The mere suggestion that I am returning to school has thrown me into a full blown panic attack. It has rendered me shaken. I hated school. All of it. Even recess. And school hated me. We did not/do not, play well together.
So when I decided to go balls out, white flags blarring, back to this broken relationship I dived right in. I am taking a loss of hours at work, I am becoming a Part time employee for which I have never been. I am without benefits as of 3/31, for which I have never been, and I am unsure of myself for which I have rarely never been. Yes yuppers, I am breaking out of myself to repair my broken past. 9 more credits to go, why stop there? Why not do 2 more years and sacrifice the whole damn lot? For graphic design of all things.
I'd like to say this is all an act of tremendous courage. It's not. This is a reaction to working 40 + hours a week in a cubicle determined to just get by. So it's time for a grand compromise and a major paycut. Wishing my newly poor ass luck one day at a time.
Friday, March 18, 2005
How do like them apples
There is something to be said for being single. When I was single my writing was prolific and constant. It was filled with fabulous nights, horrible outcomes, and sensationally bad sex. It was gritty and sometimes sad. I had a great tragic single life. I loved it.
Nowadays my writing is wilted, boring, and dull. Sometimes it's sad. I feel wiped out. I don't share much about my relationship, it is private, thankfully. I am very guarded by it, and of it.This town is small and can pose as relentless at times. My home/family takes up a majority of my time, energy, and heart. In turn the writing takes quite the beating (especially in this forum). It is doomed to follow a useless trend; plucking for apples. Shit shit shit.
Nowadays my writing is wilted, boring, and dull. Sometimes it's sad. I feel wiped out. I don't share much about my relationship, it is private, thankfully. I am very guarded by it, and of it.This town is small and can pose as relentless at times. My home/family takes up a majority of my time, energy, and heart. In turn the writing takes quite the beating (especially in this forum). It is doomed to follow a useless trend; plucking for apples. Shit shit shit.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Bull Durham
Bull Durham
My dad was a monster. He was huge. He played every sport, well. He got straight A's and was an exceptional artist. He never got in trouble. He dated the prom queen and went to college on scholorship to play football. He was attractive and shy.
He graduated with honors and married his prom queen. He bought his first house fresh out of school and had 2 baby girls he adored. He was 26.
When he was 27 he got into business with his brother and they built large houses for very rich people. He often got mistaken for Kevin Costner in airports and at the mall.
He bought my mom 'the ring she deserved' that year.
His 30th birthday party was a surprise. I was 7, Cara Marie was 4. I discovered his sketchbook and took it upon myself to color in the white spaces. I gave it to him for his birthday after everyone left. I was so excited.
He cried.
It was my fault.
I hit my first homerun when I was 12. He came to watch and took me out to dinner. He was so excited. I had a recital the next day, he could'nt make it. He sent me flowers, and Cara Marie got crayons. Our mom got promoted that year to VP for the NW region. She was very excited.
And then sometime in there, he started going on long trips and drinking more. He only spoke in french if he spoke at all. He left his sketchbook at home and his tools. When he was home he stayed up all night and would wake us at all hours to ask about our motives, or he would just sit and cry. He still looked like Kevin Costner, almost exactly, even when he cried.
tbc
My dad was a monster. He was huge. He played every sport, well. He got straight A's and was an exceptional artist. He never got in trouble. He dated the prom queen and went to college on scholorship to play football. He was attractive and shy.
He graduated with honors and married his prom queen. He bought his first house fresh out of school and had 2 baby girls he adored. He was 26.
When he was 27 he got into business with his brother and they built large houses for very rich people. He often got mistaken for Kevin Costner in airports and at the mall.
He bought my mom 'the ring she deserved' that year.
His 30th birthday party was a surprise. I was 7, Cara Marie was 4. I discovered his sketchbook and took it upon myself to color in the white spaces. I gave it to him for his birthday after everyone left. I was so excited.
He cried.
It was my fault.
I hit my first homerun when I was 12. He came to watch and took me out to dinner. He was so excited. I had a recital the next day, he could'nt make it. He sent me flowers, and Cara Marie got crayons. Our mom got promoted that year to VP for the NW region. She was very excited.
And then sometime in there, he started going on long trips and drinking more. He only spoke in french if he spoke at all. He left his sketchbook at home and his tools. When he was home he stayed up all night and would wake us at all hours to ask about our motives, or he would just sit and cry. He still looked like Kevin Costner, almost exactly, even when he cried.
tbc
My Sorry Ass
To add to the illusion that is my excuse for avoiding risks and keeping loved ones at an arm's length I find myself picking fights. This is not new. In high school, my sweetheart bought me pink tulips, my favorite, and made me a mix tape complete with a list of all the reasons I am special and loved. I cried. We took pictures and got fancy. At dinner I explained to him that buying love is not tolerable and how I had seen him flirt with that same waitress the month before. When he reacted with disdain, I of course did the girl thing, made a scene about him being a cheating bastard ass and left. When I called him the next morning I was very sorry and proceeded to apologize into the week that followed, and the next four years.
I am still sorry and I still pick fights. Not as frequently, mind you. But enough is enough. I am tired of kicking my own ass for stupid things I might have said the drunken night before (Yes it is true. I am a lush. Are you new here?). I hurt feelings and I hate hurt feelings. I say silly mean things to the people I love the most and I make outrageous assumptions, accusations, and assertions all based on my fear of loss. It is that same old sob therapy story. The dad leaves, the girl never loves again, blah blah blah. But it' s missing a middle and an end. The chapters are incomplete and mispelled. It is a mess. I am a mess. For those I love it becomes a convincing route to take on the way out. I am driving, pushing, cussing out the only good in my life, and for what? For nights alone with the cat and Law and Order? No.
For those of you I love: Next time I pick a fight with you, know that I just love you that much. Then kick my ass. Shut me up, and leave me in my fuss.
I am still sorry and I still pick fights. Not as frequently, mind you. But enough is enough. I am tired of kicking my own ass for stupid things I might have said the drunken night before (Yes it is true. I am a lush. Are you new here?). I hurt feelings and I hate hurt feelings. I say silly mean things to the people I love the most and I make outrageous assumptions, accusations, and assertions all based on my fear of loss. It is that same old sob therapy story. The dad leaves, the girl never loves again, blah blah blah. But it' s missing a middle and an end. The chapters are incomplete and mispelled. It is a mess. I am a mess. For those I love it becomes a convincing route to take on the way out. I am driving, pushing, cussing out the only good in my life, and for what? For nights alone with the cat and Law and Order? No.
For those of you I love: Next time I pick a fight with you, know that I just love you that much. Then kick my ass. Shut me up, and leave me in my fuss.
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