Pleasure Notes

Story Time in the Forest. By Misha.

I didn’t read comic books as a kid, but I often lived in a fantasy of my own making. I frequented museum, but preferred Monet to Pollack. I never dyed my hair, pierced my bellybutton or ditched class. I was a very proper, very timid and very good little girl. BUT… as I got older, my tastes expanded. I came to love anime as much as Kundera, Lichtenstein as much as Renoir. While my bellybutton remains untouched, I have had my moments of pink hair. I love tattoos, and don’t have any only because I can never commit to a design for long enough to get one. So when I came across an artist who combines elements of anime, fantasy, tattoos, and straight up funky sexiness, I fell in love with her work. If you haven’t seen Misha’s work before, here’s some of what you’ve been missing.

Shrommy. By Misha.

I swear Miss Shrommy, here, would fit right in hanging out in front of the Chinese Theatre, on Hollywood Blvd. She probably picked up her hat on Melrose. So very L.A.

Hilary and Pals. By Misha.

Hilary and her pals are clearly the children of an illicit affair between the Cheshire Cat and Nemo.

Frogs Tell the Very Best Jokes. By Misha.

Misha’s artwork makes me giggle, in the very best way – pure pleasure!

I’ve actually had the opportunity to meet Misha. She’s absolutely delightful – humble, talented and a completely, fabulously and delightfully unique individual.

What more could you want from an artist, hmmm?

I just spent the entire weekend rolling around under the covers with the sweetest and smoothest of feel-good companions. Every four hours, like clockwork, this potential soul mate and I played tonsil hockey. We were oblivious to the piles of take-out containers and Kleenex accumulating around us. So in synch were we, I forgot to worry about my matted hair. I no longer feared coughing up a lung. I even came to appreciate the raw nature of my nose. I knew Robitussin would be there, unconditionally loving and supportive, silent and stoic.

Mine. All mine.

Prior to catching sight of my love, loitering in the aisles of CVS, I felt like a giant pile of shit stuck to the base of a four-year-old’s well-worn Crocs. Now, I am flying high.

I think this is the best relationship I’ve ever had.

Crossroads

I have a choice to make. It is a simple choice, but not an easy one, as all the most monumental choices seem to be. I am not living the life I want to live, and I’m in one hell of a tantrum over it. My discontent goes beyond the realization that my circumstances look nothing like I thought they would. It leaves childhood and societal expectations in the dust. It flourishes even in the wake of my awareness and gratitude for the things I have. And I’ve about worn myself out. Because I am, according to all outward indices, an adult, however, no one is going to pick me up off the floor and hand me a snow cone or piece of Bazooka to make me feel better.

I must make a choice:

1. Revert to old, self-destructive behaviour, choosing isolation, self-pity and inspired rage over how unfair I perceive life to be;
2. Remain in a heap on the floor, stuck in complete inaction, numbing myself out with caffeine and fantasy; or
3. Heave myself up onto my feet, trusting that no matter the mess I’ve made or the wobbliness of my stance, I can move forward – in a new direction, choosing a different path, to chart a different course.

When I was young, I loved rainbows. At the time, they held no more political significance than leprechauns, or at least none that I knew. I simply thought they were magical – like unicorns, knights in shining armor and ballerinas. So the little girl in me couldn’t have been more pleased to discover the Rainbow Quiz, created by the folks at spacefem.com – home to random and unnecessary, but stupidly addictive, quizzes.

The Rainbow Quiz is basically a personality test of sorts. And I secretly love these things. I’m always curious to know what they profess to reveal about my identity.

I took the Rainbow Quiz for the first time a few weeks ago. Here’s the result:

My thoughts? Well. I’m actually not a big fan of yellow. I like green. And blue. And black. And red. And— well, pretty much every color BUT yellow. Maybe I should look at this. Does this mean my external tastes do not reconcile with my internal impulses? Am I paying too much attention to what I want and what brings me pleasure, but not enough attention to what I need? And what’s this thing about patience? Clearly, this test is flawed. I have the patience of a gnat. Ask anyone. And what exactly is this test inferring, saying I’m “good at getting people to like me.” It’s not like I’m forcing anyone into the back of the Bada-Bing to make a blood pact or having folks craft piles of friendship pins – although, now that I think about it, rows of seed beads in these colors might actually improve the look of my thrashed New Balances. Minus the yellow.

Clearly, I should have walked away at this point. Instead, I pondered the results for a few weeks, with time-outs for work and sleep and American Idol. I decided to take the Rainbow Quiz again. I really wanted a prettier rainbow. Here’s what I got:

White, huh? Is that even a shade? Now, I’m conflicted. The second rainbow is much prettier than the first – not as muddy. But what it says about me is so dreadfully boring! And I still see some yellow. Why can’t my rainbow look like sherbet? There’s no yellow in sherbet.

By Loguk

Or, perhaps, I should leave quizzes to those less likely to self-indulgently analyze the results ad nauseam. I’ve learned my lesson – leave rainbows to those who can handle them. I can find comfort in the fact that unicorns, at least, never disappointed me like this.

Why don’t you take the test? Just be sure to let me know how pleased you are with the results.