This has GOT to stop.

I would work hard for the money... if I actually earned any.

This week, over a span of three lunch shifts, I have made a total of $32. This is not going to get my bills paid. I've gotta quit working there.

That's one job down... only 4 more to go.

See-Saw

Going up...

The morning was perfect. Comfy. Cozy. A warm bed, cup of coffee and Tom Robbins. That surprise text message left me glowing.

Jazz class rocked. My childhood dream of learning how to do the running-man finally came true. And I am rocking all of the combinations. Our energy in there, as a group, is growing... and I can't help but feed off of it.

Coming down...

Show Choir was an experience. Too long and too full of estrogen. 30 girls going out to lunch and shopping was a daunting task, yes. But the surprise issue was that most of the girls were excited and cooperative, while a handful of the UPPER CLASSMEN ruined it. Completely. Thank god I don't have to see them until next week.

Writing class made my head hurt. Too much in too short a time period. The professor and I discussed how my major flaw in writing prose is assuming that the audience understands where I am coming from. I apparently need to get outside of my head a little more.

And well, I blame you people. Being able to write to an audience who knows my vibe and voice for such a long time... having support, understanding and excellent feedback has spoiled me. I'll be honest-- I'm not looking forward to writing for strangers, and I am upset that my latest assignment was not in the top of the class.

Sigh. I end this post celebrating the end of Project Runway (Michael made it!!!), but dreading my commute back to the city. I'm afraid to be alone during the ride AND in my apartment for yet another night. Especially knowing that fuzzi is out enjoying someone else's company.

Turn the world upside-down
and let it fall to the skies.

I hope sleep finds me quickly.

"A Cold and Broken Halleluiah"

For Christmas last year, Carolyn bought me a few books. Most of them poking fun at the fact that I like books. One in particular, entitled "The Oracle Book," requires a finely tuned divinitive intuition (which I, of course, happen to possess). You ask a clear, yes-or-no question and run your thumb across the edges until you feel it is right to stop. The answer you seek is on that page.

Sitting on the floor of my new room, in my new apartment, just me and the cats, I was listening to a poignant mixed CD, bawling my heart out. The book was on the shelf right at my eye-level, taunting me, so I asked it the second question I have ever asked it.

The first question I asked it was, "Will I have sex in 2006?" And while I do not remember the exact phrasing, the answer was yes. Little did we all know that very shortly after the new year, the book’s all-knowing power would be proven. Now, I have respect for such awesome power, so I thought it wise not to bother it unless the matter was really pressing.

So this question:

"Will fuzzi and I stay together?"

I thought that was important enough to tempt fate.

A hazy shape
in the
crystal ball
indicates
you’re too unsure
of yourself
to proceed.

And you thought this was a satirical post, didn't you?

Quick Stop

Yeah. That thing I said in the last post about part of me staying up wondering? That, right there, was one hell of an understatement. I tossed and turned for 3 hours. There has gotta be a way to shut off my brain. Without drugs or alcohol.

Luckily, the day time provides many a distraction. I'm off to go shake my booty to Stop! In The Name Of Love for 3 hours. Wee.

Impending Bloom...

As I sit here, I am excited to write. Maybe because I stand dangerously close to that line dividing those of us who are members of a couple, and those of us labeled single. Maybe because I have no choice but to put words down concerning my self, and that self's current state of being.

Sure, part of me will stay up wondering if he will decide to break up with me. But I can't control that decision. I pitched my best argument for why I want to try to make it work, and that's all I can do.

Codependency is the worse kind of prison one could imagine. It's pink and fluffy and stinks of love. But I'm not talk about a vagina here, folks... I'm talking about the comfortable state of stagnancy long-term couples can nestle into. We build boxes for our selves and our counter parts and then we sit in them, staring at each other. It's cool for a while, until one or both of you start to feel claustrophobic, and notice the other trying to get out of their box. Then you get paranoid and want to get out of your box.

The prospect of being able to learn from him again— that thought alone is enough to carry me through whatever decision is made. If we need to stop being intimate in order to get back to the real connection between us, then I am prepared to give that up. If the only way he will really find out who is and what he wants involves me not being in the picture, then I have to get ready to paint my own.

There are some things that need to be addressed:

I need to stop taking dance gigs. While I do enjoy working with the kids, and like generating designs and ideas for songs, I do not get off on making up the actual choreography. Sure, my interest and talent involving dance has grown immensely these last few months, but I know, without a doubt, that I enjoy participating in the group over leading it. And this is not the direction I want to take my career at all, so there is no reason to stick with it.

I need a break from colorguard. The magic is gone. I cannot spend any more time right now telling people to point their toes and to spin at their belly button level. The only way I would be satisfied in this arena would be to perform or work with an advanced skill-level group... and that just ain't gonna happen right now. So after this fall season ends... I HAVE to be done, at least for the winterguard season. To Dawn, Laura and Patricia: I am sorry, but this is what's best for me.

The bottom line in both of these cases is that I am in a rut with teaching. I'm excited to get back to learning.

I need to write more. Every day. All the time. My thoughts, my feelings, and most importantly all those love poems to myself. I miss studying how I move and what I say and putting it down on paper. This writing class I am taking and working with the college newspaper are teaching me so much and making me so hungry. Hungry for grad school. Hungry for song writing. Hungry for the mother fucking black and white.

It's time to trim the fat. Not literally, because I lost 10 lbs 2 months ago and have kept them off with great success. I love the gym, I love sweating and I love eating healthier. Lifestyle switch has been completed and shows only hormonal signs of regression (sometimes a girl just has to have chocolate).

I need to get one job. ONE. That I work at least 35 hours a week, and get benefits with. The reason for this is so I can save enough money to pay for school and my new apartment and all of the lavish gifts I intend to buy myself incase I end up without boyfriend. This job needs to help me advance within the field of artistic, written expression... or at least facilitate it being done in my spare time.

YES. Spare time. I need some of it. So I can do the aforementioned writing, AND exploring and adventuring and dates with my boyfriend (hopefully) or men who will never compare to him but who I will settle for.

I had forgotten that my favorite fix-it project has always been, and always will be ME... rather than those close to me. So here I am: once again making the commitment to myself. To my words. To my dreams. I think you should start a pool for which day I flake out again.

"Because you're young," he said.

"You'll see. You'll get over that- thinking you deserve to be happy."

"Deserve?"

"It is what it is: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The pursuit. Not the inalienable right. It's not a permanent state of mind."

* page 76, The Room-mating Season, by Rona Jaffe.

Surprisingly potent.

One of my most favorite things:

How Dave Matthews Band sounds so much better in the car while it's raining than ANY other situation imaginable.

Now add a skim, no-whip white mocha and a walk into the office without an umbrella... and you have the most refreshingly cozy commute I've had in years.