I am eating slightly burnt cookies. They’re still pretty good. And I’m slightly high. The combination makes it ok. Even Terri Hatcher would approve.
I’ve been working a new job. It’s something I’m playing close to the chest. But I’m happy. I’m where I wanna live. I’m staying on my own, closer at least than I have in about a year.
Steve ended things with his girlfriend figure. He called Matt my boyfriend figure. It’s been almost a year since he dumped me. But I’m happy. I thought I lost the love of my life when he ended it, but I was wrong. I’m the love of my life. And Steve is a good friend. I get to have both, and way fewer fights. Still, I feel like it should be noted somehow, this change in his life…I’m not sure why, but somehow, I feel like it should matter to me…
It’s like how I acted the fool in front of Matt’s friends last week (two weeks ago?). I feel like I should feel certain things. Maybe it’s the years under God, or maybe it’s the division of my mind, but I “should” do, say, think, and feel things that doesn’t always take place. Who set these guidelines for my adult life, and why the fuck do I listen?
My friend Bishop recently pointed out some generational differences about labels. Steve pointed out my tendency to look down on younger people. I’ve never been one to fit in with my own age. Maybe I’m just unrelatable.
I have been watching The Simpsons, and I missed several things about pop culture by not seeing this show when it came out.
In the last week I’ve met someone who is confirming work I’ve done all year, and been told I have “the right” body type for pictures that are meant to be attractive. I’m sleeping a lot more.
I lie on the couch, looking like Mort Rainey and feeling like I’m in college, pre-Katrina. I roll over with my phone on silent, charged, in case I want to feel like I am in the world. My heart called, and she said something that almost broke me: “I feel like I’ve lost you….but you probably feel like you’ve lost yourself.” Goddamn it, Steph. I miss you.
I’m getting another glass of wine.
Really, it’s getting better. I feel prose rising in me, and characters whisper ideas outside of therapy work. I think of Kimberley less and plan for the future more. Overall, I’m better than fine. I’m even having a movie night. I’m inviting people over for the first time since May. I’m doing well.
I fought so hard to stay away from home, and now that I feel slightly secure, I miss JJ, Tina, Josh, Jared, Cherie and Gary. New Orleans on Halloween-a Friday night Halloween-and I miss the way Ma-Ma smells. And yet I’m happy.
What is this happy that I claim, that I follow, and that I pursue without rest? Different things have brought me happiness over the years, and yet over time it’s gotten better and better. I’m more objectively healthy.
I am about to need a new bedtime book. I got a new audiobook from the library. I’m excited about new reading. And Moby Dick is gonna be a movie. Thank god-I never have been able to make it through that damn thing. It is time I try again…also, thinking I might read this. My mom used to have me tell Jim I was reading that when I was a kid. I wish I could hear those tapes of our phone calls. I wonder what I’d learn. What I’d stay up crying over, and what would crack me up.
I need sleep. I’m tipsy. And I’m sleepy. Maybe depressed, but likely I have a fucked sleep schedule. I need to be writing more. Eleanor and Blake need me. I’m slacking. NaNoWritMo could have happened, but it’s the third, and I dunno. Annie is doing it.
Breaking out in hives. They’ll be gone by morning. Just panicking. Why?
Gotta sleep. Gotta post. Gotta set an alarm. Need to run errands tomorrow. I can be an adult, and not hide in my burrow. I’m an adult, damnit. I am.