At Full Price

By popular demand (Deborah) I'm writing a new post. This is how "Ice Cream For Breakfast" universe works. You ask, I'm so grateful you read and want more-I immediately deliver.

Feel free to pester! (I might cry if you email me a request).

Anywho.

This is it:

Friends. Yeah, on this day of my birth, 24 years exactly. I'm thinking about friendship, my friends, and all future friends I kinda know or don't even know yet.

Naturally, nowadays, Facebook is a way to validate you are loved. If no one comments on your status or new uploaded photo or accepts your pending friend request you might as well accept, also, the fact that you're a loser. Viral high school. Fascinating!-No?

But if everything else fails, there's your birthday. And on your birthday, with your birthday reminder, the love is sure to come out. (You hope.)

Now on a serious, not making fun of Facebook note, I feel loved.

It's wild.

I've always told Alex that I do pretty much anything for a friend. No joke. You ask me at three in the morning to come to you and hug you while you cry about where you'll go in life or because you stubbed your toe, I'll be in my car-driving-while you're still sobbing through your "good-bye" and "see you soon."

I'm pretty crazy in love with my family. And the same goes for my friends: new, old, and best.

Today, what really got me thinking and writing this blog in my head while driving home from work, is the old friends, and the memories. I'm not gonna lie-I got pretty choked up when people reminisce and I'm a part of it-in a good way.

Yes, I'm sure over my 24 years I've had some real bitch moments. I am a Scorpio-both in all the good ways and the bad ways. I apologize for the sting. I try everyday to keep it tamed. At this age, I'm a master at it. You REALLY gotta push the button for it to come out.

But for the most part, I'm so amazed to report that the few memories shared today were happy. Simple. Me-just being me.

Wild.

Like any normal woman, I worry about several things I really shouldn't worry about: my face, my arm fat, my hips, my feet (man I need a pedicure), my belly fat (and the hidden abs I lost long ago), my hair, and my boobs. Yes, I worry about their daily statuses but I really don't think anyone else cares: enter friends. Friends care about the rude asshole customers I had to deal with on Monday and they care about how Alex is treating me and if not good, then he's getting a ball-kicking.

Friends care about the fact that you're still around. Living-breathing, and still existing as you. They appreciate all the idiosyncrasies that make you "Betty" or "Tom" or

"Andrea."

If there's anything I've contributed to this known world in my tiny dot of my life, it is my friendships. Even the ones that have been grown out or moved away from or simply grown distant from-the memories are there. And that smile when you think of them really can't fade.

Nostalgia: one helluva feeling. It's beautiful. Keeps you human.

I would really like a real bed with a bouncy, comfy mattress, or those new boots I saw at DSW, or even a trip to Italy. But in time, I might acquire such fabulous birthday gifts.

But for this 24th birthday, I'm happy to receive friends.

No discounts there.

VG3: Paper-Not Plastik

I can list things that annoy me about work. My job. The endless amount of hours I spent at such job. And how I always, always, smell like coffee. It's in my pores now.

But-

this one is more. And I see it, everyday.

Here's only the beginning of a collection that captures how see beyond "plastik" and understand-

paper...

"Open-Door Policy"

"Red"

"Freshly-Picked Water"

"Massive Dynamic"

"Stop & Smell"

"Work-Related"

Chipper

Ok, I'm going to say it: my art has no direction.

My name is Andrea Galvez and I have writer's block.

I wish there were 12 steps and then bam!

Clarity.

Open flow of awesomeness in the form of prose, but alas, I kid myself.

I'm sitting on my block and don't know how or where to begin to break it. It's awful, frustrating-as-hell feeling and I wish on no other writer but that, too, is wishful thinking. Sorry to any writers out there, but we're all doom (in one time or another).

We'll be going and the stories come bursting out of us, our hands, keyboards, and pens can't even keep up. It's a rush and a thrill to writing faster than your brain can process what you're writing. The story, then, is writing itself, and, us, writers, are merely vessels. We then finish, begin editing, and we're back to being writers and killing ourselves over every subject verb or syntax.

I'm no where near the editing stage; I would kill to be at the editing stage because that means I wrote something.

I've been debating taking a minor separation from Andrea, the writer. I think I've exhausted her and I think she's still moping about the MFA bust. Whether I like to openly admit it to myself, I know somewhere in my heart and in my ego: I'm butt-hurt. So in true immature fashion of being "butt-hurt," I'm refusing to allow any writing of worth come out. It's like a kidnapping and the ransom is recognition and well, that's ridiculous. The conscious me, the everyday Andrea, refuses to indulge in such pity. Is it weird that I'm currently dividing my "selves?"

Nah.

So, I want to focus on another art: photography.

And fencing.

The photography I've started on my own. I hope to in the near future sign up for a few classes: one of dark room techniques, the other of film camera work.

The fencing is drawing near as my bills are coming together in one consistent budget that I have managed and can execute in a timely manner. I'm hoping next month, after I save some cash for my future bed, and with the help of birthday money fencing will have one more fencer: me.

The day that happens I'm going to feel really awesome about myself. Andrea the writer, can suck it for bit in her emo state while Andrea, the fencer works to slowly become a badass-with a sword.

Where does the practicality of fencing come in? It doesn't. It's cool and I want to learn.

Learning, as you know, is very important to me right now.

Perhaps that's where my writing is missing me. I want to learn something completely new, and though each story is different and new, sitting in front of my computer doesn't appeal to me.

I think what I will do is actively seek out the outside, make sure I have my notebook, and write not on a keyboard and lighted screen, but rather scribble. Maybe after the formality of MFA applications and my portfolio, I need to let my writing's hair done.

Scribble.

Also, I won't be afraid of going to places alone. Alex works all day (bless his heart) and my friends are far, even the ones I had in high school are still just far enough to not be conveniently, and spontaneous-outing close. So just like my freshman year of college lunches and throughout the rest of my college lunches in four years, I will do it alone. And I'll learn something from it: me.

I know I sound like a bag of crap, but hey, this is my blog crap, when I get a more professional online site of some sorts, you won't read about all my self-discovery, we'll talk about food and travel :)

So I'm going to explore, probably get lost trying to explore, but I'm over the getting lost anxiety. If I have a decent amount of gas and battery power on my phone: I'm solid. I'll figure it out and learn.

New cities are no different than when I moved when I was young. It takes time to adjust and you hang out with yourself a lot. And though I was scared when I was younger, I won't let myself be now. Because for as much as I love being around people, I'm ok with just me and these crazy thoughts of mine.

Who knows, with this new loner plan, I can begin chipping away.

The block too.