Working from home brings plenty of luxury but little motivation. I roll out of bed at noon and sluggishly slither to my computer, where social media websites interest me more than work. Coffee shops, with their atmosphere of occupiedness, help - but really, what I need is a looming boss.
Listening to Christmas music on the second day of November. Getting absorbed in sleigh bells and snowfalls, auditorily if not realistically. There is something comforting about how traditional these songs are: heavy, jazzy, and full of entrenched patterns. I feel hopeful at the coda, satisfied at the end. Happy "holidays."
Sometimes, I feel, it isn't so awful to break someone's trust if what lies on the other side is something more marvelous than what existed before. Lying in one moment to preserve a magnificent surprise for the next. But then, I hate being lied to, so maybe this is hypocritical.
Tonight my graduation from high school was made official with two diplomas (one real, one fake). I didn't expect I would cry, but I did. Something about being surrounded by people I grew up with and might never see again. Successful, smart, brilliant, creative people. I am one of them.
Can't stop blushing. Consumed in bliss. Internally writhing with infatuation. God, you're cute. You keep sidelonging your eyes at me. And you laughed at that joke I made. You're a fairylike flutter of untouchability, but I want you all the same. Can we flirt a little longer, please, handsome prince?
I am one of those girls who owns power once she has it. I will tie that blindfold tight around your eyes and say "don't touch me, or else." I will boss you into submission til you quiver and twist. I'm a remarkably brilliant domme, when I feel like it.
This morning I woke up early and had water and chocolate for breakfast. I stared out at the orange leaves against the stark blue sky and felt very happy to be living in November. It's this kind of gratitude and whimsy that keeps me alive when routine becomes obligatory drudgery.
Dear ex-girlfriend: this afternoon I recalled your melodramatic suicide threats in 2009. I needed peace, you summoned more chaos. I needed space, you smothered me further. I needed time, you turned the clock forward. I guess you needed something too, though it wasn't anything I knew how to give you.
The five-minute relationship. That moment where a boundary is crossed when no boundaries have been defined. A name is called or a gesture is made. And suddenly your hidden ideas are dragged out from their musty crawlspaces and someone shines an industrial-strength lamp on them. They shrivel when scrutinized. Ouch.
As much as I want to be your buddy as well as your lover, I am not the best friend who's so close to you, she won't care when you're three hours late. I don't mean to nag, but I am still your girlfriend, and I still require your respect.
We've been together for eight months today. That's not a big landmark, nor does it merit special celebration. It's enough just to kiss your handsome face and hear you say, "I'm so in love, and I fall more deeply every day." (However, I still think you should buy me dinner.)
I believe in the law of attraction, that we get what most hope for or worry about, depending on our optimism quotient. So what does it mean that a speck of dust made me cry off all my makeup, just in time for you to see my red, tearstained face?
This morning, in a sleep addled with melancholy folk-pop, I gently dreamed I asked you out and you said yes. Even in my subconscious vision, I knew this was wrong and would have dire consequences for me. But you laughed at my jokes and I was sad to wake up.
I feel like yelling at the team members with shitty attendance, but of course, they aren't here to hear me. I'd just be yelling at the team members with excellent (or at least passable) attendance, who are THERE, of course, so obviously they know the importance of attendance. Oy vey.
Gathered tightly around traditions of gift-unwrapping and song-singing, we activate points of humor in one another that have gone neglected for long stretches of time. Guitars are strummed, paintings are admired, hands are held, and smiles exchanged. We are, at long last, safe in the bubble of home and family.
Vince Guaraldi's compositions always remind me of how you first slew my heart with a jumbled rendition of "Linus and Lucy." I looked up from my lunch and let you right into my reptile brain. You invaded my senses with Charlie Brown piano riffs over sandwiches, juiceboxes and carrot sticks.
Spending nights curled up on the couch with you is obscenely comforting, particularly when we've just gone on a late-night adventure to procure liqueur and you watched me buy alcohol for the first time. I get the feeling I'll remember this years from now, when this memory seems adorably mundane.
These pills make my emotions spike in unexpected ways. I lash out at you in irritation when you say one silly thing wrong, and the next thing I know, I'm crying hysterically into your shirt and telling you I love you. Being a woman is hard; being you is harder.
In a lonely pizzeria, I made a lunchtime wish for a meaningful one-on-one interaction with you before the end of the day... and lo and behold, you stood too close in the cramped elevator, and gave me a tight consensual hug before saying goodbye. Is pizza a good luck charm?
I had nothing to do today. Guilt stormed my ribcage like armed forces from some fucked future. I curled up in front of the television with a drink that gave me a funny buzzy feeling (much like the lovey-dovey movie I watched). It was enough to make the day pass.
Kensington Market is the best place to go for vintage cashmere sweaters in any color you can imagine. Slap down some cash on the shop counter and you can walk home with a little piece of classic glamour wrapped up in a plastic bag, just for you. Easy, floaty, warm.
Sometimes entire days disappear into the endless fog of my inaccessible memory, never to be called back to the forefront of my consciousness. Hours-long stretches melt into puddles of color and emotion. Someone told me hypnotists can help anything resurface because our brains retain absolutely everything; I'm not so sure.
It's strange talking to a woman who has known me since before my birth, but has scarcely seen me since. As whom does she view me: a squalling infant in my mother's arms, or a brazen young lady struggling for independence? It's impossible to know and I'm afraid to ask.
The stage is a space I occupy physically some of the time and figuratively almost all of the time. It's my most welcoming home and my most accommodating holiday. The honor and pride I feel in introducing you newbies to the stage is very nearly better than a post-show high.
I know how to put my mother in a good mood. Talk about Robin WIlliams and John Mayer. Ask for advice on journalism and panties. Compliment her blog or her outfit. Eat havarti and crackers with her. It's so incredibly easy, and yet I rarely do it. This should change.