Emptying the Contents

October 22, 2010

Hello dear readers—both of you. My, you’re looking grey. Oh, hell, I’m sorry. I seem to be looking at a mirror. My, I’m looking grey. So. It may have been a little while since I’ve written. I…you know…may have taken a very minor half-year vacation from my brain. Sorry about that. My brain has been full of ick and cobwebs. But, dear friends—both of you—as Halloween is approaching, I thought it was high time to open the old girl up and let the ick and cobwebs out. And sorry for that dank smell.

And to catch you up, I figured I’d let you know about what I’ve been doing lately to feed the figurative piggy bank, which is more often than not jingling with the deep, echoing resonance of lonely coins. Since my overtime has come to a screeching halt, I went searching for odds and ends to fill the financial crannies in my life, and I’ve found, for lack of a more personally amusing phrase, shit I do for money. So that will be coming up in entries to come.

I’ve been digging my heels into living outside of the city, where I newly reside, for the time being. Planning (plotting) for the day when I do get to haul all my beautiful, very inexpensive, thoroughly tacky and jangly collective mass of things back up to Chicago and plant them in a shiny, new apartment, water them, and watch them grow into a beautiful, very inexpensive, thoroughly tacky and jangly home. And the plan is to be doing this with my darling male companion, with whom I am finally moving in—as the kids say these days—“for realsies.” But for right now, he and I are moving in together out in the ‘burbs, and that promises to be lovely also. Just, you know. In the ‘burbs.

In the meantime, life has happened in the last half a year. I turned 25 for the third time. Thank you, thank you. It was an amazing feat, and I was quite stunned myself. That occurrence passed this year peacefully; perhaps with age comes grace. In fact, and for the first time in years, it passed without my sniveling miserably into a wine bottle—cheap and near-empty (the wine bottle, not me)—in a former prom dress and all the costume jewelry I own, lying woefully across my love seat like a dead carcass, still clutching the bottle in my wretched hand. I’ll consider that a win for me. Small favors and all that. And I even got a cupcake cake this year.

So, yes. This year seems to insist on moving on, one day after the other, so I’m going to go out and do things that are post-worthy. I’m going to stop being so damned neglectful; I’m going to start getting my head out of the clouds and get my ass in gear, or possibly get my ass out of the clouds and get my head in gear. Then I’ll get out of my dreams, and into your car, get on the good foot, do the bad thing, play that funky music, do a little dance, make a little love, and start writing more. Because it’s good for me. And also, I suspect, for humanity.

My therapist is now scribbling something on her pad.

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