I WAS SO WRONG

So after some persistent peer pressure from my sister and many of you, I've elected to try to start up this blog again.  Returning to this platform reminds me what a horrid interface (both on a user and purely visual end) Blogger has, but at the moment I don't have the time or energy to update it.  Rest assured my graphic design instincts will kick in before too long and I'll convert the blog to a separate platform... maybe.

You may have noticed the new blog title.  Don't worry, it's the same site, same content, you can find all of the same posts.  Apart from the fact that the old title, "The Closet Exhibitionist" was just a mouthful, I came across some startling information that made me change the name of my blog.

IMMEDIATELY.

Also, I'm experimenting with adding my commentary in this blurb fashion.  I'll change it up some in the future, it just makes longer narratives read easier.  Please leave a note in the comments any suggestions/criticisms!

Darn you Urban Dictionary...

So that was a surprise.  I now have a sneaking suspicion that past readers were either very scandalized or very disappointed based on what exactly they were expecting when they ran a Google search for my blog.  Either way, you can understand why I immediately began to brainstorm some new blog name ideas.

Toasted Fresco has several meanings for me, personally.  It includes two of some of my favorite things: toast and art historical implication.  Google is ever a friend to the seeker of definitions, so maybe these explanations can satisfy you further to this new blog title:

Traditionally, a fresco is a hastily painted piece of art onto plaster.  I dare to compare my hastily rendered pixels to a modern alternative.  "Toasted" can go either two ways: crash and burn or a celebration.  And that's basically the premise of this whole blog.

So, I hope you will keep up with me as I try to post on a regular basis now.  I even made an Instagram account for the purpose, so you should follow that for the most regular updates.  I'm excited to get rolling with this and figure out how to get on the blogging bandwagon.

... However, it still won't change the fact that I am forever scarred by the monstrosity of a coincidence that my original blog name was.  RIP Closet Exhibitionist, may you burn and die and be forgiven for your sins.

the real scary thing

As many of you know, I cut my hair over fall break.  After much Pinterest surfing, here are some references that I attempted to replicate in my own hair:

In reality, I ended up looking more like some bizarre combination between Prince Valiant and Patricia Richardson from Home Improvement: 

Regardless, I still love my new hair.  It feels amazing and I'm way more confident because of it.

After the initial panic of chopping 8 inches off of my own head, I really began to enjoy the newfound lightness of my own head.

I had been getting really tired of my long hair and truly was ready to get rid of it and chop it off pretty drastically.  Not only does the cut make me feel more confident, but there was the added benefit of knowing that if somebody didn't like the way it looked, I could justify my actions on the moral high ground by announcing that I had elected to donate all of my hair.

This good feeling lasted for a few days until I was lulled into a sense of deep comfort in my newfound fluff head.  But alas, these feelings were not meant to last, as I soon felt an unwelcome spirit return to haunt me in the dark of the night.

Woe to me, in my haste to cut my own hair and pack home for fall break, I had hurriedly stuffed my donate-able ponytail of hair into a ziploc bag and sealed it away in the back of a shelf in my closet before forgetting about it for weeks.  And there my hair has stayed, the hypocritical locks that betray my boasting and cry for vengeance from deep within a pile of discarded shoes and a neglected bottle of Febreeze. 

Disclaimer: the hair is still very much clean and protected (thanks to the ziploc bag) and will be donated for real this time, post-haste.  Until that point, however, I will continue to be burdened by the forgotten ponytail in my closet.

Happy (late) Halloween.

an intimate encounter with the cafeteria floor

Welcome one and all to

ANXIETY, THE SEQUEL

For those of you just now tuning in, here's Part 1 and the Introduction to my little miniseries on my experience with depression and anxiety.

To recap, the first two years of college has been where most of my anxiety exists.  It exists for various reasons, many which I'm still fairly clueless about, but the symptoms are fairly consistent: irregular breathing, nausea, dizziness, shaking, and blacking out.  I am blessed to be able to say that the worst of these episodes are behind me, and that I haven't had a bad reaction in several months.  However, I still want to share my experiences from these years in college because 1) it's a real problem worth sharing and 2) it's important to laugh at your problems every now and again to make sure they don't get too big in your head.

So, without further ado, let me tell you a tale of my gruesome encounter with the cafeteria floor.

It was a Monday or a Wednesday.  I can't remember which and it really doesn't matter, I just know that I had just gotten out of my Print Production class and was making a bee line for the caf for some dinner.  Print Production was an anxiety in itself, but that's for another time.  I had just gotten a good grade and was feeling dandy, so when anxiety decided to show up I was extremely perplexed and at first tried to ignore the symptoms.  I was already fairly deep in the line at the caf and wasn't about to turn around and leave.  So I waited and pondered that the room was growing more and more like an old man's ear: fuzzy and unable to distinguish between noises.

By the time I realized I needed to deal with the problem, I was putting a plate on my tray and going through the line.  I honestly have no idea how I ended up with food on my plate, because I really couldn't see much and didn't care what was happening.

I remember blindly heading for the salad bar in a dazed quest for English peas and cucumbers, which I courageously retrieved before finding somewhere to sit down.  Thankfully I could always rely on my friends to sit at just about the same table every mealtime, so I took my seat and went to town on some cucumbers, which were about the only thing I felt I could stomach at the moment.

I munched steadily on those cucumbers, hoping stupidly that a few disks from a green water sausage would raise my blood sugar enough to snap me out of my wooziness (not my brightest moment).  After a few minutes I started feeling worse, and by then my friends could tell something was up.  I told them that I felt like passing out and that I was going to lay under the table and elevate my feet on my chair for a few minutes until I felt better.

This was not my finest moment.  There I was, laying down on the carpet of AU's cafeteria floor, with my head amongst the feet of my peers and my feet amongst the head of my peers.  It was there that I made constellations of the varied gums stuck to the roof of the table, and it was there that I contemplated my friend's choices in laces as they passed me cucumber chips from their Asgardian height.  

It seemed like a long time before I felt my wits begin to return, and I didn't want to keep my friends at the table for any longer.  Slowly sitting up, I said that I thought I felt well enough to try to walk back to my dorm.  My friend Matthew, who is roughly of the size and disposition of a bear, kindly offered to carry me and my backpack across campus.  I was already pretty embarrassed by the whole situation, and thought to spare myself from the attention of being carried to my dorm.

In the end, Matthew offered to take my arm and my backpack and walk me back to make sure I was okay.  I felt immediately improved as soon as I got outside and away from the cafeteria crowds, though I still have no idea what triggered that episode.  The moral of this story is twofold: 1) if you think your blood sugar is low, for heaven's sake don't try to fix it with cucumbers, and 2) always try to make friends with large teddy bears.  Shout out to Matthew Adams: thanks for being a friend sophomore year, the world needs more grizzly bears like you.

a new tool

I got a new toy in the mail this week.

A stylus.  I've been wanting one for a while, but just hadn't gotten around to getting one.  I had ordered a new case for my ipad and a stylus came with it.  Even though it's just a cheap little thing, I immediately wanted to try it out for my blog doodles.

Prior to this point, I've been drawing my doodles with just my finger on my ipad sketch app.  Not the most precision tool, clearly.  So, naturally I was excited at the possibility that maybe a stylus could improve the quality of my blog sketches, at least so my characters could look like actual people.

But, as so often it happens, my expectations don't always meet the reality of just how lazy I am when it comes to "art":

And so, dear readers of this crap blog, I'm afraid to report that while a stylus might improve upon the time it takes to make these posts, it most certainly does not improve the quality.  At first, I was disappointed. 

But then I came to terms with the reality of the nature of this blog.  If the art was good, then I'm not sure I would actually enjoy telling my silly mundane stories.  However, for now, I will just reflect upon my disappointing narratives and mediocre talents. 

I have the makings of a new post underway!  Hopefully I won't wait too long to get it out.  I realized I didn't post at all in June, but hopefully now that my summer internship is almost over I can blog a little more often.  Until then... Cheerio loves!

an intimate encounter with the bathroom floor

I'd like to think that I'm a woman of my word.

Granted, sometimes that word is untimely and I take a while to do good on it, but hey, I try.  In regard to my last blogpost (you can read here), I am endeavoring to share with the world the true and honest facts about my struggle with depression and anxiety.  Mostly anxiety, because I'm at a point where I can make fun of my anxiety.  And, as we know, making fun of my problems is what this blog is all about.

So, without further ado, allow me to present to you my first experience with real anxiety, in full illustrated detail:


It was freshman year here at AU.  I was loving life and doing well, and to be quite honest I didn't have any worries.  I was definitely the obnoxiously carefree freshman.  That being said, apparently my body disagreed with my hakuna-matata mindset, because come finals week I began to have problems.

My first final was for ART105, which is our foundations art course here at AU.  Basic principles & concepts, though for a lot of us it was some of our first experiences within the art world.  I wasn't worried about my grades, but to be honest sometimes anxiety doesn't need a reason to pop up.  It just happens.  And whatever "just happened" that day, decided to "just happen" during the middle of my Foundations final.

For art exams we always met in a small auditorium-type room with stadium seating.  I was halfway through my exam when suddenly I noticed something.

I had never blacked out prior to this.  Apart from the time I got my wisdom teeth removed, I had never passed out or even really felt light headed, so the blazingly obvious signs and signals of an eminent blackout (such as darkening vision, lightheadedness, and loss of hearing) were foreign to me.  I just thought I was really hungry.

Thus, I blindly paraded through the remainder of my exam and stumbled in a somewhat inebriated fashion towards the platform where my professor was collecting exams.  I couldn't even make eye contact.

By this point I was visibly shaking and very aware of my fading vision, and finally the warning lightbulb in my head decided to flicker to life and I began to understand that I was about to pass out.  And in my hazy panic, I forgot all lessons of laying down and elevating one's feet.  In fact, in my brain the most logical thing for me to do was walk to the bathroom.  It was an arduous and befuddling journey.

After I took refuge in the ladies room, I ended up making a hasty camp in a dusty corner where I immediately curled up on the floor.  Words can't describe how much I didn't care.  I had my raincoat for a pillow, a water bottle in my backpack, and a toilet approximately five feet from my head.  Like an animal that had reached an undesirable but somewhat safe shelter from a predator, I felt moderately accommodated for whatever schemes my body had in store for me.

It was here that I spent the next hour trying not to black out and/or vomit.  Luckily for me, the linoleum floor and concrete walls provided a perfect environment to block my cell phone signal, so I resigned to try and sleep until I felt well enough to stand up and find help.  

Whilst in hell's waiting room, a lady came in to clean the bathroom.  I could hear her scrubbing toilets and mopping on the other side of the bathroom, and patiently waited to be discovered.

Contrary to my optimistic expectations, the woman mopped around me and left without saying a word.  In retrospect, I'm not sure why I didn't say anything either.  It was just awkward all around.

Eventually though, apparently cleaning lady's gossip of the Creature from the Linoleum Lagoon spread and one of the ladies who works in the building peeped in and inquired if I was okay.

Apparently, I was not convincing.  We were able to contact my sister Maris, who came by to (literally) pick me up and help me get back to the dorm.  All the while, of course, I was denying my apparent condition and blamed it on low blood sugar (a very real possibility, I might add), lack of sleep, etc.; basically anything to convince myself that I hadn't come down with the very same problem that plagues almost every other college student in America.

Anyways.  The moral of this story is: take care of yourself.  If you think something may be wrong, then don't try to brush it off.  Tell somebody what's going on.  Don't be stupid and deny your problems just because of fear or pride: these things will only prevent you from overcoming your issues.  My intimate encounter with the bathroom floor was the first of many anxiety reactions, and I honestly think I could have conquered my stress much sooner and much healthier if I had just accepted the fact that I have this problem.  Acknowledging the problem is not the same thing as succumbing to the problem.  In any case, I hope this post brought you a smile and, if you struggle with this issue or something similar, know that you're not alone and better days are coming.  If I can survive literally the crappiest beginning to my freshman finals week, then who knows what else can be conquered.

P.S. I made a 4.0 that semester.