Images, father's day, names.

I can't seem to find the right image that captures what I need for a header on this blog/writing/whatever this is thing. It's important that its a reflection of me, but for right now, I can't come up with anything, I don't feel like making anything either. The last image was too dull, the one before too random, the one before too girly.

Today was father's day. Uneventful I guess. Hung out with my dad. Because I'm a multimedia major, I'm going to be forever roped into being tech support, whether or not I know what I'm actually doing. Today I helped my dad make a blog, and I helped my brother help his friend burn movies to a DVD, instructions delivered by text. I think my dad will be the only one who genuinely misses me after next week because who will he be able to call when he can't figure out how to connect to the internet?

I'm trying to name my new zine. I can't name it, and for me, naming drives the passion of the project. I have to have a good name, or else I can't see it happening. I can't really begin. Songs don't need to be named until they are finished, but things like zines, blogs, or those half-novella piece of shit, unfinished writings I have lying around need to be named before I begin.

Fifty Million Billion

She Got Soul

Gender Fuck What

Dear Girl,

It's Oblivion!

Red White Grey

They all needed names. They didn't exist without names. I like their names. I don't like any of the naming ideas I've had so far:

La Dee Dah

Granny Panties

Call me aly

My lack of brilliance is annoying. Names are really important to me, so it can't just be some fake hipster trashy thing that I come up with. I have to love it for twenty plus issues and infinity.

Today online I came across treatments like creams and sheets you can stick on your skin to reduce the appearance of scars. I keep getting awkward glances from my mother when she looks at the scars on my left shoulder. The ones that I made when I forgot to care about body location. I have to keep reminding myself the story that I told her. "Light kit broke, fell, and cut me by accident." Real story is, "I cut my arm."

It's good practice for camp.

"What happened to your arm?"

"Light kit broke, fell, and cut me by accident."

"Ok."

There's no way to explain the scars on my legs though. "I fell into some barbed wire that cut my legs in perfect lines," "I usually sit on my couch in my underwear, and my cat used to continuously scratch me," "I'm deep into S&M". (Ha ha. Could you imagine? I like that answer the best though)

All and all, I think I'll just live with them. I've been somewhere, come back from it, and no one needs to know unless they need to know. I should just focus on not adding anymore to think, worry about or hide.

Also, it's fucking hot.

Also, I'm somewhat happy, just sweaty.

Also, I'm going to stop thinking about, chasing, worrying, wanting someone because the last time I did this, stopped thinking, the sky opened up, and something happened.