a timeline:

8:34 a.m. I awake, groggy. lots of drinking the night before at ranalli's. there was a drinking game with the show 24. slept about six and a half hours. the first things I think of make me groan.

9:17 a.m. running to catch the train that is crawling overheard on the tracks. I make the train, but am out of breath. I try to read Madame Bovary, but my head spins and I feel a wave of nausea so strong, I consider getting off the train and standing over a garbage bin for a while. But I am late, and have no time for possibly vomiting on cta property.

9:57 a.m. I become one of those customers at Starbucks that I have always hated: I ask for a piece of marble loaf "that isn't exposed to the air."

10:05 a.m. I arrive at Diane's out of breath, laden with sbux and not really ready to work, but oh well, such is life.

11:59 a.m. I leave Diane's slightly annoyed, late for Siena. We have accomplished a lot, but there is a crick in my neck, a migraine is threatening to surface, and whenever I point out things that Diane's done wrong, she somehow finds a way to blame it on me. such is my lot in life.

12:05 p.m. Kim sighs when I arrive. she seems to finally be getting used to my being late, at least, you'd think so.

105-2:35 p.m. Walter arrives and we debrief about the previous evening's racous events. I make possibly the best sandwich on the planet and eat it into extinction with satisfying noises and praises.

3:34 p.m. A man seems to find the idea of pulling the change game on me a sure thing, but unfortunately for him, even though I am hungover, my ability to work on auto-pilot and my peripheral observational skills are still functioning at optimum capacity, so he leaves after a yelling match with no extra money and calls me a bitch.

3:40 p.m. I count the drawer and it is neither over nor under, which means that guy was a total asshole.

4:42 p.m. Rob comes in and distracts me from my work in the best way possible: stories told and shared brownie and doughnut. I sit in the front and put my feet up on a stool.

6:37 p.m. Kim calls to check in and I am still way behind on the closing tasks, as usual. She's opening tomorrow so everything has to be p-e-r-f-e-c-t.

7: 15 p.m. I am late for meeting Kim. of course. one of our customers has comped us tickets to his neo-classical concert. Even though it is cold, we go. Even though Kim is mad at me for a dozen things I've done wrong lately, we go. Even though the idea of spending two hours with someone whose business I just closed with the utmost anxiety via perfectionism that makes me want to wither and die, we go.

9:23 p.m. the concert was fantastic. Mr. Burns led the group in the bears fighting song as a suprise. the reception in the lobby is decent, we half hug and say our greetings. Kim eats a lot of desserts. I people watch. When I realize what time it is, I panic. I'm supposed to be at school, meeting my new friend dustin, and typing a journal entry for this site. instead I'm nibbling on mushroom and onion quesidillas made by fox & obel and watching my boss eat her third mini puff pastry with powdered sugar on top that floats in the air and lands on her five hundred dollar cashmere sweater, looking like lint or worse yet, dandruff.

9:48 p.m. I meet dustin in the depaul center. He is accompanied by a classmate whose presence irks me somewhat, but not enough to make me ignore him. he's not coming with us, which is good.

10:22 p.m. dustin and I stop off at dunkin' donuts at clark and division for a "pick-me-up" in the form of a donut called "glazed stick." I love words and descriptions of things. we are instant friends and we dissolve together.

11:04 p.m. we enter our destination: neo. dustin wants to get to know the place, and I seem to know about it, since it's down the street from siena.

11:05p.m. -1:36 a.m. after a couple drinks, dustin's ready for the dance floor. it takes one more and some encouragement from a weirdo named elvis for me to join him. I actually dance and don't care how I must look to people. but I cannot stop people watching. of course.

1:37 a.m. after elvis leaves our table and goes back out to the dance floor, we make a hasty exit, but not before writing him a note on a napkin, "it was nice to meet you. thanks for the stories. d + c." not sure if dustin finds this odd or cool, but he assesses this and then we depart.

1:46 a.m. dustin and I are walking to the train and he is letting me lavish him with words and laughing heartily at my wisdom and humor. it is fun to talk to him.

2:07 a.m. the dominick's is closed. the train beckons. we stand on the platform and talk about whether or not life is purely destiny or free will or some combination of the two. my brain, which is buzzed and still operating as high speed peripheral observatory realizes that the only other person standing two feet away from us on the platform was just dancing at neo with us. weird.

2:23 a.m. dustin has disembarked at belmont. after he leaves, the man who was also at neo comes over and begins to strike up an awkward conversation with me in which he introduces himself and then asks what sort of music gets played at neo on wednesday. I don't know the answer.

2:37 a.m. a man sitting on the train car stands to exit at granville. my telescope turns to view this movement and he nods at me and then gestures towards the doors of the train as if to say, join me. I smile and turn my head to the window. I am a little freaked. what the fuck?!

2:40 a.m. I get off the train and wave goodbye to edward, the fellow neo dancer. he waves back.

2:40:09 a.m. dustin texts me, "hit that shit."

2:40:14 a.m. I literally, actually: lol.

2:45 a.m. I enter my apartment to find it slightly rearranged: a carbon monoxide detector was installed in my apartment today. someone came into my apartment to plug a carbon monoxide detector into an outlet on the wall.

3:13 a.m. I want to collapse into sleep, but my promise to write lures me to my laptop. I begin typing this here entry.

4:01 a.m. I am turning off the light. good night.

yes, the night escaped me

as I tunnelled through all that I know in my head, swimming past those deep thoughts and assurances, pushing them away like the water that must be moved so that you can proceed forward,

the night escaped me.

and inside the bubble that I created there was warmth, more warmth than I have felt in months, so much that it nearly suffocated me and I could hardly sleep for it laid over me in layers like gauze, my lips went dry and my throat seized up.

I should be exhausted now, covered in a layer of fine dust and grime, for I was unfathomably reckless and careless of what will come, what will happen next, indulging only in what was before me, and it was perfect. if this is living in the moment, I want to be there as much as possible.

everything seems so easy now, so simple, but I know there is no solution to this problem [a deep-seated frustration with people that leads me to wonder why bother]; especially not in his arms. but I went looking in there anyway, perhaps because they were open to me and I needed love.

also, I wonder if I am ready to believe him. If I am not, then maybe this is all a waste of time.

but what else are we here to do other than to waste time?

"newly baffled strangers"

the joy that rises in my chest from the company I've been keeping has been so thoroughly fulfilling that I feel I might explode from happiness. it seems strange to realize that all these wonderful people have been surrounding me for a while and it is only now that I have awoken to their presence and personalities and I find them to be such tremendous people that I almost quaver in their presence, as a fear trembles over me that I might somehow ruin it all if I say the wrong thing.

my new year's resolution has been the driving force behind this, and yet, it had already begun some months ago with the inclusion of annie and walter (two amazing and incredibly warm and fuzzy coffee shop customers) into my social bosom. all day I wondered how I could wait until Monday to speak with annie again. today I had a sushi lunch with walter and it was like spending time with someone who knows you so well that you don't even have to talk, yet there is always something to say, no matter how many times I hang out with him. then there is my coworker val, who has the kind of laugh that makes you yearn to say funny things just so you can hear it again and again. her delight in me gives me great pleasure, and I can only hope she feels my appreciation of her good values, sense of humor and kindness in each of my expressions to her. we went to see a movie and I spoiled her with peanut butter hershey's kisses and hot cheetos, and we reveled in our own secret jokes.

yesterday I got to hang out with beth, who I realize I haven't seen in many months, and her husband ed, and their pets, and I literally found myself sitting back in one of their newly accquired dining room chairs and simply being in the moment, resting, completely content, a feeling I have not had in some time.

my conversation with them is awkward, and sometimes intimate, as if they can see past my physical self and right into my innermost thoughts, and I know this is just a symptom of my loneliness, which I had not realized plagued me so deeply until today.

a man who comes to the coffeeshop quite often who happens to physically resemble my old roommate greg: entered and I engaged him in the most gregarious and whooping kind of statements that he, quite frankly, seemed baffled by, because there is no history of that between us, just polite and perfunctory exchanges, and it occurred to me that I miss my old roommate greg quite a lot, a lot more than I would ever admit as an answer if that question was posed. of course, when I am no longer forced to endure his presence, I find myself fondly recalling the moments that were good between us and feel forlorn enough to wonder if it really was so bad after all.

[can you tell I am reading a classic novel?]

the return of olive oyl.

as a kid, one of the few verbal barbs that the children managed to muster up in an effort to make fun of me was calling me "Olive Oyl!" And really that was probably one of the most perfect things to call me, since I was indeed as skinny as a rail, tall, with big feet while being slightly and awkardly attractive.

in high school, gentle curves began to take over my body and I wasn't the tallest girl around and no one was smart enough to call me names (they simply resorted to snickering or laughing in my presence).

after high school, my body slowly expanded outward. in my lack of knowledge about nutrition, I prepared meals that would have nicely fed someone vying for a spot on the football team, carbs, carbs, and more carbs, followed closely with protein and sweets.

lately, people have been wondering how I've gotten so skinny again (or in some cases, they forgot how big I'd gotten). somehow, I can only explain that my best diet seems to be breaking up with a boyfriend.

how else can I explain that not even a year ago I gave away all my size 10 pants because I have given up on ever wearing them again! how else I can explain the struggle and frustration of trying to lose weight and not buying new pants that were a size 16, and I spent an entire year wearing two pairs of corduroys my mom bought me at Wal-mart, one pair was green and one was brown and I wore them until they literally fell apart. how else can I explain that it was like a constant agony that went everywhere with me? how else could I explain how those forty pounds had crept into my skin and stayed there, clinging to my bones for dear life and no matter how hard I tried, nothing worked.

part of the answer lies in simply not having a boyfriend. eric did most of the cooking. all the food we ate must have suited him perfectly or he had the world's most amazing metabolism, because as I began to expand, even if I tried not to eat as much as him, he stayed the same. but we had the worst combination: we always ate late. we often ate out. and he was an enormous carnivore, and his love for meat and cheese and alcohol was too alluring to refuse on a regular basis. we were two steps removed from the sin of gluttony and happier for it. some of my best memories of us involve food.

alone, I am not one to cook for myself. I can't really afford to eat out as often. I eat a lot at the coffeeshop, which is one of the reasons I find it hard to quit working there. and I tend to eat dinner well before nine (which was our usual dining hour), so I don't go to bed with a stomach full of food.

so it is not like I am actively "dieting." it is not like I am going out of my way not to eat. In fact, I love food and eating. what I am going to eat for my next meal is--sadly--a constant mental occupation (when I'm not thinking about boys, of course).

yet, I've been getting the concerned lectures about my appearance. I look skinny. and when I say that it is not really something I am trying to do, but it would be nice if I lost ten to twelve more pounds, the people get aghast. angry. worried.

This is how it began last time I was skinny, right before the rumors spread of me being anorexic (me, not eating? that was hilarious!) or bulimic (a little more plausible, but still not true) and finally, that I was ill from some kind of disease that was forcing me to shed weight rapidly (people just have way too much time on their hands).

And for some reason, the whole height weight proportion thing seems to be a completely useless factoid, because I simply appear too skinny at my proposed ideal weight (at 5'11" & 3/4, I should weigh between 155-160). but I don't feel too skinny at my ideal weight. maybe a little bit in my chest: my collarbones and ribcage seem more prounounced and visible under my skin and my breasts are smaller. no one ever says, wow look at that sexy sternum!

I've noticed this before, and it is still a confounding thing: no one ever asks me if I feel okay being skinny. everyone just assumes that I am hurting myself. no one ever assumes I feel terrible being fat. I can't walk up stairs without going out of breath, can't run for the bus without huffing and puffing; I feel heavy and bloated and weighted down. not to mention all the damage it does mentally when I look at myself and do not like what I see. just because most people in my life have gotten used to me being thirty to forty pounds overweight doesn't mean I ought to stay that way.

it just amuses me that people talk about weight so much and yet everything they say to me is completely backwards. I lost twenty pounds doing the cleanse. that was in MAY. that was eight months ago. At the time, it seemed scary and weird and I'll admit, I was a little perturbed by the whole thing too. since the cleanse, I lost another ten pounds. that I did not gain any weight back was thanks to my own delight over being thinner and my best diet plan (the breakup) as well as eating better and taking yoga class. and then what do people who love me have to say about it? are you okay, Christine? are you you taking this hard time out on your body?

maybe I should get into lady bodybuilding and then people will leave me alone.

the algidity

i am cold. and beyond that, it is cold everywhere I am. in my apartment by the lake, the drafts are ceaseless. the boiler has spasmed into near death, the pipes leading to the radiator are frozen inside the walls of the building, inaccessible and leaving my studio inhospitable; it is almost unbearable.

at siena, the reprimand has been sixty four degrees at the most, nothing higher, for it is a waste of heat, and most people wear their coats while inside, I must simply wear more layers, and fret not over the blasts of air that accompany our customers inside.

my knit hat has become my constant companion and somehow it has turned from perfectly suitable to absolutely unseemly. and yet, I cannot bear to remove it from my head, for even my scalp cringes at the hint of cold.

aside from these rather obvious physical factors, there is something else. why I cannot find warmth has more to do with me than winter's arrival. even if the pipes weren't frozen, there is an icy grip along my aura that has me numb and bitter. and every time I think I find the emotional culprit, another blast of frigid air comes to disturb what feels like my defrosting and I realize that being cold has become a problem.

constantly shivering, trembling with goosebumps, layered in scarves and knits and gloves and wool, my hands are still cold to the touch, my cheeks still pink, my neck burning, but I have no fever. I used to be constantly aglow, a braggart in my lack of need for winter bundlings, for items and accessories, I was always warm and burning myself up, a raging fire of angst and wrath.

my attempts at warmth seem absurd and over the top: two blankets, two sweaters, a hat and a pair of gloves to bed, socks and slippers, pajamas of warmth and comfort over those of silk and fashion, and sometimes, I sit in my apartment for a while fully clothed in all of my outdoor clothes, my bundlings, my coat, my hat, my stuff, and I shudder at the removal of each piece and every exposure of my skin to the chilled air.

when my laptop's battery sputters out, I am delighted, because in its efforts to recharge, while being plugged into an electrical socket, it is like an electric blanket, and I watch movies with it on my lap and it warms me.

red wine warms me from the inside and yet, there is not enough to stoke the fires in my belly, because it is so interminably cold.

someone to sleep in my big bed with me and if not someone, than the bulk of the down comforter covered in heavy corduroy makes a fine substitute, and it makes my eyes bleary to know that I miss the feel of him against my sleeping form. how can you miss something that you weren't even awake and concious for? this is what it is like to be in love, it runs that deep, you see, that your body longs more for something that your mind cannot explain away.

and in that grip of cold, a crystalline sense of clarity emerges, for all that has been murky and swarming is stopped and no longer able to dissolve me.

"just remember you called it all bullshit"

the opportunity to pay back a man with the same pain some other man has doled out to me is tempting. tempting in a slightly fantastical, probably won't really happen way, but still, an element of the appealling is there. seen from this vantage, his face appearing before mine at the most inopportune times, his subtle hints awkwardly inserted obtusely into the conversation, his specific references to our innocuous history and: I see how I must have looked to the man of the year.

of course, I will never know for sure, because he remains an enigma, swallowed by his own sense of standards which are are once damning and revealing. his loathing of drama surely is a cover for something else, especially since he has generated mostly all of what drama existed between us.

so I have willed him out of my mind, cast off into the pile of things I will never understand, but time passing is really the only solution to him, and really most things.

as for this other man: the snow swirled around us lazily, and we talked of things benign and ridiculous and I wondered why I had invited him along on my usually quiet walk, and his words tumbled out in a nervous pile of nonsense. it is refreshing to be liked. but that is a dangerous road to travel, one that I have stumbled down before and taken the turn of my life that has led me here, to this desolation. so I know the promise I need to heed is waiting to be spoken, but I wonder if I truly have no feelings for him, since of course, in his absence (some five weeks or more) I wondered where he was and if I had laughed him away for good.

my brain is addled by such hysterics, and I wonder if what really rattles me is that the man of the year has pegged me and I am just too angry to agree. but I know I saved all my soap operish meanderings and gave them others, and only presented him with the best of myself.

in case you were wondering: when is it going to feel right?

since it's still tuesday to me...

spent; trying to stop relying on my peripheral vision, my furtive glances in which I quickly gather information and then respond accordingly well ahead of time.

it is just such a habit. tonight, on my way home, in the deserted streets: I saw a man in a wheelchair heading in my direction and a block away. my feet directed me to the curb and I walked it until he passed. worried that this might offend him, that I might find him objectionable somehow, but really it is just a simple matter of wanting to stay out of everyone's way and being as conscientious as possible. and being nice, deep down it is always about being nice.

so I let him pass without glancing at him, because I had already embarassed myself about the advanced over cautious move to the curb and I didn't want him to be staring up at me waiting for my eyes to fall in his lap, travel about his dark clothes, and wander over his face.

and really, I question whether it is because I want to avoid being in the way or because I want to avoid everything and everyone at all cost. I am content to avoid all possible awkward situations, perhaps because as a person nearing thirty, I feel I've had my fair share of them and I'd like to pick and choose from now on, thank you very much.

[and mostly, I am ashamed because in front of her, before I could even try to conceal that she has ever meant anything to me, I called my sister doll, a thing I have never called her.]

some things to remember

it's time to eat crow. take out the feet that are stuck in my mouth. whatever else they say about apologizing for being an asshole.

Drew came with the sun and cleared the clouds. even in the first winter's snow. his ability to see past my facades is incredible, and just what I needed, a dose of uber-reality, a line of words that have nothing to do with anything but the truth.

what is the truth? it lies in the answer (which is more of a pun than you realize) to this question: Are you living a life you love?

and then when it is a no, all there is to do is to do something.

so here I sit, admitting to the people that there are things to admit to, causing, perpetuating, being responsible for, etc, etc, all the things that sound like they don't really matter, but in the end, what does really matter...

his line floated above all else, and it wasn't like I even wanted to be reminded that it really is this simple. I priggishly thanked him for his unsolicited advice. And then I took it.

anyway, the fog is lifting, the sky is visible, and all there is to do is regain the footing I once held. I always think it is more sure than it really is and it seems like it hardly takes anything to make me topple.

even if it always feels like I am failing, falling, a tremble of all things unfair in the world, there is something in me that is always pressing upwards to some surface to burst into breath and swallow gulpfuls of air. my eyes open and I wonder how I got to where I had been and I try to shake some sense into myself, I say, Self, it doesn't have to be so hard.

and somewhere, my Self smiles, and it is eerie, because I know there is destruction in that smile, there is my enemy, it is inside me, it is my undying need to be right, to be preserved as a righteous soul, a tortured victim, and defiant, hell that smile is all about defiance as it's best,

and I try not to cringe

while sorting out the messes that part of me has made.

I have renewed my quest to write everyday. And part of me longs for this stilted voice that is at once complicated and a mix of fucked up diction and syntax and all kinds of wrongness grammar-wise, so I am going to see how long I can stand writing this way. maybe you can't stand it either. I wish someone would tell me what they really think of my writing. sometimes I know it is not bad, but sometimes I wish someone would just say, you fucking suck, Christine, you ought to do something better with your time.

anyway, let me at least give you an image to fondle:

ennui: open mic night: a cafe crowded with tables and chairs and people sitting alone (unless, of course, you do not count laptops as a significant other--she sleeps in my bed and is the first thing I turn to when I come home), the smell of bread grilling is in the air, the walls are a putrid color of green that probably looked better on the paint card and now just looks like a deep mashed pea green, and I sit with my back to the first person at the open mic night (which is only three weeks old) who has been any good.

He has a harmonica, a guitar and a fucking passion beyond what his simple name conveys--how sad to simply be a Joe--and I feel bad for him, that he has the talent, and the fucking gumption, but he wears glasses and upon first glance, he's a bit of a nerd, and it was a little shocking when that first loud chord crashed out of his hands, and that first time his foot stomped in beat with the music (at times it created a sense of percussion, that stomping), and he was probably the only guy who has ever sweated from the simple aerobics of playing his stuff; the other open mic-ers simply sway and swoon in their mopiness...and I want to love Joe forever simply because he is the best of the worst and because he has surprised me. And because no matter what, Joe will never stop doing this and turn to the mope style even though it is far more popular and that makes me glad.

no one else can actually stand his stuff because it's a little bit loud and a little bit unexpected, and when someone surprises you, it's easier to gawk than express some kind of joy in another person's ability to do something better than you expected them to. Or maybe they simply don't approve of the harmonica, the loud guitar chords, the jubilance; after all, it is a coffeeshop and those mopers who sing of loves lost and glances missed, they know what they are talking about and they say it so sadly and simply. and they have so many more friends than Joe, who has come alone, and these friends are cheering and happy on the sidelines while they wait their turn to sing and and mope before the microphone. And part of me really wishes to go home, but the heat has been broken in my apartment since Friday and it isn't coming back on today.

yes, that is the kind of life I have now.

also; today I spent an hour with a three year old, which can probably be my new cure for the mopes. his little face was delighted to see mine. and we invented a new game, cross country stroller skiing, in which I push his stroller through all the snow and running, twist and turn the stroller while screaming with a false sense of panic and he has the kind of unrelentless laughter that is free from the affectations he's already developed as a three year old. And in classic little kid mania, he developed an unsatiable urge to cross country stroller ski over and over again, which is the only true compliment in life. I mean really. repetition of anything from a young, undiscerning, easily distracted person is how you know you're going in the right direction.

when I can't bear being myself

[walter doesn’t trust me. no surprise. I can see below the surface, despite the muck, and it is cold and dark. paranoia is an apt term for me, and yet, largely, it has slowly seeped out of my system, to be replaced by some sort of self assurance. people are weird. and most people suck. I finally figured out that--for the most part--their oddness has little to do with me. and I can read most people like a book. especially now. especially when there’s no me involved, when we’ve just met, when our connections have nothing to do with me. I used to wonder why everyone looked at me so much until someone simply answered that maybe it was because I was looking at them so much.]

they eye me but do not greet me. they sit next to me but say nothing. I try laughing at all of their jokes, but it doesn't even work. their dislike of me emanates from them. I wonder if it is him they do not like, because it seems like they tolerate him, and perhaps I am just not around enough, not regular enough to be trusted. And like the curious eyes that meet mine, I stare at them without a word of greeting, waiting for them to acknowledge me, wondering if they even remember me, for it is a given that I know them, I know them intimately and we have never even had a conversation, I know their last names, I know their livelihoods, I know the stories about them. So I sit and stare at their cold eyes, wondering why they do not say hello, wondering if it is because I do not say hello.

I see the fibers tangled in the relationships far beyond what walter sees. I see every movement, hear every word, I am constantly filtering the information, even when I don’t want to be constantly observing, even when I wish I could turn it off, make it stop, I still see her finger trace the tattoo on his arm, and a hush falls over the bar while time stands still for that finger and the tattoo, just out of sight of his girlfriend, who sits stoically on his other side, for she has won him but it is tenuous and she knows it, and she feels that finger and knows its presence intimately and wonders how she ever let it become such an issue, but it’s too late to pretend that it doesn’t matter and now they live together (the finger and the tattoo), and she lives alone, wondering if she’s really won.

I want to believe walter that it is just my paranoia, I want to believe him, drew, that I cause my world, but I know the truth, I see the stories, they fit like blocks in my mind, so perfectly that I cannot listen to anything but what I know is true. schaffer hates me. I ridiculed his sleeping habits once and he has never forgiven me for it. I apologized and he waved it off. I have been branded as un-fun. haughty. un-cool. schaffer has heard about other things from billy, perhaps, things that make me seem weird. and now I am there, in their space, with their friend. it is too much. schaffer looks at me and says, oh, walter! and then, to cover his tracks, he says, the patriots are gonna lose (or something equally lame). this does not match his look. I’ve seen that look before. I’ll see it again.

[the diminishing paranoia whispers that I ought to learn how to read lips. for then I would really have the proof. and just in case, when I speak of them I cover my mouth with my glass of beer. just in case.]

the other things I see are well below the surface: erin posseses billy. billy loves megan. megan loves billy. tracy loves billy. billy is bound to erin. erin doesn’t know who I am but I’m one girl too many at the bar. I’m a girl she doesn’t know. so she saunters over to figure me out. walter and I tell her that megan keeps calling me laura. at the first lull, erin tells megan. megan is embarassed. erin has found a crack in the veneer of the beautiful girl that billy is in love with. erin doesn’t know it, but I will hate her forever for doing that. I will always love megan more because she is beautiful and kind and erin is fat, and ugly and mean.

every other time I go there, I have a good time because this mix of unhappy souls is absent. when they are present, I wish to never return until I am coaxed back by walter, who swears that they are simply not what I believe they are. he doesn’t trust my instincts for stories and I don’t believe him.

"sometimes you win, sometimes you lose"

It's just that simple. Okay, so right now I'm in the losing part. I feel like a loser. All the signs point to: yes, indeed, you are.

The Man of Year? Not interested. I totally read him wrong. A fucking mistake I can chalk up under the experience category. Alongside all those other "mistakes" that I've endured. Thankfully, I didn't endure his confusing-ness very long. Just three months. Not bad. The last time it took me three and a half years to figure out the guy wasn't interested. I figure this means I'm bound to be single for the next three years and three months, due to cutting short this potential mess of a relationship.

...which is the perfect amount of time to complete my graduate degree! But thanks to my own ineptitude, (read: loser), I can't go to the one school I've been determined for a while to attend, because I was too busy doing other things to find out when the deadline was. I doubt I could have somehow managed to squeeze in practicing for the GRE on top of applying for the Iowa Writers Workshop and finishing my last semester as sucessfully as I did (all A's, again. see, sometimes you win...).

I'm sure some pysch student could simply say it was a matter of where my priorities were and if I really wanted to go, blah blah blah. Maybe it's no coincidence. Maybe it's not. I don't know. I won't know for sure 'til the years go by and I realize that my capricious error resulted in something else far better.

in the meantime, something has happened between Marilyn and I that has ripped me apart from her. It was a very benign event, I suppose, but it was tangled up with other things, and perhaps, truly, it was just the straw that broke the camel's back. I'd rather not go into the whole complicated affair, but suffice it to say, I feel like a total loser. I know that what I'm doing is okay and completely reasonable, but another part of me knows how much she depends on me and wants me around. the truth is, I'm more upset about the potential loss of her friendship than anything else going on in my life right now. things between us were going so well, and for the first time in a long time, I felt understood and cherished as a person. it is a very hard thing and eventually it will be resolved, but for the time being, it is a constant throb that accompanies me everywhere.

I went grocery shopping for the first time since I've moved into my apartment (yes, three whole months have gone by) and when I went to put some things in the fridge, I was reminded via my offended olfactory equipment that I still had leftovers from Thanksgiving in there! Due to the aforementioned terrible state of busy-ness, I had neither the time nor gumption to remove these things before. So I went through the fridge and threw all of it away, even the Mother's brand white bread that hadn't turned moldy at all, due to, what I can only presume, was a freakishly high level of preservatives [shudder].

As I threw the stinking mess away, I realized it was probably high time to clean the fridge, which I hadn't done in the first place. And by first place, I mean when I moved in. I'd always assumed I would do it someday, soon, which, of course, is a phrase I tend to reserve for things I know I'd never do, even if there was _nothing_ to do.

enter feelings of loserdom. It is a weird thing to be a single person. I have no inclination towards cooking, therefore no pots or pans or food. I eat here and there. When I lived with Eric, I was glad that he actually enjoyed cooking and thusly took on the job of making home cooked meals three or four nights a week, when we weren't tempted by the deliciousness of burritos, thai or bar food. I realize that the last time I had a home cooked meal was Christmas, and the time before that, Thanksgiving. And I can't remember the time before that.

Also, as a single person this time around, I see no need in keeping my apartment neat and orderly, since no one other than myself is ever going to set foot in here again. I've become a comfortable, veritable slob. It is covered up under the guise of being busy, but the truth is, I love coming home to my apartment and having it be a slovenly mess, and crawling into the spot of my bed that isn't covered with clothes or papers or books. It's almost like being welcomed home by an old friend at the doorway, you feel you cannot get to the person to hug them fast enough. I cannot wait to land on my little spot in my big bed and go to sleep. On my way to the bed, I dump things in piles, a pile of clothes not dirty enough to wash, a pile of junk mail, a pile of mail I should file, a pile of things I must not forget to bring with me in the morning, there are literally little designated piles all over my apartment that only make sense to me and make the place look disgusting. But it is my mess.

Once I set off a cleaning frenzy, it tends to erupt violently and be hard to stop--at least in my case--so after I cleaned the fridge with a deodorizing, anti-bacterial cleanser, I moved on to the bathroom. Though I've still got the tiled shower walls to do--which I avoid touching while I shower as much as possible--because when I moved in I immediately placed the dingy walls in the "someday soon" category. The only thing that stopped me from completely turning into Cinderella was my friend Annie's pleading texts for company at a bar.

Joining her was fun. I got to meet one of her old college buddies, who mans the bar most nights: a tall, intellectual sort who wore a slightly intriguing (though not sure yet if I feel intrigued in a good way or bad way) pendant necklace with a tommie gun charm. I was proud to notice that even though he was tall and smart, I didn't instantly fall in love with him. I was invited to join them for dinner on Monday, which sounds like it'll be a good time.

I'd made plans earlier in the day to go see a sketch comedy troop and I couldn't find anyone who wanted to go with me, so I left my friend Annie and her pals at the bar and headed to the show all by myself.

and I sat next to a stranger.

and I was a-l-o-n-e.

And that is part that really makes me feel like a loser. It's not just because I'm not used to it...I hate doing things alone. I have so much more fun doing things with other people. I don't mind spending time alone, because a lot of my hobbies and interests are solitary activities, but going out in public and sitting at a show and laughing at funny things just seems like something you should do with someone.

so of course, I've been thinking a lot about Mr. Burnham. I miss him. I know part of it is just because I've had all these slightly traumatic/dramatic events happening these last two weeks, that there was the turning of a calendar, on which he is a blank space and he has not contacted me in six weeks. Aside from all that...I miss him. I don't miss the bad things. I just miss the good things. I miss him making us meals, and getting all excited about going to the grocery store and being my date for just about every silly thing I wanted to do (though this insta-date phenomenon began to fade toward what was the end). I miss the way he was when he was present and sober, and this makes me most sad, because I know he'll never fully be engaging.

And the truth is, for the first time since we broke up, I feel the weight of being single and lost. When we broke up, I barely had time to process the whole thing before unnecessary accessory boy stepped in to pick at me, and then this whole fantasy about The Man of Year gave me some hope that I wouldn't be single for long.

Now that I have no prospects and this restrictive set of criteria that literally makes most men look like clowns to me; I feel odd in my singleness. Before I met Eric, I was single for about a year and it was like I could have anyone I wanted. I was a head turner and I loved it. That was nearly five years ago. It is kind of shocking to feel like I have very little head turning abilities left. I walk around the city feeling slightly invisible. I no longer subscribe to popular fashion (the seventies bohemian look just happened to be somewhat close to my style those five years ago). I dress comfortably (therefore I probably appear to look like a lesbian to most men). I would rather read a book on the train than make cutesy "missed connection" eye contact. In bars, I look forward to talking to the person I came with than meeting someone random and potentially stupid. I am slightly revulsed by men and what has been revealed to me as their "true thoughts." Potential men loom on the horizon like huge swaths of disappoinment that I just want to avoid at all costs. I mostly feel that men are useless and just here to cause me grief, which men manage to pick up on quickly, and by no suprise, it doesn't really make any guy want to talk to me longer than two minutes. And part of me really doesn't care. I don't want to spend any more wasted time with someone who doesn't like me as a person first and a potential girlfriend/mate second.

The part of me that does care worries that my big bed will always be half empty. And worries that this whole grad school business will further steep me in independence and bitterness against men as a whole. And she, that part, that plaintive wailer, worries about the possibility that being alone--even though I keep trying to tell her it's only for a little while--will become permanent and all those girlhood thoughts of getting married and having kids and dogs and cats and a house and a loving husband won't happen.

but the part of me that won't let just anyone in is a lot stronger than that. and I know that this is all part of the experience train, and to get where I'm going I have to ride and it can either be a great trip or really fucking suck. and I'm so tired of all the trips that have really fucking sucked. So I'll let this take me where I'm going and I'm going to try not to complain at every chance I have.

expletives abound.

The deadline to apply to the Iowa Writer's Workshop was January 3rd.

mais oui...

Happy New Year!

May it be full of wonder, magic and awe.

all my love!

the end of the love life musings.

This is the first time in my love life where things don't make sense. I can't rely on the information I know, my experiences to guide me, other people's opinions to illuminate things. Everything I think I know turns out to be total bullshit. I can't decide if it's a matter of finding out the truth or trusting myself above all. I guess in a way it's a little bit of both, because even if people present me with what's true for them, I don't allow it to undo me, because I can't.

Unnecessary accessory boy has been randomly texting me plaintively for the last couple weeks. And I decided I'm done with him. He is bad news. He has nothing but a vein of the purest misogynistic anger that I have ever encountered. Yet, his presence in my life left its mark. I think of him often, I feel confused about why it went so wrong. I know that I did my thing that I do in relationships, but it was met with resolute anger and a wall of meanness. And I will not go out with someone who's a contrary bastard. I did that for three and a half years and it left me empty, I have no more fight left. All I can do is whimper and shut down in the face of that.

So I randomly texted him my reason for not responding. His missives (eight or nine) followed quickly, one after the other, at first neutral, then filled with some of the most vile things, attacking me on many levels. I read them, I still have them on my phone, but I know myself, his opinion of how it went simply isn't true. His idea of being in a relationship is having all the control, and he does that through manipulation and truth bending. He even denied sending me any texts.

With the Man of the Year, my intuition began to falter in the last few days because I'd communicated with him in various ways and had not gotten a response. Maybe there was simply nothing for him to say, but the agony I felt over the last few days just makes me wonder. Do I want to be with someone who can't be bothered to give me a simple response? Just as I began to give up on him, with the full bag of tears, frustration, inability to concentrate on anything else, he texted me back. He had no apologies, no promises, but there was a depth there that implied we'd gone beyond pleasantries. I even wondered if he'd been drinking.

Once you've gone to the brink of despair about a man, it's very difficult to turn back and act like nothing's wrong. And that's what I do in relationships. I get all about them, and then I go into despair, and then the chance of having a proper relationship based on trust is gone. I hold them to a high standard, if I give you something, it ought to be acknowledged. Maybe even reciprocated somehow. I have gotten better at not lashing out if this doesn't happen. People are who they are. They're not like me. I have a wellspring of words to give. When I put my bet down and roll the dice, my optimism fades. I gamble like it's the only chance I've got.

I figure over the last three months with the man of the year, I've made a lot of progress. I have despaired, but then returned, not stiffly, not with anger, but with understanding and love. I've done other things I need to do. I know it's not about me, whereas in other relationships, it was always my fault that they couldn't love me enough. Even though I have one foot out the door, ready to bolt at the slightest shadow, I have waited for him.

I'm tired of struggling over my relationships with boys. I feel the urge to give up, focus all my energies into grad school and the next year and just be happy in my own life, with myself. Every time I resolve to do this, they return, in small ways or big ways, and I am distracted by the possibility that this time it might be the message I was waiting for. Instead it always disappoints. And I must do the work of retracing my steps and returning to what's important.

The good news is, I take fewer steps back each time.

here comes the storm

The Man of the Year has made bold moves in my direction. He has gone out of town for the "holladays" and has not only responded to my texts in kind, but has also emailed me. He asked for my email some days ago; I presumed in an attempt to locate my myspace page. He has filled out an address entry in his email for "Christena Coffegirl." What infatuation I once held has become full-on fervor. His email contained the most personal and confidential information, the sort that one might share with a close friend. And yet, he shared it with me, the coffeegirl.

And now, I shiver and tremble, waiting in my spot, biding my time, wondering how it will go, and if this means anything, if this means we are having a relationship, if this means we will actually spend time in each others' vicinities without a countertop between us.

I feel I cannot force the issue. I fear I will cause whatever this is (progress?) to take a turn for the worst. I am terrified. I want to grab him and kiss him. I want to run away and hide. It is the oddest feeling. I want to ask him out for new year's eve, but I feel I must let him do the next step. I wonder how the time passes until it simply does, and I find myself in bed unable to sleep for the giddy thrill that races through me each time my mind skips across his name, or replays his last great laugh, or sees again that infamous wink (and it's companion, the once mentioned, dulcet stuffed, "Hey, peaches").

And it is Christmas. And he is somewhere thinking of me. He is somewhere far away and his mind is fingering the dark curls of my ponytail, the freckles on my skin, the easy conversations we've shared.

This has been the most unusual of holidays. I have spent my morning audibly tickled by my father, and my evening languishing in conversation with my mother.

I spent the time in between with Marilyn, whose gifts for me were far more sophisticated than I can hardly understand, yet they suit me perfectly. Her presence in my life has been steady and kind, and I have felt us growing closer, almost like two indistinct entities who have always been this way and none other, and we have a deep understanding of each other. She is my best friend. I feel completely known by her, and it is pleasant to spend time with her. Her ways amuse me, and she feels loved. She says, "It would be nice to drink some champagne!" and then a laugh, "Too bad I drank it all!" I surprise her with hysterical laughter that bubbles from the core of my being, for she is something else, and I know her all too well.

For one of my friends, my Christmas text to her was all too precise, and she called me with tears in her voice, and her heart in her throat, and I forgot the weeks since we'd seen each other last, and we melted into sorrow together.

I spent time with my family, and it was hectic. We are growing. There are more of us. They are small, and wanting for attention. And my smile grows wide when they are around.

Sitting on the front steps with her in my lap, her laughter wrapping around us, her beautiful dress billowing over my legs, her tickle spots unearthed, her sadness pushed away just for me, I asked, "Should I have Grandma take a picture of us together?" She shook her head no. I could see the pleading in her eyes. And like the other times we've spent together, we don't need words to communicate, I know her and she knows me, and we are one and the same, and we are beautiful together and there is nothing that is necessary when we are together and she wants nothing more than that moment to belong only to us; to have grandmothers coming over to take pictures would spoil the entire thing. So I persist in tickling her and she throws her head back and laughs and exposes her neck, the most ticklish area of them all, and I love her. Right then, I love her more than I've ever loved anyone in my life.

They leave in a flurry and we are alone again. We are back to our small bunch. We are shiftless and restless together. We have no reason to be together. We don't match anymore. I feel this most with my brother, whose reason for living is muddled by the realities of the world and its unfairness, and its lack of maps for some of us, and its oversight of him and his way in the world. Who is he supposed to be? When is he supposed to be? And he falls asleep, drifting into a world that makes the time pass and doesn't ask anything of him.

While he tosses and turns on the couch, my mother and I speak easily together, and the words follow the cigarette smoke between us, and I feel like crying when I tell her all of my hopes and dreams for the next year, which I have declared will be the best of my life until another comes later on to surpass it. I tell her, it is the year I will get married, it is the year I will join a master's program, it is the year I will travel abroad again (and we shall do this together), it is the year when my life will truly become solidified, and she will be with me, either vicariously or by my side, and it will be the best year of her life also; perhaps.

And we talk about the men I have loved and how great they were. She loved them too, in her own way. Her face is paralyzed by tears when we speak of them and their successes. Her face is frozen by pain when we consider why the last one had gone so badly and ignored the invitation to join us at Thanksgiving, because not only would it have been nice for him to be there, but his absence was a slap in my face and she felt it in hers as well.

And for the first time in a long time, I will spend my holidays alone in my big bed, which is perfect for me now. I look forward to tomorrow. A morning with little Nina, whose face delights in my presence, whose spontaneous laughter is part of a game we used to play and I know that no matter who I have been in my life, good or bad, it is always about who I will be, and she knows that I will be wondrous and kind and beautiful for her.

In the evening I will celebrate the thirtieth birthday of my new, great friend, Annie, who is responsible for loaning me the phrase salt-of-the-earth, and whose listening of me is far beyond anything I could have mustered for myself. I am included among her small list of friends she wishes to spend her birthday with, and I feel honored by her invitation.

I am surrounding myself with only goodness, only kindness, the things I want to see reflecting back at me in the mirror, and I feel them emanating from me, I feel their desire to be a part of me, and in my own small way, I know I created the depth that runs underneath the profound love I share with others. And I love them more than they will ever know.

recovery part deux

As I let the minutes, hours and days pass, I realize I am in need of more recovery.

I got busy with school and kind of let it take over, especially since it was my top priority and it needed to be done by a certain date. In letting it rule, I dropped certain important things, my apartment (which is a disaster), my love life (which is surprisingly empty and okay), my communications with people (which I dearly miss) and my hobbies (which I've begun to slowly resume, starting, of course, with reading).

It seems strange to me that school is over. I know it is something I've been looking forward to for some time, but I feel a little lost at the moment about it. And as I await my results (so far, one "A" in Advanced Fiction), I find my mental state in that same (familiar) state of limbo. Will I apply to grad school? will I go somewhere out of state? will I attempt to become a freelance writer instead? what's next for me?

As for my apartment, it had to get cleaned at some point in the last two weeks, because I simply could not function inside of it unless it was picked up. I don't even remember when I cleaned it, and it has quickly returned to a mess. I have a lot of projects to do that involve drills, hammers, and time, and they are lying on the floor in front of their destinations, patiently waiting.

As for my love life, I'm not dating anyone right now. It feels good. It feels cleansing. Of course, I still pine for the Man of the Year, whose orbit around me feels shaky and spotty at best (dicey, even!), but I console myself with the fact that he is still circling about. We didn't see the play. We have no plans in the works. Yet, I realize that rather than inducing panic in me, or making me feel like I'm the problem, I have a lot of room for him to be weird and unlike any other guy I've gone out with. Not sure if that is because I feel so solidly that he does indeed like me and is just dealing with his stuff, or if I sense that forever is a longer time than a month or two and I can wait.

As for my communications with people, I have been lame. And a bit of the suck. And I am sorry. I feel like I can barely muster up the enthusiasm to get out of bed. I have hardly any appetite. I am experiencing a complete breakdown in my physical body. Is it that I haven't done yoga since school ended? Is it that I need some restorative rest? Is it that I am back in limbo land? I don't know. All there is to do is get back on the wagon of calling, emailing, and hanging out.

As for my hobbies, I trepidatiously brought a book with me all week and began reading it today. It was difficult to read. My brain is taxed. My head is throbbing. My eyes are weary. I read the Red Eye first. It is easy, digestable, and predictable. Yet, I found I enjoyed several lines in the novel, If on a winter's night a traveler...

slowly, I will return to some sense of normalcy, even if it is just a fresher, more confident stine, whose life is different, but not altogether new.

egads.

I am done with my undergraduate career.

when life is in your face, say hello and thanks for coming.

Intuition. I have lots of it. It sits in my bones and stares out at the world with a cold, dull stare. I eat it for breakfast. I shower a layer of it away and it builds up again. I go to sleep and find it between the covers, waiting to seep into my pores. I find it in the millipede that lives in my apartment, because nothing surprises me anymore, not even a big huge ugly creepy crawler.

More powerful than that, I have insecurity. I don't have as much of it, but that doesn't matter. It seeps out of me in my waking state, when I am around other people, when I am not sure if they like me and it pollutes the drinking water. It is the cold, hard, brutal knot of hate that sits like a popcorn kernel husk in the folds of my mind, an irritant, a thing to pay attention to during idle moments. At night I sleep with the confidence I own. During the day I conserve myself. I give my confidence to those whose bridges I've safely traversed, and even then I still step lightly, until the ground feels solid beneath me.

I notice the battle between them frequently, one is holding on so tightly, the other is trying to get in, and there are long nights of standstills, painful awful days of grappling, in which I am held hostage between them and there is nothing I can do but wait them out until they grow tired. During those hours or days, I suffer immensely, all the while knowing how unnecessary my agony is but being unable to put a halt to the stand-off.

I need them both. They balance me out, they make sure my head stays screwed on tight, and doesn't bloat from my triumphs. They are crucial elements to the make-up of me. I am getting better at listening to them instead of wondering how to exorcise them. They are the children of my mind and clamor for my attention and it is worse when I ignore them.

In the pursuit of the man of the year, I can say one thing, my intuition is stronger and it knows exactly what to do, it has all the time in the world for this busy man, this real man, this man who has "No time for love, Dr. Jones!" It knows how to talk to him (with results). My intuition knows what moves him, and it has been an interesting thing to trust myself for once when it comes to liking a guy.

In the past, my intuition always got shoved aside. Insecurity plauged me. It made me black inside. It made me bitter. I continuously shoved it aside:

in the case of unnecessary accessory boy [he paid so much attention to me, he seems to like me so much, "he validates my ego!" my insecurity pleaded] [my intuition countered, but you can't imagine him touching you. you want someone you're attracted all the way to, you know he's fucked up]

in the case of Mr. Burnham [he is doing all the right things! it feels right. he is reaching out to you.] [but he doesn't know what love is. he is scarred inside. he is phony.]

with scotty [he is creative and talented and could have any girl, but he wants you!] [he is not a match for you, you have nothing in common, you are an experiment to him.]

My insecurity has been whining about the lack of action on the man of the year's part. [Where is he? If he liked you why isn't he calling? What the fuck?! I need to know, now!]

When I listen hard, when I look at all the evidence before me, when I see that objectively, I know he likes me. I know there's something going on over there with him (aside from owning his own business and being massively busy) that has him scared of even going out on a date with me. I know it has nothing to do with me. The lack of some kind of definitive motions on his part doesn't invalidate me. I am still an amazing girl. And I overlook that a lot. That I haven't changed just because he hasn't called. I'm still living my life and being great when I can and it's not because anyone's there to see it, it's because that's who I am.

The thing about my intuition is, as I look back on all the times I've ignored it, all the times I've stepped over it to dwell in melodramatic emotions, how I tried to get my feelings validated for my ego's sake, it was always right. It always knew the answer and I fucking didn't listen.

Not anymore. The man of the year needs space? I'll give him space. Hell, I don't really have time for him anyway. I may not even be ready to be in a relationship again. I know that's what's best. It's been a whole month since he gave me those cd's? oh fucking well. he hasn't changed either. he just has life in his face and he doesn't know what to do now. and maybe he's waiting to see if I'll stick around, because the other ones didn't, the other ones wouldn't, they didn't understand the busy, they didn't have room for him to be a busy guy and be their boyfriend, maybe their insecurity sucked the marrow out of their relationship and he's afraid of anyone with teeth.

but I'm not gonna not be me. I made an emotionally risky move over the text messaging (so addictive and so easy and so careless) and I agonized all weekend for it, until I realized that just because I told him what I did, nothing had changed. he was still stuck with life in his face, and I was just being me. and putting myself on a ledge, with the knowledge, the intuition that he will be there if I let go. because intuition lives somewhere where words don't matter. and that requires faith in the intangible.

If it turns out I fall and he's not there, then at least I can move on knowing I put myself out there, even though life got in my face.

t minus panic, and one week left of mania

The most amazing thing happened to me the other day. I was sitting on the bus, I was daydreaming, thinking...

Suddenly, a young man boarded the bus. He looked familiar. He was wearing sunglasses, but I could tell he was looking at me. He had funny teeth. He looked a little like Steve Buscemi. He sat down in the seat in front of me, and that's when I realized who he was. I couldn't remember his name. Was it Adam, or something like that? But who he was, I knew. And the implications of who he was, it was like a punch in the stomach, a kick to the chest, and a blow to my head, all at once.

I met him at Uncommon Ground, that night; that night. I met him the same night that I met many other people, but namely, Rob. Oh, that was a night. I had no plans or intentions for how it went, and I ended up having an amazing time. That night created deep chasms in two of my most important relationships at the time. And the crazy thing is, it was probably the most thrilling night of my life thus far. I was the most self-expressed and comfortable in my own skin than I have ever been.

Many of you know the story of that night. I think the only one who doesn't know is my daddy. I didn't write about it on my blog, because the truth is, I never write about the things that hurt deep down, the things that infect my core, plaugue my thoughts, and turn rotten inside me.

I wanted to reach out and tap this guy on the shoulder and ask him, "Where can I find Rob?"

I didn't. Instead, I sat there and mentally grappled with the idea of what was the best thing for me.

And in the end, I got off the bus and let that story in my life close, even though the universe offered me one more chance at a connection with a guy that I had the most intense immediate attraction to. The truth is, I know what's best for me and right now, it's not a guy with no home, no phone and no motivation. It's not a guy who comes off like an idiot to everyone around him. Yes, he doesn't meet my criteria, which, much to my surprise, has become the focal point of my dating landscape, and everything along the way to that point is just a distraction and I can't be bothered.

And it amazes me. that night still continues to echo in my mind. And I wonder, what would have happened if it had been Rob on the bus and not Adam. Would I still feel so triumphant? Would I still be so sure of myself?

hands of euphemisms

I know that winter is really here, not because of the snow that fell, or the cold temperatures, but because my hands are dry and cracked and full of pain.

This comes at the worst time, this swollen skin, these flecks of pain, at the end of the semester with numerous amounts of writing (or typing at the keyboard) to do, and I never thought it would hurt to write/type, but it does, it hurts in every knuckle and on every other finger, and the stretching of my fingers across the keyboard doesn't help.

I've tried band-aids, lotion, neosporin, but when you use your hands the way I do, and you have a centimeter of skin that has spilt open just above the knuckle on the thumb you often use, there is no remedy.

I keep trying to tell myself that it'll all be over soon. Soon I won't have to worry what kind of condition my hands are in, soon, I won't have to care about anything school related, until I have to again.

and when the winter passes, my hands will heal, they will mend themselves back to normal.

an update of frantic proportions.

School's almost over. My undergraduate career will soon be a memory and not a reality. I can't quite fathom what it's gonna be like. And I'm so overwhelmed with the final projects and things to do that I think I will get a total of ten hours of sleep this week.

my apartment is starting to come together. I've been shopping at urban outfitters like a madwoman.

I bought myself new clothes today for the first time in a while. I bought size 12 jeans! hooray for me. I am very pleased at the results of this summer's attempt at losing weight. I know everyone thought Marilyn and the cleanse was fucking nuts (trust me, I was right there with you), but I have to say, that was the best thing I did for my body in a while. I feel so much lighter and better.

the man of the year and I are going to see Edward Gorey: The Musical. I asked him. I feel this is an acceptable way to get the ball rolling in some direction. He seems to be pleased about it being a musical. That tickles me. We've been having very awkward interactions, there was some coffee spilled and some gazing and some verbal tripping over tongues happening.

unnecessary accessory boy feels unduly blamed for how it went between us. it is highly confusing.

ran into eric at a bar and despite our previous progress, we took five steps back and ended up arguing at the bar, likely due to a high level of alcohol. and basically, he is still very angry with me. that will take some time to dissipate.

I have been working a lot.

I miss you.