I’ve never blacked out. I’m not that big of a drinker, but something happens to my memory when I drink. Or, at least I think it’s to do with alcohol; I can’t say for certain. It might happen any time I have a really long night. Details slip past me.
I have a love hate relationship with my photographs. I love and hate that I forget things and that photographs remind me of what I’d forgotten. Sometimes that’s a good thing. The way Jen, Kim, and I randomly ended up in the bathroom together and began to scream with excitement like reunited summer campers. I loved that moment. The details come back…
I loved Amy’s new sparkling jeans, but I’m sad we didn’t get to catch up. Oh wait. I take that back. I remember quite vividly now… we did catch up. Oh dear. Her jeans weren’t juicy, but her stories were. I love that Jason showed up. Erika’s boobs looked great. I hate that I didn’t get to talk to Trish or Monique or Witts. I don’t like that I took time to photograph Suzara and Mishy, but I didn’t get to really talk to them. I hate that I never tried a cupcake and that no one made sure I had. I didn’t get to kick back with Sammy or talk to Lorien. I love that I didn’t know who Jen Kang was, and I remember telling her husband Richard just that. After my necklace broke, after fish’s belt broke, we shared a limo to Cain, where we slipped our way along a velvet rope line in open-toed shoes, snow between our toes. "It’s cold. Home. Warm. Beds." Mostly, I hate when I don’t get to spend time with all the people I really adore.
I awoke this morning feeling fine. Headache, sure, but overall fine. But then the anxiety kicked into high gear when I began to sort the photos from last night. I’m in too many pictures with men, and it makes me nervous. I don’t like the way I see myself. It’s nothing to do with my arms or double chin, either. This time, I’m terribly self-conscious about how my personality photographs. I’m a ham, and now, it seems, I’m a flirt. And I hate that. I genuinely don’t like who I see in myself in some of these photos.
Except in this one. I love this one… my love for Jennifer couldn’t be more sincere.
