Now that I've reclaimed my affection for comfortably-hobo chic, let's just venture into full on hippie territory this week. Let's also pretend that didn't rhyme.
|originally from Apartment Therapy|
I saw this little house on Pink Shirts and Car Wrecks recently and for some reason it plucked the hemp strings in my heart. Also, I was a little jealous of the blue seat pad in their Bertoia chair...
Honestly, I think a lot of it has to do with the photography.
Makes me want to get out my camera that doesn't have a phone in it...
And make some pottery.
And really try to make my Bertoia be friends with some of my closeted textiles.
Those windows would have a permanent greasy imprint of me rubbing myself on them. Fuck those weird hamburger-looking footstool poufs, though. I don't want my furniture to look like it should come with a Happy Meal toy. Unless the toy is a royal blue Bertoia chair pad.
I should stop trying to fight my hippie roots and just accept that sometimes I rather enjoy places that look like stylish, thrift-happy hobos squat (squatted? squaat?) there for the night. I was raised by heathen hippies but being the first born nerd child, I rebelled by turning my nose up at recreational drugs, doing lame studious things and just generally avoiding encounters with the law.
Except for some grunge years in high school and that winter where I didn't shave my legs on principle (possibly also grunge-related), I keep the hippie mostly tucked away into the box I keep my incense in.
But every now and then my roots unearth themselves and force me to admire some macrame, take a stroll through a head shop or buy some Dr. Bronner's body wash.
Inevitably I'll get tangled in some yarn crafts or have the clerk at the head shop grunt uncomfortably in my direction or accidentally get some Dr. Bronner's peppermint body wash too close to my yes yes parts and THAT SHIT AIN'T FUN, Y'ALL.
It's like shampoo in your eye times 1000.
Or set fire to my vulva.