Could say this matches the marriage theme but actually, just wanted to show off the dress

 Because why the hell not?

I mentioned before that I'm going to the gym now. Well, I've stopped. Because as far as flirting with the young instructor goes, he now feels it would be unprofessional to further pursue our flirtationship at the same time as him being my instructor, so obviously I quit the instructing part for the sake of my satisfaction. You haven't seen the chest on that man. Also, what a way to save money, am I right?

Mind you, I don't want to be his girlfriend. I'm unhappily in love with someone else, thank you very much. The last thing I need is a boyfriend I have to explain my sudden outbursts into tears to. But oh my gosh, those arms. Anyways, I made that very clear to him. I have a feeling that he's also unhappily in love with someone else still, so we're actually perfect for each other, speaking unhealthy-rebound-wise.

Now we crossed that tmi-line for good.

Meanwhile, other people are getting married. Remember that one guy my bestest friend very, very briefly dated two years ago? That slightly weird one who seemed to support kitchen kisses with other couples at that party? Yeah, he's getting hitched next year to his former on n off girlfriend from overseas. I am feeling a multitude of feelings towards these news, which is probably more than I should be, considering that I'm not really much acquainted with the happy couple. But think about it:

Firstly, how weird is it that my friend can now say "That one guy I once dated is currently on his honeymoon" or "Oh I don't know her, but I went out with her husband a few years ago"? How did we get this old? I mean, sure, they're also on the younger side in the marriage business, but still, it kinda freaks me out. Remember, I'm currently being complimented on my butt by a complete stranger and that is the maturity level we're at. Secondly, I know this guy through my certain someone and I so wish I could trash this topic with him instead of just imagining his side of the conversation while staring out the window with an amused look on my face. Also, and don't ask me how the decision of an almost-stranger does that to me, but it brings up all kinds of sorrowful thoughts and general anxiousness linked to the fact that I'm not in a position to call up my certain someone for the aforementioned trashing.

I like to pretend time is standing still.


Love,

Rosy Smith

Time just flies by these days - counting down exactly three months from tomorrow until the big move! And meanwhile, get the scoop:

Retro vibes: I read a Sweet Valley High novel today and I've looked up the series on YouTube and it appears to be very nineties and very shallow, which is just perfect to me. You should check that jewel out if you have a thing for good old gossip and innocent intrigue. And who hasn't?

Shopping high: It's real and should be studied in medical school. All I bought today is one little black pleated satin skirt and I'm already feeling more together. Imagine what wonders a full on shopping spree could do to me!

Speaking of meds: I got an immunization shot three days ago and today I'm finally able to lift my arm above 45 degrees without a hurl of excruciating pain. What is up with those muscle cramps? Thank God it was the left arm or I wouldn't have gotten anything done, for instance....

Calling people and asking them why the hell they're not replying to my emails. It's a fun and, I fear, pretty common thing to do as a journalist, nudging people when probably all they wanted was to ignore you and be left in peace about it. But we don't leave anyone in peace - a fact that, as someone very (annoyingly) wise mentioned to me, I should be able to embrace if I really wanted to do this job. It's a thin line between love and hate, is all I'm saying.

So what do I wear? After kind of being sick and kind of being productive the last few days I very solidly have plans for the weekend. One of them involves that party I was already at last year (leather jacket, anyone?). I still need a present (well, a card. It's that friend who wants to travel the world and support himself so he gets raw cash) and an outfit. Everytime I meet new people I have the ambition to live up to their expectations when they learn I'm a fashion student. They usually overhear the journalist part, you see. So is it gonna be the velvet bodysuit and new skirt? I almost want to think so.

June is already fabulous for being a full-on summer month, and it is one step closer to me getting off school for eight whole months. Let's not waste that.

Love,

Rosy Smith

I actually got myself an internship for next semester! Shoot the applause! I mean, not getting one would have been very bad, seeing as it's compulsary and there's nothing else to do, but hey, it's still good news!

Moreover, and I expect a drumroll for this, the internship is far far away from where I live, so I am going to M O V E to....Hamburg, Germany, kind of really in the north (so I'll be freezing cold from September to February, but that's nothing new, really)! Now you may be rolling your eyes and yawning and asking yourself when the fun part is going to start, but let me assure you that it is indeed going to be an entertaining sight to watch me try and handle life aaaall byyyyy myyyyseeeelf, for the following reasons:

I have no clue as to how to operate a washing machine, nor a dishwasher, nor those sci-fi vacuumers that creep around the floor doing they're own thing. I'm actually a bit scared of the latter (it's moving! It's beeping! It's getting stuck under stuff!) It may sound bratty, but it's the undeniable truth.

I don't think I ever slept a single night in a house or apartment by myself. Even at summer camp, when I had a single room, there were kids I knew right behind the wall. Again, roll away, I just never happened to be alone at night. Woops.

I hate complete silence when I am alone; even when I was little, I would put on children's tapes on my cassette player, not neccessarily to listen to them, but to make for some background noise. I still do that with music, or YouTube videos about the manufacturing of ballet shoes or whatever, and sometimes, I'll even chatter to myself (I'm sorry you had to learn this) or, more sensibly, I'll sing. Like really training my chords. I wonder if the neighbours are gonna like my taste in songs. The best possible case would be a producer living down the hall who's gonna whisk me away to the studio, stat. The worst case, however, would be if said producer (or anyone, really) feels I insult their musical ear and votes to throw me out.

I'm always scared of being late when there's no one around to confirm my timing's right, so whenever that happens, I end up getting up at the crack of dawn, arriving so early that the doors won't be opened and I'll be awkwardly camping in front of the building on my third coffee when the editors arrive, and they'll throw a dime into my empty cups, and then we'll meet again when I'll get introduced as the intern, and we won't make eye contact, ever.

These are the points I can think of off the top of my head, but I'm sure that we'll discover some more while we're at it. Still, I can't help being really excited about this drastic turn of events - let me count the ways of that excitement another time.

Until then, join me on my level of psychedness!

Love,

Rosy Smith

My dad asked me if I was going out the other night, 'cause I had my brightest red lipstick on, but unfortunately, my plans for the evening consisted of taping my mom's TV show (she was out dancing. Find the flaw). Anyways, I told him that's because I went to the hair salon. See, when you have to stare at yourself for an hour in unflattering light, you gotta do a little something pretty to your face. It worked quite well, actually. I got tiny corkscrew curls done with a scary looking hot tool (sometimes, the stylist, who's 16 weeks pregnant, got this spaced-out look in her eyes and smoke descended from my head and I'd get a bit worried, but let's face it, there's not much damage left to do to my hair, so).

Oh and while we're in the chair, let's all remember never to share a Cloud with a guy, even when you get married and have a kid, 'cause you may still break up and have to endure the fact that one day you look at your Ipad pictures and see a little (or a lot, depending on your ex's type) more of his new girl than you ever feared you would. And then your friend, the hair stylist, will be in danger to lose her job because she might not be able to withstand the urge to let the razor slip a little when he's coming to get his lying scalp fixed.

Fun fact, after having read way too many articles on people who've had strokes after going to the hair salon, I am honestly scared of getting my hair washed there. You know how it's, like, the most uncomfortable sensation on the planet when your neck is placed onto the rim of the sink? I tried to hold my head up hovering about it, but I lack the necessary muscles for that. So I just got really really tense and that made it hurt even more and then I tried to get myself to just relax and enjoy the back massage from the chair but then I thought "What if  I just said something it would safe me and if I didn't, something terrible will happen, due solely to the fact that I was too shy and too distracted by the freaking back massage to speak up?"

In the evening, I got a little headache and I had to ask my mom to do the FAST test on me and have her tell me that I'm completely overreacting until I could lay back and watch "The One In Barbados" (thinking about it, I could go finish that now).

Now my hair is alarmingly short but I've learned to accept that a long time ago, when I stopped having to be bribed to get it cut (I just want to state that my hair's never again been as long as it was when I was nine, so I was completely right in making a big deal out of it).

Love,

Rosy Smith

I rediscovered Cinderella 87 -  an Italian 80s musical made-for-TV movie I've never seen but subconcsiously listened to for years because my mom taped the soundtrack when she was a teenager; I bet that's why I'd think running off with a band guy to become a singer is an excellent idea.

Anyways, I think I was onto some very specific point here but I fear I forgot....it had to do something with clothes?

Ah, yes, got it!

Okay so recently, I was telling someone about my driving exams (yes we're talking plural, can we let it go now?) and how for the first one, I wore a purple tank top and black harem pants, an improvised outfit because I was due to go on vacation shortly after and all my summer clothes were packed up, and how that was a clear indicator for me to fail that day. I also told them about the second exam, where I chose to go for a "comfortable" look, which is always, always the wrong decision for me (so I should have known) consisting of a white t-shirt, a beige cardigan, light blue boyfriend jeans and Converse. Don't ask me what I was thinking. Probably something like "As long as I'm "comfortable", I'll be able to fully concentrate on my driving", which has, as you know, so not proven to work. Concentrated on failing, that did the trick. When I finally passed, I was wearing grey jeans and my beloved black knit backless sweater that keeps charmingly falling off one shoulder. That's what I call a winning outfit. However, the person I was talking to was most astonished by the fact that I recalled every single clothing item I've worn to those tragic occurrences. Like I'd think back and see myself sitting there wearing some clouds of grey smoke or whatever my mind makes up when it's not able to reconstruct stuff. Hello? I remember what each of us wore when we first met (a citrus colored dress shirt with tiny white checks, light shorts / a beige lace shirt with rose print, my tan suede miniskirt, ballet flats). I think it's common courtesy.

Also, to take this a bit further, I feel like there is this phenomenon called "Clothing Karma". I for one avoid wearing certain pieces of clothing that I've had bad experiences in for a while afterwards, 'cause they're too closely tied to the situation. That's why I neglected wearing the grey shirt with leather details I wore to my night driving lesson (to stay with that topic) for quite a long time (That was one terrible driving lesson, which says something, as I can't even remember a particularly decent one), especially for more lessons, because what if I simply can't drive well in this shirt?

I can't be the first to make that up. You must have some weird skeletons in your closet, too, haven't you lovelies?

Love,

Rosy Smith

Mayday Mayday (I just like to say that) and without further ado....

I want a tulle skirt and chunky heeled sandals. Just throwing it out there. See, I just realized that I could have made all my Carrie Bradshaw fueled desires come true way before this season seeing as it would have just been a totally trend-setting thing to do. It does make sense - why wouldn't anyone want to wear as much tulle as possible? As for the sandals, I originally wanted to get some simple stilettos with a heel that wouldn't kill me quite as soon as other pairs of mine do - but then I recognized that I completely lack a pair of heeled summer shoes which aren't evening wear, and that simply can't stay this way; so I went online shopping eg put a dozen similar pairs in my virtual cart and am now slowly throwing them out one by one, until I find the one I want most. Who says I don't have a system.

I'm halfway through Gilmore Girl's final season and I can see where this is heading and I'm not going to spoil anything but I'm a little upset (though not as much that I wouldn't still love it passionately) because it has me thinking how sad it is that two people can be so in love, and not just any kind of love, but real, true, meant-to-be love, and then....break up. Not be together anymore. And worse; be with other people and starting from the beginning and telling your jokes and stories all over again, but to a different person who has different eyes and a different reaction - and you love them, you really do, but you've told that other person you loved them, too, and you meant it as well. I know this happens again and again and to almost everyone at some point of their lives - but I still find it unbelievably tragic to think about. 

I need to stop trying to paint my nails and doubletexting when I know better. In no specific order. I mean, usually no one is hurt in either process, but it would just look better if I avoided both.

Summer gets me very sunny-minded most of the time - don't you just love the feeling of bare feet on sun warmed stone terraces? Going places is good too; it can be the simplest (is that the right form? This will be bothering me) thing such as the cinema thrice, the riverside, to a backyard - as long as it holds lovely people, great conversation, and much appreciatedly, some food, all is well.

Just don't forget you have a bunch of projects due you didn't even start yet. Or rather, remember it some other day.

Love,

Rosy Smith

....okay, so I have this class in college which is called something like "visual communication" and I always call it graphic design which is probably totally wrong terminology because I'm obviously an ignorant who doesn't really care. And that's basically the essence of this. But I'll be more specific on here 'cause yesterday, when a discussion with my teacher took place, I didn't have the energy to do so (and I'm too scared that I might cry out of frustration)....

I really like Monotype Corsiva and you can't stop me. That's actually the main reason for this excursion into the sad world of fonts and photoshop. I have chosen it for writing my name in this project - see, I wanted something "handwritten" and playful and I have spent eternity scrolling through dafont.com and I absolutely hated everything on there (okay, I might not hate it all, but nothing was quite right) and when I came back to good ol' monotype, the font I've used to write my first novel in (don't ask), it just fit. I am perfectly aware of the fact it's neither "modern" nor "cool", but what the hell does a "cool" font look like and who decides that, anyway? I am about a hundred percent positive that I don't have the same taste in coolness my 50-year old, gay, male, Folkwang-schooled teacher has. Because that would be some weird coincidence. This lovely font, however, is very much me. It's supposed to say "yeah, as my classmate unneccessarily suggested, I've chosen one of the ten Microsoft fonts that happen to be on my laptop and that had the most flourishes because I honestly don't give a fling if this has already been used by a bakery in 1950". Also, it says "I like flourishes", as well as "Alright, so I am trying to become a journalist here, and I actually doubt that I would even want to work for some publisher who doesn't hire me because he's opposed to Microsoft fonts and not because of my ability to write but if you say it is so....I'll probably hire someone to help me. A graphic designer, for instance. Not you, though"

 I can't help it, fonts don't "speak to me". They don't ring a bell in my inner soul, nor do they light any kind of fire, if you catch my drift. Some please my eye, though, and that's usually the reason I use them. Oh, yes, I'm not as insensitive as that I wouldn't be able to see the difference between feminine and male, or frilly and bold, stuff like that. And I appreciate a good design. I'm just not the one doing it. And don't come at me like "oh, but if you want to work in the creative field you need to be passionate about design". I'm a writer. I need to be passionate about words and things words can describe. Design is a whole other language and honey, I'm not fluent. 

My teacher said one valid thing (I guess. I'm not sure. Thinking about it, I have a few questions, but I'll leave it alone for now); that designers have to be able to explain themselves and artists don't. I'd consider myself, or writers, or even journalists, artists rather than designers anytime. I'm sure it could've fueled a big discussion if I'd only stated that yesterday (it's always fun when my class has discussions. You should've seen the rage when we looked at pictures of the Met Gala. I'm surprised no one was hurt).

Even better, if I'd just stomped on the floor with my heels and screamed "I'm not a designer, I don't want to be a designer, I won't ever design things!"

Well, now you know.

Love,

Rosy Smith

....you know, the kind guys wear to parties to make it look like they tried at least a bit to get dressed up even though they're essentially only wearing a jeans and a tshirt. But let's face it, it's not a bad style. Unless you're bad looking. In that case a leather jacket probably wouldn't change that. But let's not get judgy and off-topic.

Those jackets do not only spice up a guy's outfit, they also serve in the process of picking up girls. Imagine this: A party in the middle of a chilly April with fireworks at midnight, you wearing a short black dress with bare shoulders and a boy who's been the only one left sitting with you having that obligatory jacket on. He's walking behind you as you step into the breathtakingly cold air and in the corners of your eyes, you notice him taking off his jacket; good for you, as he's now about to wrap it around your shoulders.
What you think: Great, at least I won't be freezing to death.
What he thinks: Great, now she and I are an item for the night.

So, when you hug the birthday boy you're holding on to that jacket so it doesn't slide down, and its owner is standing next to you as you watch the fireworks, and when the cake is cut you walk up the stairs together and sit down with your legs touching, and when he has his arm 'round your back you're beginning to think it might have been crucial to mention that you kinda, almost, sorta are in a relationship. And that it might be a bit awkward if you go "well that's funny 'cause my boyfriend said the same thing the other night" when you're standing outside while he has a cigarette, wearing his jacket again. So you try not to stray too far from the crowd in order to not technically be alone with him because in a movie, he would try to kiss you, and movies are evidentially a reliable source for all things concerning boys.

See how that damn leather jacket blew everything out of proportion? You were simply trying to have a good time and a nice chat with someone who happened to sit next to you because you didn't know anyone else at that party, and suddenly the girls are giving you suggestive looks and the guys are closing doors behind you "to leave you alone". It's like he's put a button in your ear or a brand sign on your butt or something. It's not very feminist. And it's definitely annoying.

After living with that realization for about an hour filled with conscious scooting to the side and keeping your eyes on the floor, it's time to go home. So you leave and decide to avoid every body contact by clumsily waving at everyone within a five mile radius and basically running out of the room, your heels way too loud on the wooden stairs. Then, you bump into your host, and you hug him goodbye because he is the sweetest, and then he's all like "Let's do something soon" and you're all happy, and then he clears his throat and looks a bit uncomfortable and asks: "What was going on between the two of you, anyways? Is there something going on?" And you want the floor to open beneath your feet, because the only thing more embarrassing than getting accused of hooking up with a random stranger who's also a friend of the host whose birthday it is is actually being guilty of doing so. And it doesn't really make things better when you state that the reason why you're demonstratively saying "NO NOTHING AT ALL" is that you kinda, almost, sorta, are in a relationship. Because now, people aren't only confused but also alienated. And you really liked that birthday boy.

Take my advice, lovelies, and refuse to take the leather jacket. Except if you're trying to get the guy (or, at least, wouldn't mind it too much).

Love,

Rosy  Smith

....that the class I'm in right now actually takes more than two hours. Someone come and get me please. Although I'm very picky about company right now so maybe don't do that. I can see myself in the screen of the school's Mac, which is a dangerous thing because I get distracted. Not necessarily by my image but more specifically, my hair. It's not as unruly as usually today - you'll have to excuse my astonishment.

Today was an early one, so my outfit of the day is one of these "I woke up and was cold so I grabbed something black and some jeans and something warm, oh, that pink cardigan, and this is as good as it's gonna get" kinda looks.

I'm so tired I can't think of my thoughts if you get what I mean - Gosh I sound stoned. I'm not stoned, that I know.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder; what do you think, how true is that? I usually totally fall for it. I used to have crushes on wildly unattractive people but if I didn't see them for a whole school day I would've gotten annoyingly frustrated. Whenever I saw that band guy, however, I was in a state of joy it would have been beautiful if it hadn't been so tragically unnoticed - then I wouldn't see him for months and not be as obsessed any more, but imagine him as the great love affair I was dying to have. Now I haven't seen him in ages and I still like to think that it could be a marvelous thing between him and me (no facts to base this thesis on, I know I'm attracted to him so it's set on my part). Is that enough proof to deem that catchphrase to be right?

Because I am aware of the fact that I, for one, really, really tend to fantasize regular guys into handsome gentlemen who get my jokes all the time. And I usually do something like that when I don't see 'em for a while, 'cause duh. A girl can dream, they said. So are those special feelings we develop when missing our chosen ones only products of our overworking fantasy?

Something to dwell on.

Love,

Rosy Smith