everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.

taken from: http://idealmente.tumblr.com/post/49005407167/the-king-by-tubasa-wings
taken from Pinterest

“Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.”

Mike Tyson spoke those words.

Shit happens. Unexpected shit happens more. But you’ve got to know your game plan. You’ve got to know your next move. You get hit, what’s your counter move? Unsure? Slow reaction? Caught off guard? Well then what happens next might be your TKO.

You’ve got to be ready for what life has in store for you. You need to kick ass. In order to do that, you might need to hustle. You might need to work one, two, three jobs. You might need to sacrifice. You have to know how to take the hits and keep getting up, keep coming back for more.

Don’t expect all good things to just fall gracefully into your lap or come express delivery to your doorstep by an angel with golden wings riding a purple unicorn who crop dusts a glitter trail of success and good fortune from its ass.

You’ve got to hustle, stick and move. Especially when life graces you with circumstances that make for rocky roads, unbeaten paths, and a light that tends to flicker out when you need it most, when it’s meant to light your way.

This makes me thing of one of my favorite quotes by H. Jackson Brown Jr:

“Don’t say you don’t have enough time. You have exactly the same number of hours per day that were given to Helen Keller, Pasteur, Michaelangelo, Mother Teresa, Leonardo da Vinci, Thomas Jefferson, and Albert Einstein.”

Brown couldn’t be more true. You only die once, you live every single day. Hustle to get to where you want to go, hustle to achieve your dreams, hustle to do the things you love whenever you can, hustle to live life as you choose, despite circumstance. Fuck fate. You make your own destiny. You didn’t choose the life you were born into, but you can take control of the life you live now. Maybe you have to work harder than others. So what? You don’t know the strength of your own capabilities unless you test them.

Push your boundaries.

Fear is only a state of mind. Never let it decide your future. It is nothing more than an obstacle that stands in the way of your progress.

I am not what has happened to me. I am what I choose to become. Remember that.

Fight.

Grow a lion heart.

It’s important to know who you are, where you came from, but ultimately, where you are going. Whose to say you won’t be the next da Vinci, or Thomas Jefferson, or Mother Theresa. We all have the same amount of hours in a day. The scary part is that we all don’t have the same amount of time on this Earth. Make it count. Hard work pays off, even if you have to do more of it than anyone else you know.

If you work hard, good things will come to you. It might be hard to believe that but there are people out there who are living proof of it. Keep a kind heart, don’t let hardship define you or change you in a negative way. Count your blessings, few as they may seem. They still exist, even in darkness.

And remember:

If life punches you in the face hard and unexpected,

get back up,

and countermove that shit.

**P.S. I, dear_introvert, want you to leave a tidbit comment of your favorite inspirational quote or person. Or maybe there is someone or something that motivates you? What is your driving force?!! Please share:: let’s keep the “kick-ass” & the “grab life by the balls” inspiration going!

conversations with my tattoo artist.

/ tattoo shop décor / Image by: dear_introvert
/ tattoo shop décor /
Image by: dear_introvert

Tattoo sessions are hours spent between artist & client.

Between the moments of silence, drown out only by the buzz of the machine, conversations happen.

I’ve found my perfect tattoo artist. His presence is minimal. It reminds me of a calm before the storm. His voice is soft and his manner is professional. These aren’t just tattoos. This isn’t just work. He’s creating art. It just so happens the canvas is my skin. He’s serious and dedicated. I like that shit.

For my first sitting, we spoke a total of 20 minutes. He worked for five hours. Not once did I feel awkward in the shared silence nestled amongst the hum of his needlework. As he inked, a small lamp glowed from atop his forehead, illuminating my inner leg. His canvas. I spent my time peering up at the ceiling, picking animal figures out of the plywood board nailed there. I soaked in his selected artwork displayed on the walls of this alternative office cubicle.

The second sitting I longed for the spark of conversation. I found my comfort zone, ever small but present, so I sought after chasing my curiosity.

A confirmation of  life perspective occurred in those moments.

The specific words exchanged are for me to keep.

I just want to share the perspective.

What motive drives you when the choice is made for your college education? For your career path? If it is money, you’re wrong. You need to choose with your heart, be led by your passion, and the money will follow.

If you do what you love, there is money to be made. Just as much as if you wake up every morning in complete dread, knowing you are on your way to a job you loathe.

What are you willing to exchange for the price?

You love what you do, it is passion. You hate what you do, it is work. It will always and forever be work. There is a way to do what you love and make money at the same time. Realize that sooner than later.

Driven by the almighty dollar, $100,000 in loan debt, and only now do I see the light.

It’s too late to go back. I had to accumulate more debt to get where I truly want to be. A means to an end. If I found a job in my undergraduate field, I don’t think I’d be happy trekking down that forsaken career path.

As a self-proclaimed introvert, why in the hell would I get my MA in Communication Arts you ask? Like I said, a means to an end. A degree in higher education puts flare on my resume. I worked hard to learn everything I could in the world of communication with the time I have to complete this degree.

Do I need to communicate all the time and whip myself into a fake frenzy inside extrovert façade land for the communication professionals folk? No.

I love to write. I love photography. I have an imagination.

I have a passion for the creative side of anything and everything. I love to work and I work hard. If I love what I do, I work harder.

If I can cultivate a career from that, it will be a happy one.

There is an artist. He is passionate about art. He is really, really good at what he does in every medium. Job prospects were bleak, a degree in fine art weighed lightly, choices needed to be made. Give up and chase this almighty dollar through factory production lines? Give in to all the voices condemning an artist’s life to struggle and poverty?

NO.

He found a way.

You find a way.

If you dream it, if you wish it, if you love it, it will come.

Opportunity knocked. And here you sit with your head lamp and a tattoo gun, needling forever ink into my skin canvas with a delicacy only a true artist can acquire. We talk about life. How similar your views are to mine, a confirmation of perspective. You are rich by your own standards. You wake up every day and do what you love.

I only hope to find the same.

I’m colder than a polar bear’s nutsack

.snow

This polar vortex is the devil in frozen form. It’s presence was unwelcomed in the first place and the fact that it has decided to stick around for more than a few days, is really cramping my style in the bungalow.

Problem #1: The bungalow sits alone on a hill on a mountain. Snow drifts and wind gusts threaten to tear down its beaten and rotten guts on the daily. Picture Dorothy’s house in the eye of the tornado. I go to sleep in Pennsylvania, I expect to wake up in Oz.

Problem #2: Its constructed like a mobile home, complete with the sparse cement bricks holding its compact structure up off the ground. Where’s the problem you ask? Well, in order to ensure warmth and comfort, that would require adequate insulation underneath. There either never was any of the glorious pink fluffy stuff due to saving a buck on its installation, or the many woodland creatures who take refuge beneath me have stolen it all for their own bedding supply. Also, the wood skirting that is meant to cover the barren wasteland beneath it crumbles like soup crackers in my fist. My woodchuck resident, whom I named Sir Francis Peddington, takes a small chunk away with him every time his fat furry ass goes to and fro.

Problem #3: This all leads to the current issue at hand: frozen drain pipes which makes for a useless kitchen sink. I managed to find a glorious solution via Google, a mixture of Drano crystals and boiling water meant to un-freeze the pipes. Oh it works, up to a point. WARNING: it also causes severe skin irritation, corneal burns, and respiratory distress from the lovely chemical smoke it produces, much like a nuclear mushroom cloud. This all would have been super successful if not for the original location of the freeze, many feet from where this girl can gain access. The landlord’s solution: disconnect the kitchen drain pipe from the main pipe and just let my water flow straight into the ground outside the bungalow. Easy. Sorry Roto-Rooter.

Okay, I can see how that would save them money and give me my sink back. Quick fix. But then there’s that pesky polar vortex that just won’t go the fuck away. Water freezes instantaneously. The ground is frozen. Is there a possibility of a soon-to-be dirty dish water frozen pond about to form?

Now if only rabbits and squirrels knew how to ice skate.

I can teach them and then turn around and charge an admission fee to help pay my heating bill.

There’s a thought.

Shit, I hope they tell their friends.