I really wrote this yesterday…

Last night I had a banana split sundae for the first time. It was a luxury that I won’t soon forget. For those of you who have never experienced a banana split, allow me to explain the process. First you peel a banana and put it in the bowl. Then we added ice cream (cookie dough, to be specific) on top. Then hot fudge, properly warmed in the microwave, and caramel syrup on top of that. Then whip cream-you have to spray some directly in your mouth, since it’s so convenient-mounted by rainbow sprinkles and three cherries. Then enjoy with friends and an episode of Adventure Time.

I’m having mild issues with turning twenty-eight tomorrow. It’s not so much the looming fear of thirty, which was a shameful low point for being twenty-six. I’m making peace with thirty, since it will become me in a couple short years anyhow. What prevents me from feeling at ease with twenty-eight is the lack of life goals I’ve accomplished thus far. Granted, I have done a lot. Considering the last decade has really been almost completely focused on healing, I’ve done a hell of a lot. But my book isn’t done yet. I need to get on that…at least I’m writing.

The move in June was good for me. It’s been about 5-6 weeks in the new apartment, and while I still haven’t unpacked everything, the house looks like home. The walls are still barren, but I have some plans for that problem. In October I hope to go home for a visit, and I’ll be retrieving several items. My new place is small, but not too small. And much bigger than the place where my stuff is being stored! (Thanks again, Josh!)

My ex is becoming less so…we’re really working on becoming friends again. We’ve been friends, but I’ve been bitter. Understandably bitter, but nonetheless, it’s hard to be close friends when one person is half furious at the other. I hate being bitter. When it flares up now and again it makes me nuts. I always think of my Grandma Carrie, who never forgave my Ma-Ma for marrying my Pa-Pa. I wrote about her in my journal in 2003, about how I wanted to be happy with whatever hand I was dealt, and how I hoped to never dislike someone so much that it spoiled my own life. Grandma Carrie being so angry at my Ma-Ma never gave her any fulfillment or pleasure, and it didn’t affect my Ma-Ma at all. There wasn’t any point to those feelings, in the end…I don’t want to waste that much of who I am. I can do better things with my energy. Like finish that damned book.

I achieved a goal for 2014 over the weekend. My last pair of jeans ripped on Thursday, and so to the mall I went on Sunday. I officially fit into a size 11/12 jeans at Maurice’s. I fit into a size 9/10 in their jeggings, which is a cross between jeans and leggings. I have not fit into a size 9 anything since I was fourteen years old. This may be the only possible upside to not having a car. I’m trying to rope friends into taking pictures of me, since I am now a sexy beast. I don’t even mind so much that my boobs have gone down another cup size. (Ok, that might be a lie…)

I’m at a crossroads professionally. But I’m earning money. I’m able to see a feasible future where I am self-sufficient again. Talking about it too much might cause it to blow away, though.

I watched one episode of a show called Scrubs, and am immediately sure I do not want to be a doctor. As if hearing all Max does wasn’t enough. lol In fact, watching Max go through med school for a year or so has made me think that I could’ve done the doctor thing. But no, no, surely not. Funny what makes a person take note of reality. Reality had me thinking it was plausible, but fiction set me straight.

My tolerance for bullshit is waning. I find I’m more assertive than I was in years past. I snapped at a co-worker a few weeks ago when I was being exploited a bit. I have been firm in stating how capable I am in job interviews. I sound like a confident, non-doormat. It’s new and a bit loose. I hope I grow into it.

I think I could be a therapist…I’d get trained at school. I’ve worked with more than enough survivors to know I could do it. And unless I ignore everything I was told throughout W.E.L.L., I can probably help people. Helping people is good.

South Park’s video game Stick of Truth has been the highlight of my suddenly scarce free time. I am a fighter for the elves. I even beat a few boss levels by myself! South Park in general has been redefined by my new location. I caught this reference about Greeley the other day and nearly fell outta my chair laughing. In the Crack Baby Athletic Association episode, I knew all the malls that Slash plays. I am a cool kid AND a sexy beast.

Denver has been good for me. It’s not home. I miss home, desperately at times. There are nights when I sit in my chair and hear New Orleans calling me. The Mississippi is too far from reach. Thunder storms today whisper a humid breeze across the back of my neck, and I think of the Banksy outside my old place. But Denver doesn’t try to be home for me. Denver is ok with me having a first love. It seems as though Denver understands my open ways, and is willing to buy me a beer anyway. And beer here is kinda fantastic. 

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