In Which I Eat My Feelings

I went apartment hunting last weekend. It did not go well. We found a lovely place but weren't thrilled with throwing down first month's rent plus an application fee. That and it was a touch too far from everything.

Apparently its going to be Three's Company in this piece. Matt's current roommate and bff is going to be living with us. I'm not sure how to feel about this, but I think I'm optimistic.

I got a very nice form email rejecting me from a job; its the first one I've been sent since I started applying. Its a relief because that's one less job I have to worry about, but that's also one less stream of income. Am I being too picky? I refuse to work in food. Drinks are ok (barista, bartender, Culligan man, whatever), but no line prep or waitressing. I refuse to be dependent on the kindness of strangers. I just want a job where I'm not living paycheck to paycheck, or at least not doing so in a desperate manner. Why does nobody want me? I'm considering applying to be a flight attendant. I have crazy customer service skills and my two finger pointing methods are unparalelled. Sure, that would take me away from Matt and kind of defeat the purpose of me moving there in the first place, but hey, a job's a job, right? I could feed myself and pay the rent. This is also pushing me toward applying for Month At The Museum 2. Its 10k, and I wouldn't have to worry about rent for a month. I could leisurely look for a job and add that bomb ass experince on a resume. Yes, I'm calling it a job. They're giving me money in association with it, aren't they?

Going to anxiety vomit, brb.

I'm applying for poetry. I can scare up 20 pages of poems easier than 20 pages of cohesive nonfiction.

July, July, July never seemed so strange.

With each passing day, something a little more terrifying comes up.

I'm about to call Arizona to see if they can't give me my five grand. If they say no, I'm going to run through the school middle finger flying. I'm flipping off old ladies, fat kids, moms, dads, babies, what the fuck ever.

But not before I write myself a letter of rec.

And that's about to be lunch.

In Which The Nightmares As Well As Summer Begin

Last night was weird. I was sleeping so hard, it was difficult for me to even recognise how I was even postioned on the bed. I recall feeling like my head was at the foot of the bed and that I was hanging off the bed (both of which were false assumptions). I went to bed pretty early, just after 10 or so. When I woke up, it was 4:30 and I was wide awake. The asshole DJ on the public classical/jazz station I listen to at night was playing all this uptempo shit, which I'm normally down with, just not when I'm trying to fall back asleep. It wasn't even loud, just fast. And then I started thinking, which was the wet, sloppy makeout of death. Because thinking turned into worrying and worrying turned into crying, and crying turned into wandering the house, which turned into going back to sleep and almost oversleeping for work.

It just hit me how much I need a job, and how much the places I apply to don't call me back. What's so wrong with me as a job candidate that I can't even get a secretary job at a nonprofit? What's so wrong with the jobs I select? is it because I have no idea what I'm doing, or because I'm grossly over/underqualified? I'm officially freaking out and I don't know what I'm going to do, because I cannot function/survive without a job, and I cannot be in my mom's house/pocketbook any longer. I would bartend, but I don't know of any bartenders that get health benefits.

And weddings are full of bullshit and expense. I now have two weddings to attend within a month of each other. That's two presents right there. However, the bridal showers are within a week of each other. That's two more presents (and I'm pretty sure neither of these chicks are going to have a melon baller on their registries). And then we still have to consider the bullshit of buying a dress, makeup, hair, shoes, accessories, a fat German named Gunther...jesus. Things are looking up on the dress front, though. I just found out that a couple of the dresses that I had my eye on are severely on sale. Basically, if they're still available when I get paid in a week, I can get two dresses for the price of one!

Last week was a whirl and a blur, and now I have no idea what I did before I got a life. Between the Rihanna concert, Name That Tune, the G. Love and Fitz and the Tantrums show and Matt being around that weekend, I was rocking it hard (especially if you take into consideration that I got to meet Fitz and G. Love).

Next week: Auto-Tune Kareoke.

Today's goal: send off three more apps.

I never know what to say in cover letters.

Apartment hunting this weekend and hopefully Sandra Cisneros reading. And writing. Holy shitballs, do I need to write.

In Which I Am Convinced I Am A Cartoon Character

The kids in the computer lab are antsy. They're fourth graders and I can't blame them. There's just under two days of school left. I don't have it in me to discipline them. I don't give a, I don't give a.

I ended up not going to the beach. It was too cold. I did watch Never Say Never. I'm not proud of that, but it wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be.

I wrote yesterday. I wrote today. I hope this keeps up. It feels good. I was reading some of my old papers and assignments and no wonder I got good grades in my english classes; I was good. Really good. I feel like I'm not as good as I used to be. And what if what wowed my undergrad teachers won't wow the bigger dogs and the biggest ones?

But I have to try. I can't be so scared to fail all the time.

I told my mom that I don't write to be read. I don't think that's completely true. I don't think its all false either.

I write to remember.

This week looks far more promising than last week. So what if everybody may or may not hate me? I might have broken the copier. Big whoop. I'm going to see Rihanna tonight, name that tune thursday, G. Love and Fitz and the Tantrums friday and Matt's here on friday too. And school's out. Let's get drunk homies.

There's a power outage at my house. When I went to bed, the power was on. When I woke up there was nothing on but the sun. Fuckin up my christmas.

....and that's lunch.

In Which I Burn Down The Disco.

This week has been full of irritation, job apps, sweating, tampons, and water.

Today is shaping up to be the dumbest day. I had a meeting. Everybody knew there was a meeting, and more importantly, nobody said there wasn't a meeting. Two of my coworkers got permission not to go, but I was going to go anyway because I needed to discuss what the hell was going on with our summer plans. My other dizzy loon of a coworker shows up at the meeting too, but her dumb ass calls my boss lady and asks if we have to stay. I don't stick around for the answer, because I need to print off a report for my program coordinator (and in case she says yes, I can plead ignorance). I come back, and she's gone. I stick around for the meeting. And its stuff that I can actually put to use somewhat; I'm taking notes and cracking jokes. But then my program coordinator comes and pulls me out of the meeting saying boss lady is on the phone for me. Yeah. I get to the phone and she's full of piss and vinegar and whatever else Liberians get full of when they're mad. She angrily tells me to return to school, that they need me. I leave, muttering that the damn building better be on fucking fire. I get there, a whole lot of nothing is going on. I ask what she needed me to do, she tells me "We have people coming into the building tomorrow. We need your help cleaning the school up and hanging posters." Before I can choose what explitiave to heave out, somebody says something about a fire drill. At least that made me laugh.

Ain't that some shit?

So now I am making hardcore plans to go to happy hour as soon as the bell rings and the parent rush dies. I look far too cute today to just waste this on meetings and work.

I haven't cried today, so there's that. I think that I was too busy being pissed off and listening to Fall Out Boy way too loudly.

Well, ok, its settled. No more nights in this weed and thorn infested meadow. Uh-uh, from this day forth, only forward I peadal.

Get the memo, I'm cutting the stings Geppetto!

Who wants to buy me a book of Neruda poems? I'm on a kick.

But my first summer 2011 beach trip is in two days! I need a swimsuit.

Maybe I'll start packing one of these days.

In Which Five Grand: 1. Don't Come For Free and 2. Is A Lot of School Money to Walk Away From

Another work day, another anxiety attack.

That's a lie, I haven't panicked out yet, but give it time. Its only 10. I was doing some time crunching, and I think my fears are coming true: I cannot feasibly complete my hourly requirement in time to qualify for my monetary education award. In order to do so, I would have to work somewhere in the 50ish hours a week range to be done by the first full week in September. Did I mention my contract runs out at the end of July? So that's 4-6ish weeks of free labor. Walking away at the end of my contract seems like the best thing to do, but as expensive as grad school is, $5,000 is way too much money to walk away from (or at the very least, too much to walk away from without a massive twinge of guilt every time I think about it). That leaves me with loans (which I cannot justify, seeing as I'm plugging away at my undergrad loans, trying to get them out of default), or working my way through school. Working my way through is theoretically doable, but I don't want to be one of those students that takes 5 years for a 2.5 year degree because I have to go through one class at a time. In order to finish on any kind of semi-normal timetable, I would need a job that could pay me at least 35k a year (I've been to college, that's baller status as far as being a student is concerned). We'll discuss my hireability issues another day.

Maybe I won't go to grad school, maybe I'll go to trade school instead. Ironic, isn't it? I have to go to trade school in order to get a job that will pay for grad school.

That reminds me, I still need letters of rec.

And this is definitely making me cry now. At least I hide it well. I can blame it on the AC drying my eyes out.

At least I make a cute blonde.

In Which I Consider Getting Help

I'm considering help for my occasional anxiety. I probably won't do it. Not because of the stigma, but I don't like the idea of something being very wrong with me that's not somewhat charming. Other people can have problems. I can't.

I keep hoping that this is the PMS talking, and not the brain. I've been anxious and irritable all week. Usually from the moment I wake up until sometime after I get off work. Monday and Tuesday my excuse was the heat, it was humid and sweltering and I have never been able to take either one of those things very well. Wednesday's anxiety partially came from the internet and my computer not working right, but if we're being completely honest, that's how I woke up. Tuesday night I had a dream and while I couldn't recall all the details, I do recall that it involved Matt leaving me for a lady friend of his (yup, the same one you're thinking of). It left me uneasy, and caused me to question a lot of aspects of our relationship, even though it was a dream I can't remember. I worried it was a sign, or a premonition that something was going to go wrong. I think it comes from a place of not wanting to be emotionally stranded, and above all else, not wanting to be wrong.

Because if I go through all this (this = anxiety on several levels, potential familial alienation, personal compromise) and it turns out poorly, I will feel utterly destroyed (we've discussed my worthiness issues before). The more I think about it, the more I realize I'm sacrificing/investing a lot for the sake of this relationship. And there's nothing wrong with that, every relationship is going to possess those qualities. But I think that's part of the reason why I'm gunning for this engagement so hard. It's because I need proof and reassurance that this is a grown up relationship, and not just somewhere two people are biding their time. However, I'm not forcing anybody into anything. If he can't arrive at the conclusion that I am someone he wants to share his life with on a permanent basis (particularly after nearly three years), then what's the point?

Forgive me for wigging out like that. The magnitude of what I need to do to make this happen just hit me, and that only magnifies the anxiety. I cried a lot on Tuesday. I'm trying not to cry now. The already magnified anxiety is compounded by looking at apartments on craigslist.

But let's continue on with this irratability tangent. I love that I'm fabulous and a double D drag diva, but shit, bitches need to chill. First, there was the flower thing, which didn't turn out as bad as I thought it was going to, but still ever so slightly annoying when it comes up. Now there's the wig thing. Its no secret that 1. I'm lazy , 2. I'm sassy, and 3. I'm a drag queen with ovaries. I have a collection of wigs that I wear frequently (much to the cahgrin of my hairline). Katy's mom works at a beauty supply store and always gives me the hook up on wigs (its like fucking Kryptonite). Lately, Katy has been getting into wigs as well, with a fledgling collection of three. Its fine, but she has this awful habit of telling people when she is wearing them. I feel like I'm old money looking down my nose at the nouveau riche, but lord almighty, that's tacky. But if you want to tell people, your shit is fake, by all means, I am not going to stop you. I, on the other hand, take pains to not have my fake hair look blatantly fake (ie. investing in lace front wigs, which are the most natural looking). If someone can tell anyway, and they ask, fine, I'll cop to it, but I'm not going to run around telling people unprompted. Last night, at Name That Tune, she up and takes her wig off in the bar (in Livonia, aka,whiteywhitetown. She explains to everyone that it ws a wig, and that her mom works at a beauty supply, etc. And then this bitch proceeds to throw me under the wig bus as well. Absolutely mortifying. I'm so irritated.

I guess I can't hold it aginst her if she has no wig ettiquite, but still, how do you do that to someone? Even more so, how do you sit them down and tell them how uncool it is? I wasn't really aware that this was a cultural difference, but apparently it is. Cultural Difference (n.): Something that is common sense to the member of one culture, that doesn't even occur to a member of another culture.

In other news, I think I'm slowly morphing into not-me. I think some of it stems from insecurity and dissatisfaction with my life. Do I need to expound? I don't feel like it. At Katy's Mom's beauty supply, I just found out that they sell colored contacts. I'm equal parts excited and sketched out. I've got a weave consult tomorrow, partially about the wedding and partially about getting my shit together for the summer. I'll get one to try it out, and then from there decide if this is a process I want to continue with.

Also, totally obsessed with Fitz and The Tantrums right now. Makes me want to start a hipster neo funk/soul revival band real bad. We all know I can play a mean tambourine. They'll be here in a couple weeks. I was planning on using that weekend to apartment hunt, but that may have to wait.