In Which My Blisters Refuse to Burst

I'm okay with not having a shoe filled with pus. There are two blisters. One is small, on the ball of my left foot. I can put weight on it,but its still a little sore when I poke at it. The other one is a little bigger than a JFK half dollar, and filled with a liquid that makes me irresistible to the opposite sex (not really). I'm scared to put any weight on it, out of fear I'll burst it and my shoe will fill with pus. I've said pus a lot just mow. Pus is an inaccurate term, I have no idea what's actually in blisters. Let's ask Google. I asked Google, who in turn, asked Wikipedia: "A blister is a small pocket of fluid within the upper layers of the skin, typically caused by forceful rubbing (friction), burning, freezing, chemical exposure or infection. Most blisters are filled with a clear fluid called serum or plasma.[1] However, blisters can be filled with blood (known as blood blisters) or with pus (if they become infected)." I can't wait to evacuate some plasma. The sensation of anything against my foot feels weird, and makes me forget how to navigate on it. It causes me to use muscles that aren't used to being used in this manner. They're already sore. Everyone's getting married or engaged and it makes me feel rabid and unwanted. Especially in the cases where the couple in question has been together for less time than I've been with Matt. There's only one of those right now, but there are two cases sealing with that specific subject matter. One case hits pretty close to home: Other Matt/Matt #2 plans to propose in July. Case #2, a friend from college has been engaged for a month or two, has set a date for next May, a year from now. Needless to say, I have been drinking my feelings semi-incessantly. Needless to say, I've been shopping.

In Which I Get A Life, Break A Computer, Drink Stupid Amounts of Coffee, And Pray For The Price of Cigarettes to Fall

It's been a minute.

It's been several.

I don't even know where to begin, so I won't. It's like hitting fast forward during the talking parts on Glee, you'll have a general idea of what's going on, even if you don't hear what anybody says.

I think I smell Irish cream.

I've been offering counseling/therapy to my friends since my mid/late teens. It was definitely one of those things that I just seemed to fall into. My friends, most of whom I love dearly, seem to have assembled the most crackpot team of problems. My latest case involves a 23 year old with her own set of prescriptions and issues taking on a relationship with a 28 year old suicidal bipolar divorcee (divorcee is a kind term because the paperwork hasn't been pushed though on the divorce). I wish I was making this up. Did I mention he's into BDSM? And that he lives at home? Any of these factors on their own would have been perfectly fine, but here they are combining into the perfect shitstorm. My friend stays, even though she knows she should have bounced a long time ago. Nobody wants anything to do with him, and I do not blame them. He's emotionally abusive, manipulative, has a conviction for hitting his notquiteex-wife, and I have nothing nice to say or believe about him. The best part of believe is the lie, yo.

My face and palm meet daily after the latest weekend update.

I tell her what she needs to hear, and I don't sugarcoat my feelings anymore. I made it explicitly clear that I am not allowed to meet him, because I will not be polite. Instead of a handshake, he will get a square, solid kick in the taint. I don't pull punches. I am too old for bullshit. Well, other people's bullshit. Still working with my own.

Still working with lingering long island hangovers, calluses on my toes, cancelled/sold out concerts, black roots, and a severe lack of left hand oriented jewelry.

The Marshall Mathers LP always makes me nostalgic.

Work is more consistent. Benefits are not.

I like donuts.

In Which I Forget to Buy Cigarettes in Michigan

I got cut another day this week, which brings my hours worked this week to a whopping 21.

I've been applying elsewhere. Cover letters are still terrifying.

My mom knows about my living situation and Sandy's not doing well. Those things are not related.

I've been in a downward spiral as of late, job stuff, boy stuff, me stuff.

Everybody seems to recommend that I get back into fashion. I'm not opposed to this. I'm lookng into an associate's program. Matt recommended that I write about fashion, but that notion bores me. I can swoon over silk, and gag taffeta, but for me fashion is an indulgence of the physical senses, not the mental ones. Besides, all fashion writing is either chicklit24/7, or shoptalk for magazines. I have no desire to start the rock n roll fashion novel genre.

Is it bad that even my engagement ring can come from Target?

Can cover letters double as lit magazine submissions?

In Which I Channel The Lyrical Beastliness of Childish Gambino and Nicki Minaj...For Cover Letters

I have a few leads on jobs that I might love, or at the very least not shaft me on my version of the American Dream.

leads:

1. Red Frog (event planning intern)
2. Museum of Science and Industry (materials assistant)
3. 1800 Flowers (I shit you not, its a work from home position to boot)

As far as my loathing of life outside the bed goes, I have come to the realization that I enjoy leaving the house, even if it is for just a few hours.

Museum studies will get me job offers of every variety, right?

Since I was scared, or stupid or both, I did not apply for grad school. I'm thinking about certificates. I can get a certificate in museum studies, get a job in a major museum and chain smoke wearing cats eye framed glasses and the tightest pencil skirts money can buy.

My cover letters might become things along the lines of profane declarations of my prowress as a writer and actress.

No those are not requrements of the position.

I have a headache because I didn't take my medicine today.

I've been sent home early from work so many times my original schedule seems like a distant memory.

I have plans for reds and blonds. I can make that look all job friendly, right?

My plans are grander than biscuits.

In Which A Shower Makes Makes Me Clean, But Not Better

I'm being talked about in the other room. I knew this. I showered, hoping to clean up as well as kill the time and ignore that this was going on. I returned, cleaner, but still the hot topic. The next best thing would be to escape out the door, overpricedd cigarettes in hand, but both ways out would be through the verbal shooting lines. I'm not listening to music because that is overt ostritch behavior. The next best thing is to fill everyone in on the situation because the typing of the keys is just quiet enough to not draw any attention to where I am but is just loud enough to mute the voices.

I have to be up in the morning but I am so tense and anxious, I assure you that I am not going to bed anytime soon.

I don't like being a problem when I didn't set out to be one.

I stopped typing. I have a perverse obsession with control and eavesdropping. I was interested in knowing what was happening, now I am back to literate ostritch style moves. The silent ambiance is important as anything esle right now. I feel sick. I am cold. There is only one thing i can fix.

Nothing left to say at the moment....perhaps I shall catch up on all the reading I've fallen behind on.

All this time and I still haven't finished The Great Gatsby.

Maybe I'll cut my nails.

Maybe I'll reset the clock.

In Which I Drink and Walk Barefoot on The Beach in October

When I get enough money to buy socks and boots, of course the midwest has a change of heart and has 70 and 80 degree days that last for nearly two weeks.

I walked on the beach yesterday and sat drinking beer in the park. I came home tan.

There was a wedding that had been in the works forever, the wedding of a friend of mine, Jenni. The event was planned for a week from yesterday, aka this coming saturday. While aquiring a backache in Target, I recieve word that the wedding was off. It was apparently his idea and "it had been coming for awhile". Seriously. Who. Does. That. I am so upset for her. If something that makes you cancel a wedding has been "going on for awhile", its not something that magically comes up a week before the wedding. Jesus. I was really looking forward to it.

But on the upside, I don't have to starve myself of the things I enjoy and metabolize poorly (ie bread and booze). Well, at least I can put it off for a few days (gotta be skinny for halloween!).

I've gotten bored with The Great Gatsby, even though its not very long and I'm almost done with it. I've started reading Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk by David Sedaris instead, and that does a way better job of holding my attention. This is mostly because what I've read so far is fucked up.

I need to start Love in the Time of Cholera, too. Its on loan from a friend of a friend in Michigan.

Its time for an overpriced cigarette. I was just checking in.

In Which I Sit In The Dark and Shirk my Responsibilities.

I thought about working today, since I have a job and stuff, but fuck, I am tired. I don't have to worry about hair or nails or fat or thin or if I know enough of certain types of information to pass a test with a B or better. I have to worry about feeding myself and paying roommates back and drinking enough water and laundry and shoes and if my tampon is going to spring a leak and if my mom as actually as cool as she prentends to be. I have to worry about cigarettes because I thought I was getting a deal paying $8.75 before sales tax. I have to worry about what bank i'm going to switch to because my current bank is nowhere near me. Well, its near me, but not near enough to warrant the inconvenience of getting there.

Today I tortured myself by planning my wedding. My engagement ring is on Amazon. $100 for 3 carats of simulated pink sapphire. It's pretty. My save the dates will be Chicago postcards. It all started when I was looking through my facebook friends from high school. I started to play the married or engaged game, and it was all downhill from there. When I threw in married with babies, i had to walk away. It was a scary ass scene. But nobody was crying.

I'm going to teach myself to sew. I'm tired of thinking of my body as weird because I am on the cusp of two size categories.

I meant to get some ramen, because last night I had Ben and Jerry's for dinner. Periods rock. Tonight, I promise to eat real food, Or at least try.

I promise to be in touch.

I'm pretty sure I'm still in love. We go on old married dates, and its cute.