Murality

You know how some people get that brain itch, like they've forgotten something? Usually it's to mail their grandparents a nice, censored letter about how college is going, to floss their teeth, or to find a new route to the dining hall that does not involve passing the hookah smokers. I haven't accomplished any of these tasks, but that's beside the point. My brain itch comes from going a week without buying a single thing. Not even a pack of gum, I shit you not. By Wednesday, I was going through the shakes, after passing every single store downtown that exhibited shiny things. So proud of having exceptionally strong will power, I thought it would be safe, the day before my next paycheck, to walk into Urban Outfitters, where they will charge you fifty bucks just to look at the swirl of Hipsters 'R Us selections. I'm just kidding, they'll only charge you thirty.
Boy, what a mistake that was. My friend Sarah could walk past the studded jeans and beaded dresses, admire them for a second, and be done with it. I was practically drooling. "Material Girl" may as well have been playing in the background, if it weren't for the fact that we're not stuck in the '80s.
"Get me out of here," I gasped to Sarah. We had almost passed the quality reading selection about French curse words, when I found this:

Sneezing paint onto fabric, or an artsy statement? The world will never know.

 A sane person would pass this thing, decide not to be a walking mural, and go buy some Penn State shirts. Yet after going through a million and one sleepless nights in the sweatbox some people call a dorm room, I thought it was a fabulous idea to announce to the world that I was feeling artsy. Plus, twenty bucks at that store is like getting something for free anywhere else. It's perfectly logical, don't give me that look. Okay, it's somewhat logical.





After a ten minute panic attack--in which I appeared to be having some allergic reaction to shopping--the weirdest thing happened. I returned to my room, and started writing....not the usual "woe is me, life is terrible because I stubbed my toe" that's scrawled on EVERY FREAKING PAGE of my journal (historians are going to think teenage girls of the 21st century had terribly boring lives). For once, I was typing my story--the same story I've been working on for weeks, mind you--and feeling pretty kickass. Not the song, although that tune has evoked quite a few creative moments...flashmob, anyone?
Could this dress actually have made me more artsy? I'm not saying that clothes have magical powers to turn someone into the top dog of their field. I know I'm nowhere close to winning the creative race. I mean, please, I'm not Charlie Sheen. But what was once an interesting article of clothing has turned into inspiration. Or maybe it's just the fact that I'm no longer sweating into the ten pairs of jeans I mistakenly thought to bring to an un-airconditioned dorm in the middle of the summer. That's a possibility too.