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.

In Which $10 Cigarettes Taste No Different Than $6 Ones.

I'm in Chicago. I'm kind of employed, and I need to find the fuck out of my social security card. I remembered that I picked it up at home, but I have no idea where I packed it up.

I need shelves and hangers and more money.

The wedding came. It went. Nobody died. I killed nobody. It was lovely. There were some moments of beauty, and fun and adulthood, moments of awkwardness, and of shameless abandon. These might have been broght to you by the letter Whiskey.

Ricky MArtin is singing "la Vida Loca" on the TV in our room.

I'm a mess. I am also not used to using shared pronouns. I hate feeling like I have to do all these things so nobody's disappointed in me. It's already too late to not disappoint my best friend.

If I think about it anymore, I might cry. Crying is not on my list of things to do.

In Which I Simotaneously Adore and Abhor Popular Music/Culture

That's all I'm going to say about that.

Watching the VMAs I missed two days ago. I love Nicki Minaj, but she looks like a chic hoodrat Gaga.

Wrap your mind around that shit.

I got green contact lenses. My hair up until last week was blonde. Now its reddish blonde. Part of me feels guilty as hell for buying into this eurocentric beauty myth. Part of me loves the way I look with green eyes. I'm wearing them to North Coast and Heather's wedding. I might pick up some hazel ones before I go. Its also kind of upsetting that it takes me adopting features that don't come to me naturally for me to start liking the way I look. That and a haircut.

Issues, party of one? Follow me, your table is ready.

Did I mention I'm going? I'm going. 26 is gunning for me. We have an apartment. I have a job interview friday. We might get a cat. My mother has explicity disapproved of me moving in with Matt. I have explicitly lied. I'm excited now. And scared. And ready to scour the south side for someone who won't fuck my hair up.

I have to pee.

I love you. And you. And you too, the geek in the back with the highwater pants.

In Which I Get Cold Feet From The Air Conditioner

Its been a retarded couple of weeks. I wasn't paid for a week, bitches tried to step to me like they knew about the brokeness. Bitches who make twice as much per check as I do and don't pay rent. I have no sympathy.

I also found out that my desired program does enrollments on a quarterly basis, and if I wanted to start in January, I'd have to have my stuff in my October 15. This is something to consider, beacuse it means I wouldn't be running around like a chicken with Down's Syndrome for August and September. As it really hits me that the fall application deadline is FRIDAY, it has also come to my attention that the application process is way more involved than I originally anticipated. I started pulling stuff for my portfolio yesterday. I didn't realize they needed two letters of rec. And I still need to vomit out a 300 word starement of purpose. But if I act like i want to meet the fall deadline, I might actually meet the winter one.

I realized that I don't need to pack as much as I thought. I'm feeling good. Some of my recent writing doesn't suck that much either.

As I tell the kids at my school: that's a beautiful dream. Hold on to that.

I've expanded into feathers. Right now they're more couture than ready to wear, but we'll see what I can do.

I might truly go blonde this weekend. We have the technology.

And now, to herd some children.

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.

In Which I Guess I'm Doing This

This is the day your life will surely change.

I grew the balls I needed to say what I’m thinking. However, I still need to pick the heck out of my nose. Can’t do that in public, even I think that’s rude.

Tonight is name that tune. Seriously I’m so excited because it’s the one thing I can honestly and effortlessly excel at. My obsession has taken itself to another level though: I practice. I scan the radio and I practice, practice, practice. My classic rock (my worst genre) is improving. I need to brush up on my Weird Al as well. I wish I had taken school as seriously as I currently take music trivia at the bar. I will always take drinking and popular culture more seriously. It’s what I do.

My car needs coolant. I’m trying to hold out because I’m poorish, but I don’t know if I can. It was a pretty sketch drive to work this morning. The temp light nearly came on. It nearly dinged at me. I need gas and the gas by school is expensive. The station I like is all kinds of tardy to the Gas Under Four Dollars Party (the gas is too damn high?)

I can't get this pressure point outta my head. I pitched the proposal, laden with all kinds of hints. Now how do I pitch pink sapphires?

In Which I Acquire Things to Put on My Resume

I have skills. I have hair anxiety. I have obsessions.

Bitches be jocking my style. I should be flattered, but instead I'm just annoyed. I'm not sure what my fixation with standing out is, but I own it. Thses 5" platform heels are proof. These flower barrettes are proof. This iTunes library is proof. So is the fact that I can't seem to drive a car that doesn't have a tape deck. Maybe I should give away my cache of flowers (even though it would break my heart to do so, because its pretty much my signature) and move on to the next thing (even though I have no idea wtf it would be...bracelets, or fishnets perhaps?). Its like the Spice Girls: Sporty (Mel C) can't suddenly start rocking animal prints (a la Scary/Mel B), or dresses no longer than a bandana (basically any other spice who is not Sporty, but Posh/Victoria in particular). Its...wrong somehow. Ugh, maybe I'll just ride it out and hope my friend gets bored with it.

I helped write/edit a grant. We got the money. You better believe I am taking full credit for this...on my resume. I didn't write the whole thing, but I edited the whole thing, rewrote entire portions, and did extra research. Dammit, that's counting for something. I write letters that everyone seems to adore, even though I'm not exactly sure why. I just follow templates and use simple, direct language. However, this is not a skill everyone seems to possess. Go figure.

I still need to work on writing samples.

My hair is becoming a source of insecurity and anxiety for me. It's a weird length, a weird color, and we won't even start on texture issues (oh, look! I'm a real black girl after all!). I want to grow it out, because I'm prettier with long hair, but I feel more fierce with short hair. This midlength business is ridiculous. And not to mention that all my friends have fabulous hair/haircuts, just adds to the anxiety. Maybe I will go ahead and cut it, and then dye it for my birthday. There. Happy comprimise. And so begins the cut fretting. I think I'll cut the top down, leave the back as it is, and cut the sides. Hawk-licious. June. June June June. It'll be on. Yes. I feel better. And It'll be fierce as an all over blonde. Now I just need to find a place that can cut me the way I concieve. My regular hairdresser isn't going to cut it, I think. (no pun or disrespect intended)

See the cat? See the cradle?

Now, who's hungry?

In Which Nobody Needs To Know I'm Feeling Higher And Higher

Sometimes I quit smoking . Sometimes I start back up again.

Sometimes I drive to Chicago. Sometimes I drive back again.

Sometimes I blame it on the rain. Torrential downpours at night in a 10 year old car are not my forte. It's my boyfriend's fault. I blame it on love.

It's weird to think that I'll be going to grad school in the fall. It's also weird to think that I'm paying on student loans. Let's compound that with the fact that I'm probably going to move in with Matt when I go.

It doesn't seem real to me. That might be a coping mechanism though. I either obsess to the point of anxiety, or I ignore it until it refuses to be set aside. Either way, I hyperventilate. I got the following text at 1:17 this morning (EDT): "Side note, when are you mentioning to your mom your plans to move with me into Chicago?" The wording's not perfect but the idea is clear.

I have yet to respond.

I keep trying to reconcile this whole moving thing with this whole conservative mother thing and I only keep coming up with a sitcom/bad ABC Family/Lifetime movie thing: "fake" engagement. That'll at least legitimize things somewhat with my mother, and that'll at least pacify me from going full blown Beyonce on a motherfucker. We'll run this by him and see how it goes, minus the Beyonce part.

I know I keep saying that, but the objective is to actually mean it one day.

Work is work. I am in full blown don't give a fuck mode, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to quit when the money does. After this week, I'll be just shy of halfway done with my hours. I don't think this money's going to pan out. I cry/panic about this once a week. Five thousand dollars is way too much money to walk away from, especially for an aspiring academic. But there's gotta be some kind of appeal process or something, right? I can't be that screwed yet, right?

Right?

Rage aginst the inefficient machine.

In other news, I have got to be hireable. Here's why: I just saw a job posting from Northwestern (my academic hard-on of choice as of late) for a job dealing with (not making this part up, either)..."Post-Bachelorette Studies". I assume they meant "baccalaureate". Seriously. I read another letter this morning, sent to my school by McDonald's. Two glaring errors and I realized I had no desire whatsoever to work with them. The bitchy lady on the phone didn't help things either. Did I mention this was at the corporate level?

This was at the corporate level.

I really need to get this writing sample party going. So I can submit my application then panic and obsess and panic and obsess.

And its only noon.

In Which Time Gets Away From Me Sometimes

Its always fun to worry.

I'm pretending to work, and I assure you that I am not as lazy as my posts seem to indicate. My laptop (on loan from my mom) has taken a shit on me, which puts me back with Dr. Strangelove, my beeping timebomb of a Franken-laptop. This means typing and thought more complete and comprehensive than "lol" is more work than it should be.

So here I am, at work, faking the funk until I leave for lunch and or my boss gets here.

I checked out of this job quite a piece ago, but shit, I need the money and the benefits and the letters of rec I ought to squeeze out of every person I have ever worked with. Well, almost every person I have worked with. Something's better than nothing at all.

Things are kind of looking up, as far as some other things go, mostly wedding related.

My boyfriend confuses me. I'll go into detail soon enough, mostly when I get another time to breathe and eat.

I went to see The Suicide Machines on Saturday. I met a million people, got hit on twice and even saw somebody I knew. Those are my favorite kind of nights, full of unexpected diva status (the good kind).

And on that note, I'm getting into some sun.