jeffrey + upstairsloft

Here’s a head-scratcher. I sound bitchy but I’m not. I’m just real. Plus, this defies fundamental logic. Well, that’s not fair to say. There’s logic in there, but I’m having a hard time figuring it out. So here’s a repository of my initial reactions:

1. True, Kate and I are pretty tight. I mean, we’re getting married and all of that. So, we’re most likely together unless a. I am at work. b. she’s pooping. c. because we sometimes do our own thing.

2. Kate and I are on that Family Share plan. But we have our own phones. It’s pretty cool actually. It’s like we share minutes but have our own phones and phone numbers.

3. Kate’s phone is probably with her more than I am. I’m quite jealous actually. And it has a vibrate feature. That’s neither here or there. Oops.

4. I’m not a messenger.

4.1. If I were a messenger, I’d be a crummy one. I forget things. I space out. I am easily distracted. I space out.

5. There’s always the option of texting Kate when it pertains to Kate. Text me if it pertains to me. That’s just… well, common sense. Am I right?

6. It’s hard getting hold of her? Wait… you can screen text messages? Who can do that? Teach me.

6.1. Fun Fact: Kate’s pretty good and replying to emails and texts. Plus getting contacted via phone means so many things nowadays. There’s calling, texting, emailing… Technology is pretty neat.

7. It’s faster and easier contacting me? That’s one hell of an assumption. (See 4.1).

I get 200 texts a month. That includes incoming and outgoing. This thread of messages equates to 5 texts. That could have easily be consolidated down to 1 text, had Kate received the message in the first place. Plus this is just one of many examples where I am asked to play messenger when it’s best to contact Kate directly. Head-scratcher…

However, my alter ego suggests otherwise.

For me, success isn’t measured in metrics of how much I fork in every other week. I knew damn well that going into design wasn’t monetarily rewarding. It could be, but then, who are you working for? A slut to the big fish companies. I digress.

My success isn’t something I measure, but something I do. On my most successful days, I feel inspired, whether it’s an idea of a goal I want to pursue; I eat an awesome meal; I spend quality time with my other half; I remain in healthy relationships with family and friends; I have a healthy relationship with myself with a good amount of time to reflect and reevaluate current self. To me, that is success. And yes, this can come with the occasional toy or gadget. But does money dictate my success? No. I know what I make and I know how to make due with it. Would a 40k to a 75k jump a year severely impact my lifestyle choices? Knowing me, I wouldn’t know what to do with all that money but to pick up all the tabs when I go out with friends and family, save up for a down-payment to buy a place in the city, and just continue to live what I think is a simple, yet gratifying life with my mental health in tact.

My goals have always been simple and money was never the drive. Career-wise, I want to design awesome shit, know what I’m doing, know how to think what is needed to be done three times faster than the next person and I want to inspire others. Life-wise, I want to chill with the people who magnify the better part of me–people who pass good vibes all around. I love feeling inspired, thinking new and weird shit, and inspiring others to think new and weird shit.

That’s my success. Am I successful? I try to be everyday. And that’s the struggle. Job responsibilities pick up, the economical climate looms on, getting through another day without bruise on my face is a battle well fought. I’ll get better at the balancing act, and so far, as the levels get tougher, I persevere. So… to answer my own question, am I successful? Sure. I’m getting there.

It’s almost 1pm and I’ve been up since 8 this morning. I got a call, just 4 hours after I finally fell asleep, that Kate wanted to get picked up from the hotel where she and her girlfriends spent the night from their party. Apparently the girls got too crazy and didn’t pace themselves in the arena of alcohol consumption. It looks like the girls that keep us guys in check cannot function properly when we’re aren’t present. Somewhere along the lines somebody lost a phone, a purse and a lot of them lost their dinners. They were a hot tranny mess, and only a few could attempt to keep things in order. And I am glad they did.

As for making memories… o yeah they will have some memories. Sadly, I have a hunch they were drunk by 12 and attending to their drunkenship from there on out.

On a separate note, the three of us guys, whose girlfriends are accompanying Kate at her party, hung out. Pizza Orgasmica in my neighborhood, with a few brews. Three guys digging their faces into some crepes from Genki. We downed a few shots and played darts and Buckshot. We made a new friend who offered to play darts with us. What’s funny is that her vibe reminded me of Kate. Just cool, happy go lucky, and she was wearing Kate’s scent.

It was 2. The night was not over. I suggested we take Jeremy to Lusty Lady, an adult theatre in North Beach, where familiar adolescent habits of inserting dollar bills into an electronic slot would come in handy. $1. 1 minute. The black curtain raises and a room, with poles, red carpet and ladies in nothing but the outfit they were born in. Very gross. Very grimy. Not my style. Not to mention that there were random custard napkins clumsily thrown across the floor. Nonetheless, it was entertianmen for the sake of hosting two dudes who will probably have to nurse their girlfriends’ hangovers.

While the girls’ memories had a hard stop at about midnight, our night lived on. Dudes. Pizza. Beers. Crepes. Shots. Darts. Random stranger with unique vibe. The co-op owned adult theatre. Yeah… alls I can say is that Kate and Khat were jealous when we told them of our adventure. They wanted in. Well… except for the party with the stick napkins on the ground. Gross. yeah…