In Which Staring Really Hard Does Not Make It So

I am going to live. Whether or not this last shot hits the target , I'll live.

That being said, I have issues verbalizing how I really feel and condensing that into 500 words or less.

I feel good. I think its because I look good. Well, better. I look better. I'm not doing it the healthy way, but I am doing it the liberated way. Well the kind of healthy way. Less fried food, little to no booze, (that being said, I have fallen off the booze wagon. Last week my cousin was doing a DJ set in Kalamazoo, and there were $2 you-call-its, so I was knocking the Absolut and tonics back like they were candy. I can't be tamed, er blamed), three cigarettes and a meal and a snack a day. Water helps a lot of these things. So does soul-blackening black coffee.

Welcome to the new administration.

So much paperwork beckons, as well as boxes for papers and clothes. I have less than a week to put my life into so many boxes.

So it goes.

In Which I Should Probably Cut Back On Something

Coffee has been my friend for at least four of the last seven days. The cigarettes have been doing their job of keeping the appetite in check, even if they do make a bagel sound flipping fantastic. But this is all good, the bones are starting to resurface. However, to combat the fact that all my favorite things in life stain my teeth, I have been gargling with peroxide and brushing with baking soda. Who knew caring was a full time job?

My goal is to lose at least ten pounds by the time my birthday celebration weekend rolls around (sept 3-6). Basically I am going on a makeover blitz. August is going to be the time of the haircut I've been prattling on about for so long, a slimdown, and the highly anticipated new tattoo (possibly new piercing as well, but we'll see about that).

Consider this the rebirth of slick. I will be cool like dat.

I make myself unnecessarily nervous. I am like a long-tailed cat at a rocking chair convention, and I should channel that energy into something like packing. Or cleaning.

But I'd rather channel that energy into bacon.

I think I'm to the point where the notion of moving home doesn't spin me into a tizzy of nausea and fear. However, it does concern me as to the maintainance of my relationship. Not so much between me and Matt, another couple hours won't change much, but it's really more of a matter of listening to my mother run her mouth that bothers me. If I want to go visit, I am probably going to have to set aside two days to convince her, plus endure a lecture of epic porportions. But who knows, she actually called me to apologize for an argument we had saturday, so anything is possible.

The latest incarnation of Scooby Doo Adventures (Scooby Doo, Mystery Incorporated)is visually weird. Not in the good way.

I keep seeing Band-Aid commercials and thinking of Barry mannilow. He did write the jingle after all.

Here's to believing.

In Which I Should Probably Know Better By Now

I see one more golden opportunity. I see one last shot at redemption (thanks, Paul Simon!).

It's pretty Charlie and The Chocolate Factory, but this is what's essentially going down: Museum of Science and Industry (I can't bring myself to use the abbreviation, MSI, for obvious reasons) is selecting three people to live at the museum for a month and document their experiences. All they want is a video, a 500 word essay, a head shot, and something else, I think. Not like I have shit to do in October. But they have to pick me right? I'm cute (most days), articulate (most days), just awkward enough to be relatable (all days) and funny as hell (all days). They have no choice, right?

The catch: no after hours visitors, and no smoking on the museum premises. This will make conjugal visits and downtime very interesting.

I'm really excited, but at the same time, I realize that I'm still crying from the last time I was excited. I'm keeping this on the low, and I will do a better job of keeping my excitement in check.

So, that's the news from Lake Michigan, where the women are stong, the men are good-looking, and the children are going to be alright.

That was a really poor A Prarie Home Companion homage.

But to my new goal, I say you wanna dance? Let's dance, douchebag! (rips goal's heart out of chest, then takes a bite, smearing blood on face)

It's on!

In Which I Am Fairly Certain I Have More Issues Than The Time Magazine Archives

So I have officially given up on finding a job. The white flag has been waved. My rationale is the sooner I can make peace with living at home at 25, the better. I'm looking at taking some classes because if I just live at home with no job, no friends, and no life, someone. Will. Die. My sanity will be hovering just a bit above my mother's and my heads, and her or I or both shall go with it.

But on the upside, I have not cried once today. I wanted to, and came close a few times, but didn't. Days without incedent of the crying variety: 3

On the downside, I can't get past beauty by the numbers. Sizes, weights, other stuff probably...but mostly sizes and weights. I just don't feel very good about myself these days. There. I said it. I think this persistent job rejection thing has shaken me to my core. So far, my thought process has been as follows: I can either be useful or pretty. If I am not a, I must be b. Nothing has equipped me for option c: none of the above. At this point I just feel like I'm taking up space and not making anything better for anyone. Stupid inferiority complex. And people wonder why not being good enough is like my #1 biggest fear of all time.

Or something like that.

I feel like the only thing I haven't fucked up yet is obviously my relationship with Matt. Two years in November, and I couldn't be happier. I think the only thing that would make me happier would be a pink sapphire on my left hand. I'm not opposed to a long engagement, just so long as its an engagement. But I don't think that will be anytime soon. However, I can still drop hints like I got holes in my pockets. I wish I could stop holding my breath and just not be afraid to lose him. I know I'm not perfect (yet) but I just want to be perfect enough for him.

Does that make sense?

And I didn't cry once during the production of this post. Someone get me an ice cream cone.

In Which I Have Days Without Incident.

So it's been awhile. I've been not too many places, just home and back. I've gotten to see Matt for the last three weekends now, and I've gotten used to having him around.

These next few weeks are going to be midsummer madness. I think I'm moving back home, and I have to have my shiz out by the end of the month. The jobs I've applied for have been non-responsive or think my contact address is in Rejection City. As I've said many times before, I'd rather move my stuff from Kzoo to Chicago over moving back home and then moving the five hours back west.

Not to mention that if I move home, I will be involved in a homicide. That's not a hood joke, that's a mother-daughter dynamic reference.

If I can't get a decent job,I guess I'm going back to school. We'll see how this works, seeing as the next GRE isn't until October, and I have fuck-all in the way of letters of recommendation.

Maybe I'll take a few random classes at Western to get some sexy grades and sexier letters of rec.

Life's goal: stop sucking so much. Become my version of perfect.

Today's goal: smoke one cigarette and hush the voices. Not hate myself for a couple hours.

I'm entertaining the notion of being a bad friend again. I don't want to be one of those girls,forsaking everything in the name of love, but my insecurity gets the best of me. This would be the only weekend I have time to do what I need to do. Phone calls, emails, and text messages can't do it the way I can.

There's always someone cooler than me.