my morning mess

shoes on but not tied
hair washed but not dried
pants pulled up but shirt nowhere to be found
and this one blasted word, playing in repetition,
serving as my only sound

hi.

hi.

hi.

this is silly
stupid
a cycle i am just about to begin again
where nothing but more longing and frustration are produced
but that idealistic retard inside me just keeps saying, liz!!

... this one will be different.

Why Can't It Be Like The First Week?

Everything seems so much more exciting and meaningful when it is new. Fresh and unknown. Unraveling the center of a rosebud one gorgeous petal at a time.

Why do I believe everything to be so pure and genuine just because I don't know all the details yet?

People have warned me. Warned me that we are all damaged. That the only things hiding inside those petals are secrets that just smash any picture of the perfect rose all to pieces.
And I have learned, from my own experiences, that the only thing I can count on in regards to something new is that it won't be a smidge like how I hope it will be.

I don't mean that in a pessimistic sort of way. Just an honest way. Intentions, expectations; they just cloud reality and make these scarlet ideals that much harder to grasp.

Nothing in my life is new. The house. The family drama. The complications with colorguard. The "I want him to like me for the special and unique snowflake that I am" drama at work. The perpetual unsatisfaction with the males in my life. The almost being a writer. The dirty laundry from a wardrobe I've had the majority of since college. Even the discussions I have over coffee with people I thought I'd left behind.

Maybe that's why I just have to keep jumping. Keep changing it all. To somehow sustain this illusion that ignorance can coat my eyes and my heart in. This illusion that life and love are so much more than boring old repetition. That someday, something will take my breath away when all the petals fall off...

and it'll be just perfect in that imperfect way.

counting down the days...

this is what dreamers do
leave their boring lives-
just pick up and move

risk it all
on some far off city view
where all our dreams-
our visions
are supposed to
come true

most of the songs are written about california. leave the east coast. become a surfer or something.

but see... my california is boston.

yep. boston, massachusetts... home of the red sox.

the nation's second most expensive city to live in.

i know, i know... boy, can i pick 'em! but that part of the challenge is not the point.

the countdown has begun.

i'm about 3 weeks into this adventure... and just really starting to internalize what i'm actually planning on doing.

in may of 2006. i'm moving to boston.

shit. i just typed it out for the first time. i just made it real. made it tangible. provable. made it possible to think that i might come back to this blog sometime later in my life and know that i failed or chickened out.

no no. positive thoughts. baby steps. but oh i'm all goose-bumpy now and i seriously cannot wait.

...here i am, though:

counting down the days.

a friendly reminder:

i'm still doing this twilight thing. it's really neat, really eye opening and i think that shenry and i are doing phenomenal jobs.

but i just get the feeling that no one is even noticing... let alone commenting or joining in the fun.

please change that.

the emergency broadcasting system

this is a test.

blogger is making it easy for us sillyfaces to share our crappy pictures with the world.

hence... another picture of my feet. in slippers. yay.

get ready for it ...

because the switch is a comin'.

on mediocre bands that play boring concerts:

"i'd rather produce something lame than never produce anything at all."