Amateur Hipster Artwork, Busted Furs

I have absolutely no decorating skills. Like, at all. I can walk into someone else’s home and enjoy specific things they’ve done to it. I can gleefully watch HGTV (for six hours straight, but that’s another story altogether) and completely understand why 99% of the rooms are disgusting and tacky. But when it comes to choosing objects and spatially arranging them in my own home it is an absolute disaster.

Every decorative element in my house is haphazardly placed and ultimately irritatingly in the way/precariously-positioned/unnecessary/disgusting.

This:

Hey guys, isn’t it funny and just a touch cheeky that this painting is not only a clown but a sad clown? This was purchased at Saver’s in Providence sometime during 2006, and lovingly placed on a piece of plywood clinging to the wall for dear life. Next to it, an Ikea Christmas candle (unused, unremoved from its packaging) from Holiday Season 2008, choked with dust. I fucking hate candles. I’m allergic to artificial fragrances. What led me to purchase this (albeit cheap) source of light and faux-Swedish wonder, I don’t remember. In addition: tiny Morroccan box, courtesy of beloved Cousin Deano, and a tiny black cupid, flat on his face. These last two will be kept until further notice.

Q: Should I throw away this jacket? Or is it possible to repair ripped fur without enormous expense?

I got kicked out of a bar on the Lower East Side for wearing this little white rabbit bomber.

Bouncer: Is that real fur?

Me: Duh.

Bouncer: GET THE FUCK OUTTA THIS BAR!

Me: Suck it AIDSFACE! I’ll go to a bar that appreciates killing!

Moreover, it prompted my favorite English professor in college to tell me he loved everything about my fashion sense when I was discussing Old Norse with him on a dismal February afternoon.

BUT, I lifted my arms too fast and it ripped along the upper arm, toward the shoulder. I tried to get a picture, but my camera phone is beyond suckage. I keep convincing myself that it’s okay to throw things away. I have three other fur coats: one longer fox, a gray rabbit, and a tawny rabbit (mid-length, with segments of sweater). But white! White rabbit bomber’s fit is unparalleled, its elbow pads make me piss myself with joy.

When wholesome honesty makes up for ugly photography.

This is my room.

A deluge of dresses. And unwrapped lampshades. And dusty defunct lamps I just HAD TO HAVE. And empty Haribo rattlesnake packets.* And multiple lint rollers. And goggles. And one small precious special kitten, if you can find her.

One two three ORGANIZATIONAL SKILLS. And the building (or whittling) of a better, more functional wardrobe. Fashion plus logic plus writing equals ideal, unwasted, savored time well spent.

Like the Celtics or Steelers (or Stealers? Like Stealing a Basketball?) or [Insert Infamous Sports Team Here], I’ll reverse this curse imparted upon me by my hoarding ancestors and immediate predecessors.

I will record each piece, in blurry photographs and literary nuggets, getting rid of what I need to and holding onto the things I truly adore.

Wish me luck!  Any and all advice, criticism, and pure meanness appreciated.

*Indubitably necessary, but so is appropriate trash can employment.