Loose Ends

I’ve been frustrating myself all year so far, trying to push through exhaustion and work drama to start creating again. It hasn’t been going well.

I finally put some time aside to write a new post yesterday, and ended up staring at my wall for two hours.

And then I was hungry.

And then I needed to pee.

And then I was cold.

And then I gave up writing, bundled up in my blanket, and took a nap.

This blanket, I made for myself three years ago as an anchor piece for my then goal of moving out of my uncle’s house and getting my first place on my own.

I was an avid user of Pinterest at the time, and envisioned the snazziest interior decorating in my dream space, and everything would be yellow and gray, clean and contemporary.

I crocheted this blanket over the course of a couple months and through a rewatch of three seasons of 30 Rock. It’s roughly six feet tall and wide, and it reminded me to save up every day I saw it draped across my bed.

I finally got my apartment, moved out, and it has been the staple piece of the house for the past two and a half years. But I realized something yesterday.

I never finished that blanket.

There’s always that one part of your passion that you hate to do. Art isn’t all fun and sunshine, it is actual work sometimes. And when it comes to knitting and crocheting, I absolutely detest sewing in ends when I’ve completed a project.

It’s arguably the most important part. The piece isn’t finished until you’ve sewn in the ends. It’s so crucial, it’s a common figure of speech.

Tieing in/up the loose ends.”

Where else where that have come from if not the fiber arts? I hate it though. I’m far from the only one, but I sure feel like the only one so hellbent in just leaving piles of old projects around that would otherwise be complete and ready to sell, should I just sew in the ends.

I’ve been using this blanket for the past three years with strands of yarn sticking out of every corner where the colors change, just ignoring the fact that my work is incomplete. Just acting like nothing is wrong with it. Glossing over my longstanding lack of follow-through.

You know how the question stands, does life imitate art, or does art imitate life? I’ve always found consistencies between my creative processes and my life happenings.  I feel like through this blanket, I have hexed my own life.

 

Why can’t I get a coherent thought on paper? Why do I have more drafts than published articles on this site? Why does it take me longer than two hours to put together one post? It shouldn’t take a whole day, a whole week, a whole month for one post! Why am I so scatterbrained?

This blanket was my anchor. It was my motivation to step into the next chapter. But I didn’t even finish it. Because I was too lazy. Because I didn’t feel like doing it.  But it was my first step. I brought the bad energy of sloth into my house and life with that shoddy first step.

Nothing gets finished.

I’m too tired to care.

All my plants are dead.

And I just keep wrapping up in this frayed blanket, wondering why. Wondering when it will get better.

Life imitates art. At least it seems to in this case. And I need to tie up some loose ends. A lot of loose ends. A lot of stupid pieces of thread all over the place, driving me insane and disturbing my qi.

I’m getting my qi back, one thread at a time. I’m 10 down so far, and when I’m done I’ll post a picture of the finally-finished blanket. And then we’ll see if I warded off the lazieness out of my house so I can write more frequently, not kill my new plants, and get my other creative endeavors rocking. I’m knocking out three strands of yarn per day, and I should be done in a couple weeks.

 

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Quarter Life Crisis: How Many Stormys

…does it take to change a light bulb?

No seriously.

The lights in the main room of my apartment went out last week.

Here we go, I thought, forced to face yet another new trial in this world we call “adulting.”

Geez, I tell ya. Every time you start thinking you’re doing a pretty good job at this stuff, the lights go out on all of your pride. In this case, quite literally.

Disclaimer: The title of this post is not a matter of questioning my ability to replace a light bulb. I mean c’mon guys, I didn’t grow up that privileged and oblivious. I’ve changed many a light bulb in my day, EXCUSE YOU.

But see,

the light bulb changing process, as I’ve known it, has always gone as follows:

1.) Light bulb goes out

2.) Storm goes to the storage closet/garage/junk drawer/fallout shelter/apocalypse bunker/what have you, and pulls out new light bulb

3.) Storm replaces light bulb

4.) Storm revels in her accomplished task (it’s the little things, guys), and basks in the new light

But this time is different.

This time, I can’t figure out Step 2.

I went to the storage closet/garage/junk drawer/fallout shelter/apocalypse bunker/what have you, to discover that not only do I not even have a storage closet/garage/junk drawer/fallout shelter/apocalypse bunker/what have you in my shoebox of a studio, but I also don’t have any light bulbs!

It was in that moment that it occurred to me.

Light bulbs are a thing…that you buy. They don’t just come with the concept of having your own living space.

And woah, woah WAIT…

nothing does…

Oh. My. God. What’s next? What have I gotten myself into? How does anyone do this? I—I never read the manual! It didn’t come with the deal either.

…Just like the light bulbs.

…Just like everything else.

And I repeat, Oh my God. I eventually stopped hyperventilating and peeled myself off the floor and prepared myself to be a competent human being and get more light bulbs. But hold on. Where do light bulbs come from?

Ideas?

Light bulb stork?

Light bulbs R Us?

Lightbulbs.org?

Light bulb dealer under the sketchy overpass?

I took to the Internet. You can apparently get them…almost everywhere. Who knew?! Don’t actually answer that. But anyways, Google sent me to Lowe’s. I unscrewed one of my light bulbs for reference, and headed there.

By the time I arrived at the store, I had sent myself through at least three different levels of mental anguish about the whole ordeal. A strange mix of embarrassment and pride led me to look for the light bulbs, refusing to ask for any assistance.

Like a moth to a flame, I walked towards the middle of the warehouse to the lighting department. You know, where all the lamps and ceiling fans and lawn lights, and just…just all the lights are. And they’re all on. And of course I’d find light bulbs in a giant area of lit ones, right?

I couldn’t find a single light bulb for sale.

In the light section. The section of the store where everything related to making your home not dark is located. I walk one aisle over. Doorbells. I go to the other aisle over. Nuts and bolts. I go back to the lighting department, because it only makes sense, and I must have overlooked it.

So much light.

So many fans.

It’s bright.

It’s cool.

It’s lacking in light bulbs.

And I’m lacking in patience.

I asked for help. The light bulbs were in aisle 1. Only as far away as possible from the light section without putting them outside with the potted plants. But who am I to try and apply common sense to the organization of a hardware store?

Finally, light bulbs.

There are numbers. Numbers with Ws next to them.

weather? water? why?…wumbo?

Let’s just say it stands for whatever, because my head is starting to hurt.

Okay, well how many whatever’s do I need? Does it matter? Would it be there if it didn’t matter? How am I suppposed to know how many whatever’s I need?

I pull out the old light bulb that I remembered that I brought with me for such a time as this. I analyze the small print at the base of the bulb.

Trisonic. Numbers with a K at the end. Numbers with a V at the end. Assorted warnings that I skimmed. Where’s the W? There’s no W. And the boxes of light bulbs have no Ks or Vs… Well this was a load of help.

I figure I’ll just buy a box, and if it blows up my house, I’ll return it for the correct amount of whatever’s. You would think that was the end of my debacle. But no. I get through the whatever’s and then I’m faced with all of these colors.

Soft white. Off white. Bright white. Bright bright white. Not so bright white. Egg white. Cocaine white. White power. And then the yellows. Please don’t make me re-live the yellows.

Since when does light have a color anyway? I thought it was all the colors and none of the colors? At the same time, kinda? I don’t know, I was an English major in school, science is lost on me. And so is this purchase.

I just had a seat on the floor for a moment. Confused. Overwhelmed. Thinking to myself, I’m…going to die here…trying to buy light bulbs.

No.

I can’t go out like that.

I just bought a damn box. It said ‘Daylight.’ And I figured maybe the 60w bulbs, because my apartment is old so maybe I don’t want all of the whatevers, but I deserve more than the bare minimum of whatevers…whatever the whatevers are.

I successfully replaced all seven light bulbs in my apartment, and a week has gone by without me short circuiting the building so I guess I did it right? Right amount of whatevers. The daylight light is kind of nice for selfies. I’d consider this a win. Yes. I did the adulting and won. Until my next crisis, guys.