susan did, anyway—I was too cheap!), and stalked a hot gangly nerd. As always, Susan questioned my taste in men after I furtively pointed him out to her (not that he would’ve noticed—he was way too engrossed [one could even say to an obsessive degree] with the interactive Police 9-1-1 game). Based on my ragtag assemblage of geek crushes, I suspect the girl basically thinks I’m a nutcase...and perhaps she’s right. After we got tired of stalking him, we hit the road.
Also? I’m totally freaking the fuck out about this house situation. I just don’t know what to do. I can’t decide if I can make that monthly mortgage payment work. I can’t decide if buying this house will be the stupidest move of my life (because I may not be able to afford it, and house prices may continue to decline, so if I just wait for a few more weeks/months, I may be able to find a more affordable home) or if it will be the smartest move of my life (because no better properties at that price will appear, and passing on this house means passing on my one chance to have a decent home at a semi-affordable price). I analyzed my monthly expenses to within an inch of their life, cut costs from them as much as possible, and poured over my freelance earnings for each month during the past two years to try to figure out how much they could save my ass if I buy this house. I’ve become an old pro at fretting and wringing my hands while being completely paralyzed with indecision.
Long live the joys of adulthood.
song heard most recently before posting:
Symphonic Dances, Op. 45: Non allegro—Sergei Rachmaninov
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Why can't buying a house be so much easier?
This house-hunting thing and mortgage-shopping thing has become the bane of my existence.
Thus far I’ve spoken to four respectable lenders (as compared to potentially dodgy lenders on the internet) and none of them have given me numbers I can deal with. I can’t pay $1,500-1,600 a month for a mortgage. I just can’t. So logic says, “Okay, you’ve held on for this long; why not just keep waiting until housing prices drop further?” Yes, I’m paranoid that there’s going to be another housing boom and I’ll lose my chance to buy a place, but I recognize that it’s not a very realistic fear. Everyone on the news is saying that prices will continue to drop for another year or so; although they might just be panicmongers, there’s really no reason for me to not believe their core message, just like there’s no reason for me to think that interest rates will suddenly skyrocket. My immediate problem is that I actually found a great house on Friday night.
We (my brother-in-law Bryan, my realtor Allie, and me) went to look at two houses in Frederick. The first house seemed okay on the outside. It looked like a relatively quiet, working-class street of duplexes. Allie told me it was highly Hispanic and I was like, “I don’t care. I just want to live somewhere quiet, where I don’t have to worry about hordes of people standing out on the street at night, talking loudly and playing music and whatever.” Really, my neighbors can be black, white, Asian, three-headed, whatever, as long as they’re not dangerous and/or noisy. In terms of race, ethnicity, and religion, all people are the same in my book.
The backyard was huge and had potential. The much-anticipated hot tub was a washout, though—it looked like something from a horror movie. The yard had two water features: a long, narrow, canal-like pond which looked like it might have a small waterfall mechanism, and a full-scale pond. It was massive! At first I was charmed by it but then I realized just how much work it would entail. It would need one or two pumps and god knows how much other maintenance in order to keep it from turning into a West Nile virus factory. Unfortunately, we couldn’t get into the house. The listing agent had warned Allie that the renting tenant might not let us in, and he was right. The house was dark when we arrived, the blinds were drawn, and no one answered the door. What the hell? Why isn’t the seller doing anything about that? When my previous landlord was selling his house, I had to let prospective buyers wander through my apartment no matter what time of day it was! Allie offered to come back and take digital pictures inside the house for me, which sounded good to me. But later Bryan—who had previously grudgingly admitted that the street didn’t look too bad—began saying how this neighborhood has the highest crime rate in all of Maryland—worse even than Baltimore and PG County. I was thinking, Uh, great. Well, if I’d really had a keen interest in the house, I possibly would’ve ignored his warnings. Or, I should say, I wouldn’t have taken them at face value. Instead, I would’ve done independent research to try to figure out just how unsafe the area is. But the thing is, I didn’t have a keen interest in the house. It was cute on the outside but it was too expensive ($190k) and the yard seemed too daunting. So I just told Allie to forget about taking the digital pictures for me.
The second house has so much potential. That’s the great house I mentioned earlier. Is it my dream house? No. It’s just a run-of-the-mill brick townhouse from the 1960s on an average street in Frederick. But the street seemed quiet and nice (granted, it was raining, so that could’ve kept the hooligans inside), and the house is next to a church, which gave me a strange feeling of safety, even though I’m completely areligious. Allie did a bit of research and found that there isn’t a lot of turnover in that neighborhood—people stay there for quite a few years. That’s a good sign. Plus, although the house has a HOA fee, I wouldn’t need to get homeowner’s insurance, which would save me money. Apparently with condos you only have to get renter’s insurance. I never knew that before.
The house itself was average but it was a perfect size for me. There’s a dining room, albeit one that’s basically part of the living room, and there’s also room for a table and chairs in the kitchen. There’s a half-bath downstairs and the basement is quite large. It has an unfinished section to serve as a laundry room and the finished section could serve as my storage area and as the place where I eventually put an exercise bike (I’ve decided that my lazy ass needs to get in some semblance of mediocre shape). The master bedroom had been split into two children’s bedroom with a makeshift picket fence (yes, an actual fence!) and the owner offered to either take it down to restore the room to its original state or put up a permanent wall to create two rooms. This would give me a guest room and an office. There are loads of closets—I was impressed by that. The house has a fenced in patio that would really be perfect for me. It’s small, but still big enough for a café table and chairs, a bird feeder, and lots of potted flowers. It would give the cats fresh air yet keep them safe, because the wooden fence is high.
Negatives: the appliances and windows are all quite old and would probably need to be replaced pretty soon, and for some inexplicable reason the central air doesn’t extend to the upstairs, so that would have to be done. Not just because I like it cool when I sleep, but also because it’s more energy-efficient. I mean, any air blowing downstairs is going to drift upstairs, which would keep the downstairs from getting very cool, and thus the a/c would pump harder to keep the downstairs cool. Aside from those things, though, the house is in good shape and would look splendid with wooden floors and my jewel-toned walls.
But at $179,500, I can’t afford it. That’s the bottom line. Even with getting two mortgages to keep PMI at bay, which would save me money, I can’t afford it. And that just makes me so incredibly sad, I can hardly bear it. Bryan thinks the pricetag is crazy and the house should only cost $165k at the most. But Allie said that a counteroffer should only go down to $175k. If it did go lower, maybe I could afford it. I don’t know. Maybe it’s worth trying? The seller almost had the house sold but the deal fell apart the day before settlement. He has already moved into a new house and wants this place gone so he doesn’t have to pay two mortgages. Maybe he’d be willing to settle for less money.
What else can I do? I’m going to contact a mortgage broker friend of Bryan’s tomorrow and see if I can magically get better numbers out of him. He’s a very nice, very honest guy; I got some decent numbers from him back in 2005 when I first started thinking about buying a house, and he did a fabulous job with refinancing Kristen and Bryan’s house twice. Maybe I’ll ask how much my monthly payment would cost if the house cost $165k, just in case. It probably wouldn’t be much lower, though. That’s the frustrating thing about mortgages: a price drop of $10k really makes no difference in your monthly payment.
This is all so close, and yet so very unreachable…
song heard most recently before posting:
Symphony No. 29 in A, K. 201, 1st movement—WA Mozart
Thus far I’ve spoken to four respectable lenders (as compared to potentially dodgy lenders on the internet) and none of them have given me numbers I can deal with. I can’t pay $1,500-1,600 a month for a mortgage. I just can’t. So logic says, “Okay, you’ve held on for this long; why not just keep waiting until housing prices drop further?” Yes, I’m paranoid that there’s going to be another housing boom and I’ll lose my chance to buy a place, but I recognize that it’s not a very realistic fear. Everyone on the news is saying that prices will continue to drop for another year or so; although they might just be panicmongers, there’s really no reason for me to not believe their core message, just like there’s no reason for me to think that interest rates will suddenly skyrocket. My immediate problem is that I actually found a great house on Friday night.
We (my brother-in-law Bryan, my realtor Allie, and me) went to look at two houses in Frederick. The first house seemed okay on the outside. It looked like a relatively quiet, working-class street of duplexes. Allie told me it was highly Hispanic and I was like, “I don’t care. I just want to live somewhere quiet, where I don’t have to worry about hordes of people standing out on the street at night, talking loudly and playing music and whatever.” Really, my neighbors can be black, white, Asian, three-headed, whatever, as long as they’re not dangerous and/or noisy. In terms of race, ethnicity, and religion, all people are the same in my book.
The backyard was huge and had potential. The much-anticipated hot tub was a washout, though—it looked like something from a horror movie. The yard had two water features: a long, narrow, canal-like pond which looked like it might have a small waterfall mechanism, and a full-scale pond. It was massive! At first I was charmed by it but then I realized just how much work it would entail. It would need one or two pumps and god knows how much other maintenance in order to keep it from turning into a West Nile virus factory. Unfortunately, we couldn’t get into the house. The listing agent had warned Allie that the renting tenant might not let us in, and he was right. The house was dark when we arrived, the blinds were drawn, and no one answered the door. What the hell? Why isn’t the seller doing anything about that? When my previous landlord was selling his house, I had to let prospective buyers wander through my apartment no matter what time of day it was! Allie offered to come back and take digital pictures inside the house for me, which sounded good to me. But later Bryan—who had previously grudgingly admitted that the street didn’t look too bad—began saying how this neighborhood has the highest crime rate in all of Maryland—worse even than Baltimore and PG County. I was thinking, Uh, great. Well, if I’d really had a keen interest in the house, I possibly would’ve ignored his warnings. Or, I should say, I wouldn’t have taken them at face value. Instead, I would’ve done independent research to try to figure out just how unsafe the area is. But the thing is, I didn’t have a keen interest in the house. It was cute on the outside but it was too expensive ($190k) and the yard seemed too daunting. So I just told Allie to forget about taking the digital pictures for me.
The second house has so much potential. That’s the great house I mentioned earlier. Is it my dream house? No. It’s just a run-of-the-mill brick townhouse from the 1960s on an average street in Frederick. But the street seemed quiet and nice (granted, it was raining, so that could’ve kept the hooligans inside), and the house is next to a church, which gave me a strange feeling of safety, even though I’m completely areligious. Allie did a bit of research and found that there isn’t a lot of turnover in that neighborhood—people stay there for quite a few years. That’s a good sign. Plus, although the house has a HOA fee, I wouldn’t need to get homeowner’s insurance, which would save me money. Apparently with condos you only have to get renter’s insurance. I never knew that before.
The house itself was average but it was a perfect size for me. There’s a dining room, albeit one that’s basically part of the living room, and there’s also room for a table and chairs in the kitchen. There’s a half-bath downstairs and the basement is quite large. It has an unfinished section to serve as a laundry room and the finished section could serve as my storage area and as the place where I eventually put an exercise bike (I’ve decided that my lazy ass needs to get in some semblance of mediocre shape). The master bedroom had been split into two children’s bedroom with a makeshift picket fence (yes, an actual fence!) and the owner offered to either take it down to restore the room to its original state or put up a permanent wall to create two rooms. This would give me a guest room and an office. There are loads of closets—I was impressed by that. The house has a fenced in patio that would really be perfect for me. It’s small, but still big enough for a café table and chairs, a bird feeder, and lots of potted flowers. It would give the cats fresh air yet keep them safe, because the wooden fence is high.
Negatives: the appliances and windows are all quite old and would probably need to be replaced pretty soon, and for some inexplicable reason the central air doesn’t extend to the upstairs, so that would have to be done. Not just because I like it cool when I sleep, but also because it’s more energy-efficient. I mean, any air blowing downstairs is going to drift upstairs, which would keep the downstairs from getting very cool, and thus the a/c would pump harder to keep the downstairs cool. Aside from those things, though, the house is in good shape and would look splendid with wooden floors and my jewel-toned walls.
But at $179,500, I can’t afford it. That’s the bottom line. Even with getting two mortgages to keep PMI at bay, which would save me money, I can’t afford it. And that just makes me so incredibly sad, I can hardly bear it. Bryan thinks the pricetag is crazy and the house should only cost $165k at the most. But Allie said that a counteroffer should only go down to $175k. If it did go lower, maybe I could afford it. I don’t know. Maybe it’s worth trying? The seller almost had the house sold but the deal fell apart the day before settlement. He has already moved into a new house and wants this place gone so he doesn’t have to pay two mortgages. Maybe he’d be willing to settle for less money.
What else can I do? I’m going to contact a mortgage broker friend of Bryan’s tomorrow and see if I can magically get better numbers out of him. He’s a very nice, very honest guy; I got some decent numbers from him back in 2005 when I first started thinking about buying a house, and he did a fabulous job with refinancing Kristen and Bryan’s house twice. Maybe I’ll ask how much my monthly payment would cost if the house cost $165k, just in case. It probably wouldn’t be much lower, though. That’s the frustrating thing about mortgages: a price drop of $10k really makes no difference in your monthly payment.
This is all so close, and yet so very unreachable…
song heard most recently before posting:
Symphony No. 29 in A, K. 201, 1st movement—WA Mozart
Monday, September 10, 2007
'round here, something radiates
Today is what I always refer to as my study abroad anniversary. In my head I never marked the day I actually landed in England (good thing, too, because it was September 11th); instead, I marked the day I left. It felt like such a monumental and massive point-of-no-return moment when, literally sobbing, I turned away from my family and friends at Newark Airport and began my long, shaky walk through the airline gate into the great unknown.
Some people argue that studying abroad really only matters if you’re in a place with a completely different language or culture, and England hardly falls into those categories. I’ll consent that studying abroad is more challenging in a Third World country or a country where a different language is spoken. But at the end of the day, this is what I think: going off to live in a different country when you’re only 20 years old is scary and brave in all circumstances. You’re leaving behind the comfort of friends, family, your college, your routines. And even Western, English-speaking London felt like a different world when it came to navigating its weird university system. There was a tough adjustment period and there were times when I wondered if I’d made a mistake. There were times when I really, really missed home and all my loved ones there.
Still, the listing ship of this experience righted itself in the end and I can now look back on my year abroad as one of the happiest times of my life. For someone like me—extremely shy, socially inept, almost paralyzed with clinical depression—what appeared to be the dumbest decision I could possibly make turned out to be the smartest. It set in motion the process of me emerging from my shell. It chipped away at my shyness and fear. I suppose one could even describe it as being my coming of age experience. I made some great new friends and finally found the Holy Grail I’d been seeking ever since I departed for my freshman year of college two years earlier: a normal college experience.
Scranton and I never gelled. While my senior year ended up being somewhat normal, thanks to my beloved David and wickedly fun Kara, my freshman and sophomore years were a wretched purgatorial state. I spent the bulk of them in quarantine, separated from the rest of the student body by a thick, sterile slab of shatter-proof glass. I didn’t connect with anyone and, coupled with my ever-present depression, I turned further inward to a degree where I was essentially a mute hermit.
Goldsmiths could’ve easily turned out the same way. I was resigned to the possibility that it might happen, and I consoled myself by saying, “Well, at least I’ll be in London.” Hey, being a social pariah isn’t so bad if you’re in London! It sure beats being a social pariah in Scranton, Pennsylvania, anyway! Still, there was a kernel of hope inside of me—one that whispered I think it might be okay.
And it was okay. Right off the bat I met Annida—still one of the most important people in my life—and we extended our social circle and had fun and soon I was tip-toeing my way through that dazzling Oz of normal college experiences. No, my time wasn’t spent drinking and snogging, and to that degree, I suppose my experiences weren’t completely normal. But suddenly I had friends hanging out in my room, walking to class with me, eating breakfast with me. Suddenly there were in-jokes and goofy photos and silly experiences. Suddenly I could write about more in my journal than just my ever-present angst and woe. These are all things that your average college student takes for granted, but for me they were as exquisitely, unexpectedly rare as spotting a unicorn while driving to the supermarket.
Goldsmiths is considered by many to be the UK’s leading creative university (especially in art, music, and design), and therefore, it was a perfect fit for me. Scranton, bless its heart, was a fundamentally white-bread school when I studied there. Its student body was primarily white and Catholic. The bulk of the students came from northeast PA, New Jersey, the Philadelphia area, and Long Island. There weren’t many other nationalities and ethnicities. Nearly everyone dressed the same: jeans, sweatshirts, baseball caps. Then I got to Goldsmiths and immediately met people from all over the world. On any given evening our table in the dining hall had students from Italy, Greece, Japan, France, Norway, and Malaysia plunking down or stopping to say hello. There were different races, languages, cultures. I saw pink hair, piercings, Mohawks, funky clothing. I was in heaven.
So today, 13 years after I carted my weeping, tremulous ass onto that Virgin Atlantic flight from Newark to Heathrow, I give thanks to Goldsmiths College and all it offered me. Long may she wave!
song heard most recently before posting:
Raining in Baltimore—Counting Crows
Some people argue that studying abroad really only matters if you’re in a place with a completely different language or culture, and England hardly falls into those categories. I’ll consent that studying abroad is more challenging in a Third World country or a country where a different language is spoken. But at the end of the day, this is what I think: going off to live in a different country when you’re only 20 years old is scary and brave in all circumstances. You’re leaving behind the comfort of friends, family, your college, your routines. And even Western, English-speaking London felt like a different world when it came to navigating its weird university system. There was a tough adjustment period and there were times when I wondered if I’d made a mistake. There were times when I really, really missed home and all my loved ones there.
Still, the listing ship of this experience righted itself in the end and I can now look back on my year abroad as one of the happiest times of my life. For someone like me—extremely shy, socially inept, almost paralyzed with clinical depression—what appeared to be the dumbest decision I could possibly make turned out to be the smartest. It set in motion the process of me emerging from my shell. It chipped away at my shyness and fear. I suppose one could even describe it as being my coming of age experience. I made some great new friends and finally found the Holy Grail I’d been seeking ever since I departed for my freshman year of college two years earlier: a normal college experience.
Scranton and I never gelled. While my senior year ended up being somewhat normal, thanks to my beloved David and wickedly fun Kara, my freshman and sophomore years were a wretched purgatorial state. I spent the bulk of them in quarantine, separated from the rest of the student body by a thick, sterile slab of shatter-proof glass. I didn’t connect with anyone and, coupled with my ever-present depression, I turned further inward to a degree where I was essentially a mute hermit.
Goldsmiths could’ve easily turned out the same way. I was resigned to the possibility that it might happen, and I consoled myself by saying, “Well, at least I’ll be in London.” Hey, being a social pariah isn’t so bad if you’re in London! It sure beats being a social pariah in Scranton, Pennsylvania, anyway! Still, there was a kernel of hope inside of me—one that whispered I think it might be okay.
And it was okay. Right off the bat I met Annida—still one of the most important people in my life—and we extended our social circle and had fun and soon I was tip-toeing my way through that dazzling Oz of normal college experiences. No, my time wasn’t spent drinking and snogging, and to that degree, I suppose my experiences weren’t completely normal. But suddenly I had friends hanging out in my room, walking to class with me, eating breakfast with me. Suddenly there were in-jokes and goofy photos and silly experiences. Suddenly I could write about more in my journal than just my ever-present angst and woe. These are all things that your average college student takes for granted, but for me they were as exquisitely, unexpectedly rare as spotting a unicorn while driving to the supermarket.
Goldsmiths is considered by many to be the UK’s leading creative university (especially in art, music, and design), and therefore, it was a perfect fit for me. Scranton, bless its heart, was a fundamentally white-bread school when I studied there. Its student body was primarily white and Catholic. The bulk of the students came from northeast PA, New Jersey, the Philadelphia area, and Long Island. There weren’t many other nationalities and ethnicities. Nearly everyone dressed the same: jeans, sweatshirts, baseball caps. Then I got to Goldsmiths and immediately met people from all over the world. On any given evening our table in the dining hall had students from Italy, Greece, Japan, France, Norway, and Malaysia plunking down or stopping to say hello. There were different races, languages, cultures. I saw pink hair, piercings, Mohawks, funky clothing. I was in heaven.
So today, 13 years after I carted my weeping, tremulous ass onto that Virgin Atlantic flight from Newark to Heathrow, I give thanks to Goldsmiths College and all it offered me. Long may she wave!
song heard most recently before posting:
Raining in Baltimore—Counting Crows
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
nature's bounty
I had a lovely time in Lebanon and greatly enjoyed our Princess Diana death party. Missy decided that she wants her funeral to be an exact replica of Diana’s funeral (minus Westminster Abbey and the zillions of TV viewers, of course), so we had fun planning that. Because that’s what normal thirtysomethings do on a Friday night—they sit around and plan their funerals. Thursday night, meanwhile, involved white trash karaoke and an 11pm trip to Wal-Mart. It was trashtastic.
After joining my grandfather for breakfast at Friendly’s on Saturday morning, I headed home to unpack, do laundry, work on freelancing, blah blah blah. I’d unfortunately forgotten to pack my Effexor when I left for PA, and I was really starting to feel the effects by the time I screeched into my driveway early on Saturday afternoon. Effexor is notorious for having a withdrawal symptom known in common parlance as “brain shivers.” Everybody seems to describe it differently; I find myself unable to describe it at all—it defies my capacity for language. All I can say is that it’s a very weird, unique, uncomfortable type of dizziness.
The weather was stellar all weekend so on Sunday morning I headed over to the US National Arboretum. I’d been there a few times in the past, but never with a digital camera. In the end I pulled some muscles and got some sunburn, but it was all worth it just to spend time in that beautiful place. My photos can be seen here.
My holiday was mostly spent watching DVDs, reading, and updating my website. It was wonderfully relaxing.
Some excellent links:
Beautiful, sumptuous bridal photos taken in a scene of breathtaking urban decay.
Fab design ideas.
I love altered books.
The #1 reason why my lazy ass needs to learn how to cross-stitch.
song heard most recently before posting:
You Don’t Know Where Your Interests Lie—Simon and Garfunkel
After joining my grandfather for breakfast at Friendly’s on Saturday morning, I headed home to unpack, do laundry, work on freelancing, blah blah blah. I’d unfortunately forgotten to pack my Effexor when I left for PA, and I was really starting to feel the effects by the time I screeched into my driveway early on Saturday afternoon. Effexor is notorious for having a withdrawal symptom known in common parlance as “brain shivers.” Everybody seems to describe it differently; I find myself unable to describe it at all—it defies my capacity for language. All I can say is that it’s a very weird, unique, uncomfortable type of dizziness.
The weather was stellar all weekend so on Sunday morning I headed over to the US National Arboretum. I’d been there a few times in the past, but never with a digital camera. In the end I pulled some muscles and got some sunburn, but it was all worth it just to spend time in that beautiful place. My photos can be seen here.
My holiday was mostly spent watching DVDs, reading, and updating my website. It was wonderfully relaxing.
Some excellent links:
Beautiful, sumptuous bridal photos taken in a scene of breathtaking urban decay.
Fab design ideas.
I love altered books.
The #1 reason why my lazy ass needs to learn how to cross-stitch.
song heard most recently before posting:
You Don’t Know Where Your Interests Lie—Simon and Garfunkel
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