I am a woman of simple pleasures. I enjoy sleeping in late on Sunday afternoons to find that my eyeliner has smeared all over my pillow case. I take pleasure in the smell of freshly wet, musty clothes I attempt to dry in the Old K laundry room. I like the bitter, burnt taste of the coffee from Peirce. I like life. Life is good. But I apparently hate myself.
The smoking habit follows a simple trajectory: I smoked while drunk. I would hit up literally anyone available on the patios at parties for a cig, and I’d shame myself in the morning for doing so. I am an independent woman! I shouldn’t be asking anyone for a cigarette! So I bought my own. Soon I found myself smoking while walking to class. Now I find myself smoking outside the library hoping my life morphs into a Greta Gerwig film.
I’ve never considered myself an “art person.” I cannot draw, I cannot paint. I do not have any stick and poke tattoos. I don’t wear those clogs, I don’t carry a Fjallraven Kanken. I like art, I suppose. I’ve been to the MoMA, I’ve nodded and hummed when my friends would comment on “the real message” behind feces smeared on a wall. I am currently enrolled in two art classes, one that counts towards my film major, Digital Imaging and one for fun, Book Arts. I like these classes. I like collaging and taking saucy selfies and photoshopping fire coming out of my eyes. If that is considered art, then so be it. If that is art, then I can do it. Heck, I can even minor in it!
There you have it. I am a girl who constantly wears a trench coat who has a nose ring and an eyebrow piercing. I am a girl who constantly appears to be slightly pissed off, who wears a lot of black, who uses a Glossier pouch as a pencil case. I am a girl you will see smoking outside the library, outside Horvitz. I am a stereotype. I am finally self-aware.