Beautifuk

When I was in high school, I salvaged a typewriter at the flea market. It was gorgeous. I cherished it. I bought new ink spools for it and promptly typed up every thought I had for a whole summer.
At one point during this summer, my mother wanted to write me a nice note so she started to type, "Olivia Murphy's life is beautiful." Instead, she hit the wrong key on the last letter and wrote, "Olivia Murphy's life is beautifuk." I have this strip of paper taped above my bed at home.

I've been thinking about the term "beautifuk" a lot recently because I'm thinking that is indeed my life right now. It's everyone's life, always. It is so. fucked. up. and so heartbreakingly beautiful at the same beautifully fucked up time. Utterly beautifuk.

After the show tonight, I had a glass of wine with Samantha and Beth and John and then us ladies walked around PICA's TBA Festival, handing out flyers for our Spectacle March. It was wonderful and I felt so full of the magic that this show is and I bought kalamata olives on my way home and now, somehow, I'm here: swirling in my negativity, listening to Mary Chapin Carpenter like I expect her to fix me. I spent separate and distinct parts of today angry, exhausted, charmed, stressed, thrilled, confused, overjoyed and hopeless. I look back at days like today and know why it is that we can't have a real word for how horrid and fabulous 23 can be.