My 48th Post

48 isn't a milestone. It isn't a number usually associated with great achievement. There isn't any reason I should care to put that this is my 48th post. It more seems to be a "just in case you're wondering, if you've been reading you've wasted 48 posts worth of life exploring someone else's life." I want to say that I appreciate anonymous for commenting, by the way. I really do. I think everyone at some point finds some loneliness brought on by a selfish need to be recognized, no matter how meek their accomplishments. Or something.

I came to this entry initially wanting to write on how, currently, I'm sabotaging myself from succeeding. "Same old story, same old song and dance!" Oh, but it is. It's why I went to community college instead of a university. It's why I work in retail instead of interning at a television studio. It's why I'm doing temp secretary work instead of studying in England. But I want to say, now that I'm admitting myself of guilt, that if you're doing the same thing out there in the world beyond that computer screen, that it's alright. Not that it's alright to be sabotaging yourself--no. But, it's alright because you're not being bad. You aren't going to be punished for locking yourself in a cave. No one is expecting you to go out and create something big. You don't know what lies beyond the blanket, and it's fine not to want to know.

I'm not saying I'm willing to go and whip the blanket off my head, because I might not be. I'm a planning fool though. I make plans for my future and watch as they all crumble away in this thing called procrastination. I sabotage myself because sabotage is a type of control, too.

Yesterday I was waiting at a red light. I get some sort of perverse joy out of seeing how people who turn left onto Hardin Valley from the Parkway go over this one bump. With the high-end sports cars and boats that old people and hip highschoolers (who are witty and quirky) there's not much to see. But you get into the light economy cars and it's a show. It's fun to watch their heads go bobbing on top of their necks and how concentrated they seem to be, having no idea of the hilarity this causes. Serious faces are belittled by the bobbley bobble head action. And every once and a while you'll get some lady in a car with bad suspension and sunglasses who looks very very cool until that bump, where one kind of concrete meets another. And even their glossy lips and bleach blonde perfectly messy buns can't make up for the ridiculousness in which they shake.

Yesterday I was watching something on tv. I was watching it from the right side of the screen sitting on a couch arm across from my front door. My front door has three little windows going consecutively up toward the ceiling. Sometimes I'm so childish. Without any provocation I lept off the couch arm and, with a booming of "I'm too old for this" landing sound, I lept up my door toward the ceiling. I scaled my door. I took some deep breaths. I turned around to my couch again and walked back calmly. I stared at the tv for a short while (I don't even remember what was on. Television is more of a background heartbeat in my life than something to specifically pay attention to). I glanced at the door. I was off again. But this time that "I'm too old for this" sound crashed on the shakey shelves above my tv. I didn't ram my front door for a third time in fear of breaking something unvaluable. (That would be UNvaluable, not invaluable.)

Last night I had a dream of J. Beuerlein. Don't give me that look. I scratched it down on an envelope so I wouldn't forget it because it was one of those dreams that comes after you hit the "sleep" button a number of times, so it was still vivid in my mind.

J. B. was staying over at my house with Isaac Mizrahi, though he didn't look like Isaac Mizrahi in my dream. He was this little podgy boy with a bandana on his head. Nice, if not brisque in company. There was also this very straight boy there. Still don't know who he was supposed to be, though he seemed nice if not a little distant.

J. B. and his gang (Isaac and Hetero) had painted my bathroom the night before. They painted it black and white with silver writing on various parts. One of these parts was an outlet box and it said, "move here" in silver.

The most interesting aspect about this dream, though, had to be J.B.'s choice of outfit. He was wearing a black evening dress, the same evening dress I was wearing (with pleated chest and black ruffles on the skirt). He was also wearing very large very fake breasts (inside the dress). I had long hair, slightly reddish (because I assimilated that I've been using my mom's "keep your hair red" shampoo). I was getting ready for work in the dream. And when I woke up, it was the time I had finished getting ready for work at in the dream as well as the time I should have been finished getting to work at in the physical world.

Anyway, I suppose what all of this relates to is my desire to be passionate. (like the segue?) And blah blah blah. And the moral is, don't eat eggs after the expiration date and don't paint your toenails and put on a pair of socks.

currently: working? Hah. Yeah.

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