I'm a product, place me.

I started writing my Africa essay today. I guess its good so far, but it kind of feels like a bit of a sham in that I can use words that make me sound smart to describe my job, like "enteric," and "zoonotic," and a variety of others that spell check tells me are misspelled. Subtle diction and tactful product placement are what keeps the world turning at this point.

So classes are starting next week, and to some extent, I'm looking forward to being busy, but the stress of things really got to me last semester, and I'm afraid it's only going to get more difficult from here on...I'm picking up a filing job because it pays $9 an hour, and I'd like to get paid for modeling by the end of the year. There's that and babysitting, and I'm pretty much out of ideas, and hours in the day for that matter. Expected schedule: 7:30am Wake up, 8:30-10:30 class, 10:45-2ish Lab Work, 3ish to 7 Filing Work, then library or babysitting I guess. I might need to get a planner, although I could never manage those. And all of this really doesn't dissuade me from my desire to get a dog, although I really don't know how I'd manage that. I worry enough about my fish...

17 minutes

Just seventeen good minutes, unceremoniously interrupted, and I can't help but feel purposely cheated by the near-hour that followed. And I could have talked to you for days, keeping you up until you fell asleep with that sweet smile that always gives me butterflies. Unfortunate the situation, yes, but never mundane. I wouldn't mind a little privacy, however. Imaginary hotel room scenario inserted here.

Funny how I watched your enthusiasm fall. He's like a having a child sometimes, I know, a desperate need for attention that doesn't quite mask some ulterior intention.

At the moment, I'm reading a book called "The Hawk and the Dove," which is a WWII memoir that details a young man's experiences maturing in Okinawa and Korea in combat and during the occupation at the end of the war. He describes the dissonance that exists between himself and normal life after returning home, the strange contrast between a structured life filled with excitement and emotional suppression, to the pandering whimsy of everyday life. So inconsequential, and left to collapse under the weight of what no man should ever live through. It doesn't make it hard to see why a large portion of today's homeless are war veterans, fallen through the cracks. Can't help but ignite the activist in me.

A cat has nestled itself on my shins. Silent night. Sleep is like the light at the end of the tunnel, but once in I am content to crawl around in the shadows for a while, exploring what my eyes don't see.

Sesame

I'm worried that my fish is cold.

Pisces

We are fighting, I don't know what to say. We are fighting, and it bothers me so much I've been lying in bed with my eyes open for the last 2 hours. You are my best friend, I care so much about you even though you say I don't. I know better than to play into your guilt trip, but I can't pretend I don't care, and that I don't feel the empty space where our late night phone call is supposed to be. I love you, I'm sorry its not the way you want me to. I don't want to be the girl that breaks you, and I could never take that risk. You need me too much. And I am a butterfly, a fickle lover at best, and no flower keeps my interest for long. I could never do that to you.

I can't help but have High Hopes

Something is keeping me here. The backseat, cold outside air, permeating my little sanctuary. The only privacy I can find in a season like this and it makes me anxious to return to my little apartment where at the very least I dictated my own comings and goings. Something is keeping me here. Inside is a warm room, warm bed, promising dreams. Dreams haven't been good ones lately. I'm enjoying the way my mind mulls over its issues, bathes these thoughts in the quiet contemplation they deserve. Sleeping used to be my favorite part of the day. Sleeping was a relief, an escape from the day and the life I had built for myself. There goes my life.

The vicious countdown, till I see you again. I wonder if things will have changed. I wish I felt I had something new and exciting to tell you. In fact, I think I have plenty to tell you, like how I'm reading a new book, and how I had the worst soup I've ever tasted today. About my endless string of new years resolutions, and about how I'm trying to find the words to write essays to get out of here. And about how I seem to be destroying one of my most cherished relationships, and how for once in my life I can't find the energy to even entertain the thought of finding all the right words to keep it together. I'm being passive, and it's probably not a good sign. I'm being passive with my life, and it may mean I need a new one. A new focus.

Mostly, I think I need a few words from you, a few laughs, and a few great kisses to start and finish my day. I think we could keep it together, together.

The Magic of the Morning Text

A good lie is in the details. It answers the question but quickly diverts to a new, semi-related topic, and fills up the empty space with charming confidence and a plethora of minute but crucial specifics. All punctuated with a wide, fleeting smile that says "Trust me, I trust you." I'm a master of the bogus tangent, the convincing air of the open book. I'm not really sure when it all happened, but my tactful dishonesty really arose to keep those who really cared for me at a safe distance. Ignorance is bliss. The disregard I felt for my own life was my little secret. A classic case of teenage invincibility. It's funny how just when I think I can't get much older, time passes and I do. I suppose at this point the truth is that I'm not an open book, but lying just isn't really my style anymore. And frankly, I'm surprised that it might be yours. I know a lot more than I let on. Most of it is unnecessary to mention, as you're just as new to my life as I am to yours. I guess none of it is really my business.

The morning text says you miss me. You're thinking of me. The morning text gives me a reason to get up and into the shower, and then to the coffee pot. Hello, lover. First thought, "If this is decaf I will shoot someone." Good morning, me. I pass on the magic.

Coming Home

It's always that familiar smell of home that reminds me I've been away, perhaps for too long. Its the photos in the hall, and the characteristic disarray that underestimates the degree of apathetic neglect that occurs here. It's strange to think that this one place holds my entire life history, like layers of rock, fossilized remains of journals, tapes, and words, scribbled on the end of a doodle, a faint emotion I can almost still feel. There is one word that comes to mind for a place like this: residual. It's no longer applicable.

What a strange way to begin the new year. Feeling like I no longer apply.