Like sands through the hourglass, so are the fucks of our lives.

• on june 10th, as i do most days, i continued my journey of being awesome and not giving a shit.
• on june 11th i posted the first blog i'd written in a hot minute. sure, i vented. i have ranted. i've talked it out through writing to myself over... and over... and over again. this particular time i created a fictitious jiminey cricket-esque art-bitch character who lives on my shoulder named rosie perez. i blabbed to myself my own thoughts as per "mallory's glorified public diary that no body reads" usual and carried on with my day. 
  
• on june 12th i missed a phone call and immediately received this curious and cryptic text from a number i hadn't known. it read,                                                             "Hi, we have spoke and you are no longer a resident artist of the generator. Please have your space cleared by the first of the month."                                          how vague? how ... strange? how decidedly papal sounding in it's multi-personal self-reference? i inquired,                    "who is we? who is this? how very cryptic and intriguing."                                                                               the number replied that it was, they matt schultz. the ''we'' must've been all the moods he was in in that moment.  i quickly checked my voicemail to see what "the we'd" had said,                                                                                                "hey mallory, this is matt and i'm calling in regard to your space at the generator. after what was posted on facebook today, i'm gonna have to ask you to remove your residency from the generator. i'd like all of your stuff out of the genny by the first of the month. just not working out."                                                                    i could hear it in "the we's'' voice. the fluster-age. the anger. the venting, the pacing, and, in "the we's" short, huffed ummmm's. so i wrote him back,                                       "oh, matt. shit. didn't even have your new number? figured you'd throw a fit before we actually had a conversation. i'll be out. although... i do blame rosie perez."                                                                                 and that's how it happened. quick-like. peace...the fuck out. 
• on june 13th i woke up curious about what the world had to think of this bullshit example of diplomatic leadership so i posted on facebook and was swarmed with a shit-typhoon of response and support for me right to speak my mind. couldn't agree more. "the we's" reaction to my words is totally indicative of his general napoleonic mannerisms and further supports my animal farm correlation. i wasn't off base at all... as a matter of fact, i'm pretty sure i was only writing what other people have been thinking for some time now.  also, turns out i don't particularly care what other people think (surprise!).
• on june 14th i packed up awl muh shit from the pope's palace. i also saw this article which made me vomit in my mouth. if by hug, you mean...a dictatorship to call their own? if by hug, you mean wool over reno's eyes? if by hug, you mean art herpes?
• on june 15th resumed daily life. happy father's day, dad. 
• today, i'm officially fuck-giving free. i just thought i'd jot this all down real quick for myself. y'know, keep it fresh for posterity and such.