I just spent an hour typing an entry before deleting it.
Sometimes I have so much in my head that there's no way to get it all out and not sound completely schizophrenic.
No one approves of what I want right now. Even I don't; not really. There are two things I'm aiming for. Both are more or less imprudent in my current state and there are two theories as to why I might be shooting for them. I'm not a fan of either one, even though they both hold some water.
I am, in every sense of the word, a masochist. Right down to my rubbed raw emotions.
When I find a rabbit hole, I just jump right in.
On the other hand, tomorrow promises to be interesting, at the least; possibly even good. I'm trying to temper my enthusiasm, lest my expectations become too great and I'm stuck hanging out with my own disappointment. But I've got my fingers crossed. And my t's.
I'm systematically working on destroying every item of clothing I own. Or so it would seem.
And I just found out why I had nothing to wear this winter: There is an entire box of unpacked cold weather clothes in the closet. Seriously. I've lived here over a year and somehow failed to unpack an entire box of clothes. Think of all the laundry I could have avoided doing! I hate to think of the minutes upon minutes wasted doing laundry when I had that untapped resource of clean clothes just waiting to be discovered. I could have been doing much more important things like refreshing my facebook page and taking slightly longer naps.
I had one of the friendliest customers ever to come into the store the last two days. And he had this totally badass necklace of huge wooden beads and gave someone a yoga lesson over the phone while he drank his tea. And by that I mean stretching and everything. I think on anyone else it would have come off as really douchey, but he was so genuine I couldn't help but enjoy it. And he drank oolong tea. And I love anyone who loves oolong.
All I've done today is sit in my bed-nest, loiter online and cut pages out of magazines which I would later throw away. Actually, I put them on Adam's bedside table/my orange crate which made me melancholy because it still has a tea basket on it with dried leaves from tea I bought him when he was sick. I kind of don't want to move it, though it bears very little emotional significance for me. It's fucking tea. But the longer you leave something, the harder it is to change it.
Isn't that the truth.
In other news, I got a new job in Ann Arbor which I won't talk about because I'm not sure how I feel about it yet. You'd think that would warrant some writing, but strangely, it doesn't.
As often as I am disappointed by people, I have to admit that sometimes I'm surprised by their goodness. There really are a lot of truly good people, and now and then someone says or does something that reminds me of this. And for that, I'm grateful - I'm grateful that I can recognize good people. Once in a while my cynicism is broken, momentarily. How wonderful it is that that can happen.
As much as I think Ke$ha represents all that's wrong with the world, her music is catchy and it gets stuck in my head. Don't tell anyone.
You know, if someone had only ever experienced me via livejournal and had no idea what I was like in my daily life, they'd think I was a basket case all the time. I've come to write in here primarily when my life is a little scary and that has to make me sound like a real head case. Not that many people pay attention to this journal anymore, but for argument's sake...
I miss Genghis. I want him back. I'm tempted to tell Adam to fuck himself and that I want the damn cat. Fuck me.
I'm driving across the state tomorrow to look for apartments AGAIN and scatter my resume around town. That is, if Kinko's will print it for me, since my printer and/or ink cartidges are fucking with my emotions and giving me copies that are randomly flawed and unacceptable for distribution. Because, you know, coffee shops really require super special resumes. Sigh.
At some point I should probably become good at something.
It shocks me [or it used to - now it's so common it's much less suprising] how much personal information people give me. I don't know why people tend to share intimate details of their lives with me, but they do, and sometimes I don't know what to say. I've learned that nodding and making a lot of eye contact goes a long way in comforting people. Can you be a professional comforter? I could totally do that.
Or rambling. Professional rambling would be a good career choice. Or cat collecting. You'd think that would be lucrative, but it's not. In fact, I'd say it's the opposite. It's alucrative. Like that?
Dear Life: if shit could be a little less intense right now, that would be awesome. Let's take it down a notch, shall we?
I'm hoping, hoping for an apartment that I should be getting a call on sometime today [before 5?]. It's in a perfect neighborhood in Ann Arbor and it's cute and I really, really want to live there. The fact that I haven't received a call yet is making me nervous. No news is not always good news.
My hair is black, and I love it. IT MATCHES MY SOUL. Ha, kidding.
Yesterday my apartment management left a note on my door saying WE LOVE OUR RESIDENTS with a recipe for cheesecake, and today there was a cup outside my door with an invitation to a pool party and a bunch of hard candies. I feel like they're trying to buy my love. I'm not that kind of lady, Medallion Management!
I hate not being able to read an individual. Normally, I'm so good at picking apart people's feelings and thoughts, so when I cannot it's intensely frustrating.
I have a good feeling about the apartment I'm looking at on Monday. I'm hoping to maybe cash in on some good karma I've earned somewhere along the way and make this happen. The weight is driving me nuts - I'm much too spontaneous by nature for this not to make me half-way insane.
Adam is taking Genghis. I'm crushed. He's letting me keep the couch and the loveseat, but I'd much rather have Genghis than the fucking furniture. I guess he's going to pick him up on Saturday to help him adjust before I move, and make sure he's not depressed and lethargic being alone, without the other cats. It sounds awful, and I feel a little ashamed, but I hope he's unhappy there so Adam will feel compelled to leave him with me. Ach, that makes me sound like a horrible bitch, but I can't help it. The idea of leaving him here wrenches my heart.
Sometimes I forget that I like to write. I think a lot about things I'd like to write down should I ever sit and make the effort. Especially recently, I've been going over manuscript's worth of personal drama, dialogue and dismay in my head during long drives back and forth across the state while looking for a half-way suitable living arrangement for myself and los gatos. Every once in a while I'll actually pop in here and re-read some of my old entries and feel kind of silly about the things I've written; guilty almost, like I've wasted my time writing it and the time of whomever had the fortitude to muddle through my tangents. More often than not, I'm put off by my journal, even though there's no need to be. It's completely harmless. Sad, right?
I feel like I'm living about eight different lives and it's been really difficult to reconcile them lately. I'm the [ex]girlfriend, the caretaker, the pursuer, the co-worker/friend [when did that happen? what?], the hero and the tragic failure. I want to somehow meld them together into a smooth, easy existence, but the likelihood of that happening is so slim I've more or less given up. Instead, I have this sort of fractured, fucked up version of the life I've got planned in my head [for clarity: the theme I'm building toward here is that I spend way too much time in there] and am constantly trying to move forward into that space. Square peg, round hole.
Whenever things get too hectic in- or outside my head, as is the case now, symptoms start moving in. They're slinky and nefarious, so I don't always recognize them as such right away. For instance: I have a hangnail on my thumb. Innocently, I start picking at it, smoothing it out and making my finger pretty. Seems natural. Half an hour later, I have no cuticles on any of my nails, and my fingertips are throbbing. During the act it seems like a normal grooming ritual [or normal for anyone inclined to fuck with their finger nails], and it's not till the damage is literally done that I notice the pain. Not normal, not healthy.
And there's the reflux. Now, I really do have awful acid reflux, and have since I was a child. And it's not gastroesophogeal, which is the most commonly recognized type. I have laryngopharyngeal reflux, which causes potentially anything I've swallowed to actually slide up my throat, because neither of my esophogeal sphincters funtion properly. I can't properly articulate right now what I want to say about this except that it makes it very easy to engage in behavior that I've worked really, really hard to discontinue. But.
It's too much work to write about that. Right now.
So here I am, wherever that is, thinking about everything and how I can make it work for me. I'm changing my geography while trying to remember that a change in geography means nothing without a change in psychology. As they say, wherever you go, there you are.
This isn't a complaint about my life. I'm actually excited about so much. I'm excited to be moving out of a relationship that was holding me down. I'm thrilled to be leaving Kalamazoo, even though there are a few people I'd like to transplant with me. I'm happy to learn how resilient I am, again. I guess the upside to feeling down is you get to see yourself come back. Without internal warring, we could never appreciate the [sometimes tiny] person inside us who never stops fighting on our behalf.
So here I am, writing. It's inconsequential and cryptic, but there it is.
I feel like maybe I've forgotten how to write a coherent paragraph. Even now, I'm having trouble getting out what I'm thinking [or maybe I'm just having trouble thinking?] and it's so, so very frustrating.
I just reread several pages of old entries. I'm not sure what else to say about that except: without sounding too awfully egotistical - it's fascinating to look back a year, two years and more, and see how much is different about myself, or, more importantly, maybe - how much is the same. [Holy commas.] I've discovered that I'm fickle. Well. I guess I've discovered new ways in which I am fickle, and I have to say, I'm not too impressed with myself. It's easy to see why most people don't delve too deeply into self-examination; thirty minutes of old livejournal entries and already I'm disappointed. Can you imagine what several months of serious introspection might uncover? I shudder to think. Maybe that's part of the reason some people hate therapy and mental health professionals so much. It's maybe not that we don't trust their judgment per se [although, to be honest, I frequently do] but that regardless of their [possible lack of] professionalism, we fear we might stumble upon some aspect of ourselves that we'd rather not uncover. And then it's easy to blame a therapist for bringing out the worst in us, because, hey, s/he's an asshole anyway, and we simply can't be held accountable for demons some jerk who probably bought their way through grad school thinks they're exorcising.
I'm completely sure that last paragraph is maximally 50% readable.
I'm so, so tired.
I have so much cleaning to do in my apartment, and I really don't want to, but I should before I go to bed, even though it's 3am and I can barely see straight.
Adam's moved out and is coming over tomorrow. No one really knows about the fracture in our relationship, with the exception of our families, and at least in front of HIS family, I always put on a smile. Ugh, I love his family. I love almost everything about them. They like me. They have so many reasons not to like me, and they do anyway. They don't judge me the way Andy's parents [read: mother] did and they don't use kid gloves around me the way some people, for some reason, feel they have to. They talk to me about real things, and ask me questions, and for my opinion, and it's just so great to have conversations with other adults who aren't patronizing me. It's so nice not to feel like the weird one in the room, even if I am.
I don't know what's going on. Everything feels different day to day, and sometimes even hour to hour, and I can't keep up with what I think I want. Or need. Both.
In better news: I am on an exciting hunt for a new apartment, which while frustrating, is also exhilerating. I really hate the process of moving, but living in a new place is so amazing and wonderful, I don't know if I'll ever be satisfied living anywhere for more than a few years. Shit, I've been in Kalamazoo for something like 4 years now and it feels like an eternity. Pff, I've lived in my current apartment for 13 months, and it's the longest I've ever rented one unit. Is wanderlust a religion?
I feel sort of sad that I don't post much anymore, and certainly nothing as personal as I did before. Maybe I'm not as tormented as I was, and I don't need to write as much anymore. Maybe livejournal was primarily cathartic. I have a paper journal [I've always kept paper journals, for years] that I write in, mostly short paragraphs and thoughts about current events in my life, or idle musings. I actually like that. Maybe my attention span isn't what it was. Maybe I'm less interesting now that I'm more sane? I don't know.
In any case.
Facebook is what I imagine crack or heroin would be like if I were inclined to use hard drugs. Maybe that's an overstatement.
My muscles have been inexplicably sore for about 3 days now. Not flu-sore, but heavy-lifting sore. Which is weird, because....I haven't done any heavy lifting.