A Failed Self-Intervention

I've been living in a state of denial. I must confess my transgressions before I can continue with my recovery. Sadly, my dear fans, I've still been working. In a school.

WITH CHILDREN.

I know, I know. This is terrible news. Here I am, supposedly spending all day in bed nursing epic hangovers but instead I'm disappointing all of you with continued altruistic works. I tried to stop. Many times. The rush is just too good, you know? That look they get on their faces when they finally get it. When they understand what multiplication actually is. What gives trees their green color. Why Christopher Columbus was not a hero but a massive douche deserving of a day of national immolation, not celebration. I can't break this addiction, man. And now that I'm talking about it, I don't want to stop. Seriously.

Could you stop knowing you get things like this all the time?

Crack.

Several times a week, trembling hands accompanied by a smiling face bestow upon me works greater than that of the classic masters. Move over, Michelangelo, this kid can draw Pikachu from memory. Shut up, Monet. You only wish you could make me a fridge magnet of Wolverine with a light saber. This little girl's leaf rubbings are second to none, Rembrandt. And they are ALL MINE.

Fashion, I am disappoint.

For a long period of time I did attempt to shake this compulsion. About six weeks ago I went to a fashion show here in Portland. I was planning to attend all of the major shows this fall and started with a one-off with an artsy multimedia component. My optimistic outlook on my return to frivolity died within moments of entry. What I thought would be a welcome return to my preferred reality was instead a jarring wake-up call to my problematic mental state. There was something very wrong with me.

Why was I not elbowing people to get into the bar line? Why was I not fawning over this designer who's pretentiously showing a clip from The Monkees' Head (it was the bridge scene and everything!) before their show? Why was I more preoccupied by this line's tangential connection to a Doctor Who reference than their actual clothing?

I couldn't even figure out ahead of time the looks for which we were going to arbitrarily choose to clap. Of course it was the man-sized baby onesie. Of COURSE it was. And I missed it. Everyone else knew to clap but I didn't. Instead, I thought to myself, "This guy in the giant onesie looks ridiculous. Where the hell would you wear that?" Clearly, I was off my game. I felt so out of place I decided not to attend any further shows this season.

Attending the shows was supposed to be a major source of inspiration to me as I am finishing up some touches on the accessories line I'm about to launch. I have decided to try once more to foist my hats upon the masses, but this time I'm additionally offering handbags and various jewelry. As I profit, I will reinvest into my business to buy better sewing equipment and move on to clothing. The sense of pressure I had has been deflated and I have decided to proceed toward my humor writing and fashion house dreams at my own, non-stressful pace. It'll happen when it happens. And in the meanwhile, I can get a bigger high by teaching what I know about sewing and other subjects to some awesome children, who are inspiring me more than any giant onesie even would.

Don't worry. I have plenty of other ways to do nothing most of the rest of the time. And I still love my bubbly.