Let's be honest... shit happens. I'm not going to deny it nor apologize for it. It was the birth of my future.
was about ready to walk home from a visit with a boy after a long night of dancing at the clubs and after clubs.
ooking a typical morning mess, still in my club dress, breath questionable, I gathered my things to start the walk back to my friends house. My feet were still in agony from the night of dancing prior and, quite frankly, there was no way in hell I was going to put my heels on. Six inches of what sounded like a good idea when I put them on last night now looked like four blocks back to my girlfriend's house on shards broken glass and rusty nails. Either way there was no disguising the scenario, I mean the above the heels ensemble was a dead give away, and I was walking back on glass and nails, real or metaphoric. And to be honest I didn't mind it but some comfortable shoes would have fucking been nice. After after that thought entered my brain, a bag to put my shit in would also be swell.
Jump to 2010, I just took a break from my boyfriend, in a funk and not in my best state. I needed to put my energy somewhere and I remembered the bag. It sounded completely undo-able and ery time consuming, which was just what I needed. I went to a bargain store, bought some zippers and fabric and went to werk (Yes, I know I spelled work wrong, but I insist on spelling it like that now for the snap-at-the-air emphasis I insist on associating it with now). A week later, I had the most hideous deconstructed, reconstructed, and color uncoordinated handbag I had ever seen. I was my intangible idea realized and I instantly became obsessed with it.
won't bore you with the details of how it came to be, but it was a bitch. Not like thesis paper bitch where you could care less, semi-half ass it, and just want it over with, but more like you want it so badly to come to perfect fruition and something goes wrong every time...every fucking time. This process was discouraging, dollar-draining, and emotionally depleting; and to top it off, explaining to your mother why you refuse to get a "real job" just added to the internal struggle to keep this alive. When you believe in your idea, you're willing to see it through even if it means you might end up a corporate entry-level at 30.
From here, I pushed and pushed and it has inched along.