Oh, money. How you destroy my life.

You know how I said in my first post how I was going to live unbridled? Yeah. It's amazing just how quickly that can all be shot down when the term "money" comes into play.

I've never doubted the fact that the people who generally have more fun are the ones with more money. Simply because they have more of it to throw around and waste on trivial things. When I got here, I had just over $3,500 saved up. Only one month later, and I have $1,100 left in my account.

Yeah. I'm just as suprised as you are.

A week ago (I can't believe it was so short a time, it feels like I've been here for two months already), I ended up sitting down, going through all of my receipts, pulling everything together to see where the hell the money went. 75 euros to this stupid taxi driver who ripped me off. 78 euros for painting supplies. 60 some-odd euros for photo supplies. And then the huge kicker. 868 euros from an invoice that I got from the school. It covered things like the field trips I've signed up for. The Permit of Stay I was required to fill out, course fees, and a museum card (which I'm so grateful to have).

I finally managed to get everything in order, figure out where I was spending my money, and it dawned on me. "I'm friggin' poor. I need a job. Desperately."

Of course, I can't get a job, because my Visa isn't cleared for work, but it only made me realize that in order to pay my father for insurance when I get back, I'm going to need to work twice as hard.

I went to Milan this past weekend. It was Fashion Week. I found a really cute wrap-around cardigan thing and a cute top, for decent prices. And yet when I got back to the apartment, I felt guilty. I didn't need those tops. I just really wanted them to say I bought something in Milan. And then I honestly thought to myself "Well, just don't eat dinner tonight. Skip lunch every other day, it'll help offset the costs."

. . . Yeah. Stupid thought, I know. I'm already not eating that much, and here I am telling myself to eat less to justify buying clothes.

I was freaking out. I was terrified of a comment made to me, that I wasn't going to making through to December at the rate I was going. It was so beyond true. Even though I knew I was going to be getting birthday money, I still wanted to buy shoes. I still wanted to buy a sweatshirt. I still wanted to buy things for my family, I had to plan where we were staying for our UK extravaganza, and above all else, I still had to be able to feed myself.

I was freaking out. This along with other things had just turned me into a mess. I mean, what the fuck. I'm poor.

But then I had two wonderful conversations. The first one with my aunt. I explained to her what had happened, what's going on, and she simply said to me. "Fuck it. Live it up, live your life and make the most of your time there. You're never going to get this opportunity again." I agreed with her, and even without me saying anything more, she said, "You need money? How much? Let me know and we'll make it work." I have a series of rocks in my life. The people who keep me grounded and connected. She's one of them. By far, one of the best women I've ever met in my life.

Even knowing that, that someone out there was willing to help put me at ease, but I still felt bad about having to ask her for money. I explained to her that it wasn't a necessity just yet, that I was going to try to get by as far as I could, and see where I could get, but that the offer meant a lot to me.

Then the invoice came, and I nearly started crying right in the middle of the school.

It wasn't as large of a sum as I was expecting it to be, but 868 euros? That's still pretty damn hefty, considering that's a LOT of food, and a lot of presents.

Finally, I called my mother (via skype), and just started crying about everything. Roommates being shitty, my need for extra funding, and after a while she simply looked at me and said, "Samantha. Don't worry about the money. You're never going to get this opportunity again, even if we do go over together some day. If your father and I need to start putting money in your account, then we will. We'll just keep a running total of how much we give you, and you can pay him back when you come home."

. . . Okay. So. I started balling again. 1 because I felt guilty about having to ask my dad for money. This trip was a big deal for me. It was supposed to be done all on my money. My parents wouldn't have to pay a thing except for the tuition, which made me happy. Secondly, it made me realize something.

I"ve had it so damn easy. I've been living on my parents dime for so damn long. I really am a moocher. Granted, I've been trying to buy a lot of my own stuff recently. Like, I try to buy my own clothes when I can, and I try to buy my own groceries if I'm out on my own.

But seriously?

I want to do more when I get home. I want to show them that this trip has taught me something. I know that they're there to support me when I need them to, but I don't want them to feel obligated to support me until I'm 25. That's not fair to them. For a minute, I just thought of all the different ways I could help them out. Like, give them $100 bucks a month for groceries or something, but even then, I realized it's not enough. My father is putting his neck on the line for me, by footing my college tuition bill for now. If anything, I'm going to work twice as hard just so I can get my own loans paid off faster, and help start paying him back. I've seen the amounts he's pulled out.

And yet I also know how much I can earn in a summer, if I'm smart about it.

It's not impossible, it's just going to take a while.

While I'm here though, I know I need to let go a little. This is Italy. When am I going to get this chance again? Oh. That's right. Never.

Tonight, people are going out. I'm gonna join them, but rather than spend 16 euros on drinks, I'm gonna get smart. Go out, buy a bottle of cheap-ass vodka, a bottle of pineapple juice and pregame like a fool. That way, maybe I only have to spend 8 to keep me going for the night.

I'm not an alcoholic, but damnit, I could sure use a shot a of liquid courage to get that side of me back.

Reevaluation, complete.

More on actual school later, the good, the awesome and the horrible. :)

Ci vediamo. <3

And the good days just keep getting better.

I simply adore how I absolutely cannot fall asleep at 2 in the morning. It's flippin' wonderful.

Sarcasm? Actually, not. I really do love being the only person up. My favorite time of the day is when everyone has already gone to bed, and I can roam freely.

I hate silence. I honestly do, but I love listening. Granted, people who know me well may not think this, because once you get me going, I have the habit of not being able to shut up. In reality, however, when nobody's around, I find myself so content and happy. Exactly like I feel right now. I'm in Florence, of all places, and I can hear everything.

Cars and motorcycles are screaming by my window, even at 2 in the morning. It's noise, without being overwhelming. Nobody's screaming. Nobody's music is swaying my emotions. I don't feel forced into conversation, I don't feel awkward being left out of one. I don't have to worry about people judging me for how I spend my time. I'm free to do whatever it is my heart pleases, and at this very moment, I'm choosing to blog.

I'm slowly trying to come out of my shell. Though I will admit, a shot of liquid courage helps quite a bit.

I had the most interesting experience last night. For the very first time, I went to a nightclub, I drank, I danced, and I even let myself get a little freaky on the dance floor.

Yeah. That's right. Oh, italian men, you certainly do know how to push a girl's buttons.

I promised myself that I'd let go, that I'd live unbridled, and fuck, last night was certainly the beginning of a whole new side of me.

Buzzed enough to not give a damn, but not drunk enough to forget when to say "No."

Last night's adventures caused me to have a little revelation today. For the past two years, I've worked my ass off. Literally. I used to eat a lot of crap that wasn't good for me. In quantities that make me sick to even think about. At one point in time, I weighed 196 pounds. At 5'4". I was miserable. Absolutely miserable. I hated my body, I hated myself, I hated anyone who made me feel like the typical fat chick, and I was constantly blaming people for the way I was.

In all honesty though, the only person I had to blame was myself.

I've always been chunky. Ever since I can remember, but once I hit middle school, subject was just thrown out of proportion. You know those people who just eat their emotions? Yeah. That was me. I'd eat when I was depressed. I'd eat when I was bored. I'd eat because I was hungry, I'd eat just so I could eat. And then my 16th birthday came around.

I was going to have an amazing party. Masquerade themed. I ended up finding a dress online for 75 bucks. Absolutely gorgeous dress. It got to my doorstep and it was slightly too small. So what did I do? Diet, of course. Only problem was that all I ate was fucking salad. For two months, I ate salad and swam like a beast to fit into that dress. The party was flippin' amazing though. And that dress fit me like a glove. It was perfect.

Two months later though, things weren't so perfect. Of course, I started eating like a normal human being again, and then I started eating all the things I missed eating while dieting. Soon, I was back to my old habits, and those 10 pounds I lost came right back, and even invited their friends to the party, adding another 10 pounds.

They weren't kidding when they say it comes back double.

After high school though, I told myself I was done being "the fat chick." I was sick of having all of these beautiful, skinny friends. I wanted to be them. At the very least, I promised myself that I would not gain the "Freshman Fifteen." Though I didn't go to the gym as often as I should have, I did manage to keep the weight off, and in fact, lost a few pounds. It wasn't anything super magical, but it was a start.

The real kicker was when I took a nutrition course the following fall.

Talk about scare tactics. I'd never been more afraid of being overweight in my life.

From one semester, I ended up shedding about 20 pounds. Another semester, another 15 pounds. A summer, 10 pounds.

I currently stand at 5'4". And I weigh approximately (the last chance I had to check was before I left for Italy) 150 pounds. I'm not perfect, by any means. I still don't like parts of my body, but in two years I went from a size 18 jean to a size 6.

So where the hell is this all going? Why the hell did I just ramble out a whole story about how I've got body image issues?

Because last night, for the first time in a very long time. I felt sexy. Not in a "Oh, I feel nice, I should take a picture while it lasts" way. I felt genuinely sexy. Someone wanted me. So badly that even when I went to go get another drink, got separated for a good 20 minutes, he came looking for me. Granted. I know he was probably just as smashed as I was, if not more. It doesn't change the fact though that he made me feel like that penny that was abandoned on the pavement, that someone decided to pick up and stick in their pocket for good luck. We did things on that dance floor that would make my mother blush, and would make my father want to lock me in my room, but I don't give a shit.

I'm twenty years old, damn it. I'm in the prime of my life, I'm in one of the most beautiful cities on this earth, and if I want to go to a nightclub and make out with a complete stranger on the dance floor, then fuck yes, I'm going to. If that makes me a slut, then fine. Whatever. I'm a slut. So shoot me.

I woke up this morning feeling sexy. I walked the streets feeling sexy. It's amazing what a little bit of attention can do to a woman's slowly decreasing esteem.

American men are idiots. Never knowing what's there until it's gone. Foreign men live it up, when they see something they want, they go after it. It's almost like a hunt. They know how to play this game, and slowly, they're teaching me.

The chase is on.

And I want in.

Though this post is (finally) ending, my saga's just beginning. The taste of freedom I got last night has sparked something completely new, and I'm gonna do whatever I can to feed that flame. Off to rock some friggin' awesome yoga and then head to bed.

Live it up, you never know when it's all gonna come crashing down again.

Oh, the fretting and insanity.

Sorry guys, I'm not currently sitting in my underwear right now. I do have them on, but they are accompanied by a wonderful pair of yoga pants this time.

. . . Not that it matters. Haha.

Today was the first official day of classes, and you know what? I looked friggin' adorable. I had on this cute vintage-looking dress from American Eagle, these adorable ballet flats and a cute black cardigan. My first class was Garment Construction, followed by Italian.

And holy shit, I couldn't have been more miserable.

You would have thought that it was the first day of classes, everything was going to be beautiful, going over syllabi and the basics of the classroom. Yeah. No.

Garment construction consisted of sitting there, going over the syllabus, (vaguely) going over how to use a sewing machine, introducing us to the dress form and important seams and looking at some Italian designers. After that though, we took a break, and then proceeded to walk over hill and dale to a fashion book store where we got to look at a super expensive Trend Forecast book and then get our first few supplies for the class.

Now, you're curious, no? How could that be a bad start to a day?

First of all, machines. I know how to use mine. Incredibly well. I also know how to use the Singer that they have in the studio. Incredibly well. Fuck, I even know how to use a surger already. It almost killed me when the teacher painstakingly went over every single detail about the machine. And she's doing it again on Monday.

So your next question is probably something like, "Well. Why don't you just drop the class, or ask her if she can give you more advanced projects?"

1. Because I'm a chicken shit.
2. I don't want her telling me "Well. You don't know this, or this, or this."

I mean, I didn't know everything about the dress form. That part was useful. And getting to know Italian fashion was kinda fun. However, I've come to the conclusion that "Ready to wear" Armani, Versace and Ferrè are not for me. Especially Versace. Ew.

I mean, come on; wool, vinyl, cotton and leather, all in one outfit? Goodness gracious, Donatella, choose like, two and stick with it! And the color choices were horrifying. A borderline neon shade of periwinkle with black and brown. Oh, yeah. Those were chaps, by the way. Effin' chaps. Who the hell wears chaps?

As soon as we started walking, I was even more miserable. I had no idea we were going halfway across the city to find this little shop. The shoes I wore were not meant for walking distances in. They were meant for going to school and coming back. I have thusly decided that they are no longer practical, and therefore, I must throw them away. However, I shall not do so until I buy myself a cute pair of comfortable Italian flats.

So we get to this store, and she has us sit down. All she keeps talking about is this name brand designer, and that name brand designer. I signed up for this class so that I could figure out how to make my own clothes, not to gossip about these overpriced (tasteless, in my opinion), snobs. The last thing I wanted to do was spend five euros on a series of Italian Vogue, when I honestly wasn't even sure I wanted to stay in the damn class. Then we had to walk to this little shop where I had to deposit another six euros for scissors and chalk. Wtf, man. Wtf.

Oh. And then we got to book it back to school. We were across town, it was 3:50, and we had to be there at 4 for our next class. I currently have two lovely blisters, and scabs on my heels where my shoes decided to tear away the blisters that were there and constantly rub. I wasn't happy. At all. If that wasn't already obvious. Haha.

Salvation came from a lovely woman named Matilda (Matilde? we can't figure it out). She is the Italian professor. She's down to earth, real about the language, and very understanding. Not to mention a blast to just hang out with. She did, however, propose that we go walking (again) to a bookstore down the road and around a corner. I wasn't too happy about that, but I did end up finding out that one of her favorite books is The Count of Monte Cristo. Way to go, Matilda/e, you just earned yourself a gold star.

What I came to realize though, is that this day had so much potential, and yet, I let it slip away because I was far too focused on the pain radiating from my feet to notice anything else. Some of the stuff from Enrica's (Garment Construction professor) class actually was interesting, and after actually cracking open the huge packet of Vogue magazines, I've learned to discover that my likings may not be towards Versace, Armani and Ferrè, but Haute Couture? That's where it's at.

I'm exhausted. Physically and mentally exhausted. Thinking in two languages is difficult enough. Fighting with yourself in two different languages is just about torture. However. I am about to do yoga, and I am about to kick ass at doing the little bits that I know, because I know that in the end, today was just another little bump in the road.

Yesterday, oh, yesterday was amazing.

It finally felt real. All of it. It finally hit me.

I woke up at about 9-ish. Rolled out of bed. Showered, put on clothes, that whole shindig. I then proceeded to go to the market, all by me onsies. Florence is such a beautiful city. I got peaches, an onion and some more mozzarella. Then I proceeded to walk back, make fresh marinara sauce, and get it in the fridge just in time to go finish the sketcbook we had started to make during orientation on Monday.

I finished my sketchbook and walked back to the apartment. I then proceeded to have a nutella and jelly sandwich along with some yogurt. After that, I took a blissful nap. A solid hour of such deep sleep, I almost didn't want to get up. I did, however, and went to Italian, where we all decided to walk to the other side of town again to get tickets to the opera. Unfortunately, we came too late, and though we had a number, they were only on 28 when we left, closed in a half an hour, and we were like, 41. They were calling a number every 3 minutes or so.

When we were in the process of walking back, Matilda/e wasn't sure what to do, so she simply looked at us and asked the most heavenly question:

". . . Do you guys want to get some ice cream?"

We did, and it was wonderful. By far the best gellato I've had yet. Hayden and I have even decided that if we want gellato, we're going to work for it. The place we went to is on the other side of the river, but it only costs a euro-fitty for what normally costs either two euros or two-fitty. On top of that, the flavor was just so rich, and so creamy . . . I'm salivating right now just thinking about it. It's insane. If I wasn't so tired, I'd hoof it across town to get me some. I had chocolate orange (ciocoaranciata) and strawberry cheesecake (formaggia di torta con fragola). Hayd ended up getting dark chocolate (fiondantè) and caramel cream (cremcaramel). Dear lord. Yum. Yum yum yum.

Sitting outside that little gellateria . . . it was so blissful. I was so happy. I was sitting in the middle of Florence, staring at the Arno River, Ponte Vecchio to my right, in the birthplace of my Great-great grandmother. Granted, I don't know if she was born in Florence, exactly, but she was definitely born in Italy.

As we walked across the river to get back to the apartment, it just kept hitting me in waves. All throughout our trek back, I had to hold back tears. I clutched my hand to my chest, and again, that feeling of emptiness was gone. In fact, I felt like my heart was overflowing with emotions. I felt like every step I took, I was connected to her, connected to my past. I want more days like that. More days of abundant respect and love for my heritage.

With tonight's yoga routine, I'm letting go of all of my worries today. I'm not going to think about the 90 euros I have to spend tomorrow on painting supplies. I'm not going to think about the 200 euros it's going to cost me to get to Greece and back. I'm not going to think about the huge invoice that's coming my way for the field trips, course fees and my museum card.

Today's fretting is going out the window, and I'm making room for another wonderful night of sleep, along with another wonderful day of classes.

Volere è potere.
If you wish it, it will be so.
~Some German dude that Matilda/e told us about.

Buona notte, i miei amici.

I. Am. Currently. Sitting in my underwear. Yup. In the middle of my Florentine apartment. Listening to Coldplay mixed with the rush of nightlife that's insanely alive at midnight. It's strange, this foreign land. It screams of NYC, while having such an age that makes NYC pale in comparison. It's beautiful, without a doubt. I've been here for just over a week, and I've already taken over 200 photographs that simply fail to capture the beauty that surrounds me. They'll be wonderful for memories, but they'll be nothing like the real thing.

I can already hear myself calling this home.

There's a pond across the street. A public market within a half an hour walk. No driving, lots of walking. My feet hurt every day before I go to bed, but I adore it. I need more of it. I actually had to stop and remind myself several times that I have four months here. It's not like I'm leaving on Sunday. Part of it scares me, knowing that already a week has just flown by, knowing that the four months is going to fly just as quickly. For the last three nights, I've pretty much laid in bed, being a total nerdbag watching Sailor Moon.

Yeah.

I'm in Italy, and what the fuck am I doing? Hiding. Brilliant.

I feel like nothing has changed. I keep waiting for this moment when everything's going to hit me, and I'm going to realize what my true purpose in life is, but I also know that it's an unrealistic expectation. I thought that being so disconnected would be perfect. It was until we got internet. All of a sudden, I find myself falling into the same patterns all over again.

Oh. Nothing to do? Why don't you check Facebook. How about your email? Have you checked that lately?

And then I realize, it's the same fucking deal, day in and day out. The only email I get is from my professors, or crap from school. And the only messages I get on Facebook are from people who comment on my pictures. "Oh, hope you're having a wonderful time! It looks beautiful!"

. . . Nothing about "How are things? Are you surviving? Are you taking care of yourself? What about your room mates, are they nice?" It only then makes me wonder, was I already so disconnected from my friends and family before I left? To the point where nobody cares to ask how things are? I flew 4200 miles, and the only person who's talked to me about it is my mother. Who, bless her soul, can't help but miss me every damn day. Clinically depressed now. Partially because of me leaving, partially because of all the shit that happened this summer. Told me again, on Skype that she'd rather die than fight off this thing. And she said it so matter-of-fact-ly. Like, "Oh, yeah. I still wanna die. Nbd."

I didn't want to have to worry about that shit overseas. I wanted to get away from it all, but it's following me.

I always feel like such horrible child when my room mates talk about their families, and how close they are. How someone wants their mother to call them back. How someone's mother helped them put all their papers in order.

I had to figure all this shit out on my own, bitches. From start to finish, I didn't have mommy or daddy holding my hand. And damn it, I'm fucking proud of that. I drove my ass to work every morning. I made the money to get my ass here. I put all of my paperwork together, I made sure it was in order, I made sure I had five copies of everything. I paid for my passport myself. I paid for my housing deposit by myself. And I'm still paying. For everything. By myself. It scares me to think that I might not have enough, and I may have to ask my parents for money. I don't want to do that. I want to be grown up, make the right decisions, and know how to budget. Even if it means living on nutella and jelly sandwiches.

Have I grown up too much though? To the point where nothing matters anymore, and I'm just stuck in middle-class society where all I can think about is how I spend my money and how I don't want to be stuck?

We made sketchbooks in orientation today. It was nice. I chose this beautiful grey and white almost baroque looking flower pattern, with a Burgundy binding. It's really pretty. I thought that it would finally spark something in me to get a little more creative, to get everything flowing in the direction that it's supposed to be going, but it didn't.

It was just another thing to add to the piles of crap I have at home.

I want to be cut out for this lifestyle. I do. But I can't help but feel like I'm not. So many of my room mates can't wait to start creating. To start the next process of their adventure. I'm still waiting to be inspired. I guess I'm still waiting to let go. To have that moment where everything comes to a complete halt, and I have my moment of "Well shit. This is what it's all supposed to feel like? What the fuck have I been doing with my life?"

I'm caught between fantasy and reality right now. There's so much that I dream of happening, but it's like I'm incapable of actually making them happen. Where's my change? Where's my adventure? Where's my whirlwind romance? Where the fuck is my life going?

I need classes to start. This entire past week has felt like nothing but a vacation. A beautiful, blissful vacation. I need to start creating again, I need to remember why I came here, and why this trip was so important. Right now, I'm trapped in fantasy. It's like I'm on some Hollywood set, and any day now, they're gonna pull all the facades down, and I'll be back in Rochester. It still hasn't sunk in completely that I'm in Italy.

All my life, I've been waiting to get here. Now, here I am. So what the fuck am I waiting for now?

Where's the unbridled beast that I promised to unleash on the city?

All I know is that I need to find her.

Fast.