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What? Friends Listen to Endless Love in the Dark…

The title of this post has nothing to do with the post itself, but I’m bad at titles so we’re just going to go with this.  Fifty points to the first person who names that movie.  (I’m not sure what the points are good for, but I’ll work that out eventually.  We’re all in this together.)

Today I’m going to tell you something, but first I want you to promise not to give me that look when I say it.

You know which look I’m talking about.  That look.  The look that effortlessly rolls from surprise to horror to pity in approximately .8 second.

I see that look every time I tell somebody this something.  And even though I can’t see you through the internet (wouldn’t that be creepy), I’m absolutely certain that I would be able to feel that look as all 9 of you read my words and simultaneously send it through your screens and across the wires and through my fingers and straight into my soul.

It’s that powerful.

And in return, I promise you that this something I’m going to share really doesn’t warrant the look.  It doesn’t.  It’s not that bad, and it certainly doesn’t deserve your pity, for crying out loud.

So here it is.








There.  I said it.

Did that make you feel icky?

It seems to make people feel icky.  Like they don’t know how to react.  Like I just told them I have 3 nipples.  Which I DON’T.

(But if I did, maybe I would’ve had a better shot at going to prom, eh?)

Okay, maybe not.

Now don’t get me wrong – I don’t go around just spouting out this tasty tidbit to anyone willing to listen.  I’m only telling you now because I want you to know me, and in order for that to happen, we need to just put everything out on the table.

My divulgence of this information usually follows one of those let’s-reminisce-about-high-school conversations, which inevitably leads to talk of school dances and eventually the ultimate school dance experience, which just so happens to be p-r-o-m.  And the person with whom I’m having the high school reminiscing conversation will tell me about how he rented an orange tux with tails and a top hat ala Dumb and Dumber or how she almost lost her virginity in the limo on the way to the post prom party and oh-boy-I-will-never-drink-Jäger-again-because-you-wouldn’t-believe-the-things-it-made-me-do and all of this sucks because just when the stories are getting good, they look at me all expectantly because they know that I, of all people, must have some crazy story to tell and of course I have to ruin it all by saying, “I never went to prom.”

And then I get the look.

And of course, the look is quickly followed by an exasperated, “Why?!”

Well, because I wasn’t asked.  And I didn’t really see the need to go out and buy a gown and have my hair done just so my mom could take pictures of me with some friends in front of the fireplace and then drive the Bonneville to a dance where I’d sip peppermint schnapps from a flask and watch people grope each other under the seductive vocal influence of K-Ci & JoJo.

It just wasn’t in the cards.

If it makes you feel any better, I did go to homecoming all 4 years (twice with a date and twice without), and I managed to have a decent time – even senior year when my date (who didn’t even go to my school) had to have his jaw wired shut the day before due to a flag football playing injury.  Flag football.  So we had to write notes back and forth on a cocktail napkin all night and I was the girl with the hot-but-oddly-quiet date who really didn’t have much to say, but by God was he nice to look at.

And I will say this, even though it might make some of you uncomfortable:  I don’t regret not going.  I don’t!  I’m hoping this life will bring me plenty of other amazing experiences (and it has so far), so I don’t need to dwell on the fact that I didn’t complete an apparent high school rite of passage.

I still got the diploma, didn’t I?

And I honestly don’t think it’s affected my overall success as an adult.

That said, I’ve decided I need to find a part-time job this coming week because I’m getting a little stir-crazy and I’m tired of not making any money and Libras are social creatures, but I’m having a hard time deciding:

Should try to find something in retail, or should just suck it up and go back to waiting tables?

Snow Day

I was actually going to go apply for jobs today.  I was.

Not the you-better-make-sure-your-resume-is-perfectly-polished-and-printed-on-special-paper-so-it-stands-out-from-the-masses type of job, but the fill-out-a-generic-application-and-if-you-remember-how-to-spell-your-name-and-show-up-to-the-interview-wearing-something-other-than-jeans-you’re-hired type of job.

The plan was to just drive around until I saw something… inspiring.

But then I looked out the window and I saw this:

So I decided to sit in front of the fire and eat leftover quiche instead.

HEY.  Do not judge me.  Motivation is hard to come by these days, and until I buy myself a set of scrubs and refuse to change out of them even when I leave the house and forget how to put on makeup and lose my hairbrush and stop wearing bras, I’m not worried.

Just the Tip

If you were hoping this post was going to be about something other than the fear of needles, you might want to check a different site.  One that charges by the month.

Today I got to experience the feeling of fluid leaving my body through a needle in one arm and fluid entering my body through a needle in the other arm.  But not at the same time.  And not for related issues.  And not really for “issues,” since both were completely voluntary.

So no worries.

But the whole thing made me incredibly grateful I’m not one of those people who’s terrified of needles.  I’m terrified of Sponge Bob Square Pants and those tubes of biscuits that pop open when you tear off the wrapper, but not needles.  I actually had this discussion with a friend of mine not too long ago.  Throughout her childhood, she faced inexplicable dread any time she had to go to the doctor to receive a shot or draw blood.  And, much to her dismay, it hasn’t gotten any better as an adult.

Now – this isn’t just your run-of-the-mill, “I-can’t-stand-to-watch-when-the-little-silver-cylinder-pierces-my-epidermis” situation.  This is bone-chilling, sweat-inducing, faint-worthy fear. The kind where she needs to warn the staff before-hand in case there’s an “incident.”

I’ll be honest – I didn’t fully believe my friend when she explained this challenge.  I mean, as far as I’m aware, death (or even severe injury) by needle isn’t exactly a common occurrence.  I thought maybe she was just being a bit of a baby.

Until I witnessed this fear today with my own eyes.

A very pregnant twenty-something sat in the chair next to mine as I was getting my blood drawn.  My attendant was filling the 2nd or 3rd little container with my blood, and I watched lazily as the dark red liquid ran up the plastic tube and entered the vial.

And then I felt it.  Sheer panic.  Not my own, but that of the girl next to me.  She was squirming around and a look of terror entered her eyes when the nurse brought out the rubber blue strappy thingie while using a calm voice to explain, “Ssshhh, it’s just a tourniquet.  Just a tourniquet.”

I mean, this girl was not playing.  You can’t fake that kind of fear.  I felt awful for her.  It was clear she couldn’t help it.  If there’s one thing to say about fear, it’s that it can’t be rationed with.  They had to gently hold her down while they drew just one small vial of blood.  She was done before me.  She hoisted her ginormous belly on shaky legs, took one look at me, and said, “I don’t know how you can do that.”

So I said the one thing I could think of to try to make her smile.

I lifted my non-needle-pierced arm, pointed to the giant protrusion that was her stomach, and said, “I don’t know how you can do that.”

As far as I can figure, we’re all built to withstand different kinds of discomfort.  We learn our limits of what we can endure and the reasons for which we’d stand to endure them.  To me, the prick of a needle is like plucking your eyebrows – slightly uncomfortable, but nothing to get worked up about.  But to others, it’s like Sponge Bob Square Pants running after them with an unopened tube of refrigerated biscuit dough.  Nothing good can come of it.

Do any of you have a strange phobia?  Feel free to share – it’s not like I can judge!

Reunited, and it Feels So… Unnecessary.

*Okay, since my post about my mom’s so-called “holiday” letter has stirred up some grumblings, I just – real quick – want to be clear: My mom has assured me that she did not intend the email to be a family holiday letter, but rather an update to friends and family about what had happened in their lives over the past year.  Since I didn’t visit, it’s only natural I wasn’t in the letter.  And I assured her, in turn, that I hadn’t intended my post to be a public slamming about her letter.  The post was about ME and how MY resolution was inspired by her letter.  Capiche?

Now back to your regularly scheduled post.

Oh. My. God.

Today I got THE notice.

You know which one I’m talking about.

And if you don’t know which one I’m talking about, you are still a young person and it’s possible that I hate you.

Not really.

But I could.

The notice I received was that a girl with whom I attended high school (HEY Ashley!) added me to the Class of 2001 Ten Year Reunion Group on Facebook.


You know, it figures.  Just when I realize I need to start getting things figured out, they pull this on me.  It’s like, hey, why don’t you throw yourself into a room full of people who graduated at the same time as you and count how many are more successful than you – you know, the ones who actually have viable careers… children… Medals of frickin’ Honor.  Whatever.

Like it’s a bad thing I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

I mean, as far as I’m concerned, it’s my high school’s fault that I haven’t decided yet.  You spent all that time teaching and preparing and counseling, but where’s the follow-up?  Ten years after I graduated?  Is a company going to invest time and money into training a new employee and then check back ten years later to see how he’s doing?  I think not.

The reunion is in Omaha in the middle of the summer, so there’s basically no chance that I’m attending.  I have too many other places to see to bother with Omaha more than once every couple of years.  Although, the one redeeming benefit I could see in going is to show off the fact that my boobies finally grew in (quite nicely, I might add) when I was 18.  Although I doubt anyone would recognize me anyway without my glasses and braces.


Truth is, I actually had a pretty fantastic graduating class.  From what I remember.  It’s just that I didn’t spend much time with them during my senior year.  I was too busy hanging with the Best Buy crew (where I worked 25-30 hours per week).  There were over 500 people in my class, so obviously I didn’t know all of them, but most of the ones I did associate with during school hours were pretty great people.  And from what I can see on Facebook, many of them still are.

Interesting note:  I met the guy who sat next to me during graduation for the first time at graduation rehearsal.  It’s too bad – he seemed pretty nice.

Anyway.  Do people still go to reunions anymore?  It seems like with the invention of Facebook, I can happily sit in the comfort of my own home and quietly creep on my former classmates without actually having to talk to them.  And anyone who wants to talk to me can just chat me up or drop in for a visit.  I’m open like that.

True, Facebook stalking only allows me to see what my former classmates want me to see, but do I really want to see anything they don’t want me to see?  Probably not.

I’m content in my ignorance.


It’s Been 100 Years Since My Last Confession

Okay, I’m sorry to admit that my last post caused a bit of an unintentional family scuffle, so Quick! I need to write something to distract injured parties from that which caused them emotional harm and ensure them that I am, in fact, off my gourd and frequently stream-of-conscience write about exactly what’s on my mind at any given moment with little regard to how it’s going to make other people feel.  I realize this isn’t exactly an attractive quality in a human being, but the concession is that it is often an attractive quality in a writer because it pushes me to say things that the rest of you might only be thinking but would never admit yourselves because why should you have to deal with the consequences when I’m obviously more than ready and willing to do it for you?

Like… I’m one of the many people who says she can’t stand her friends’ lengthy Facebook status updates revealing, in detail, their course of mundane moves throughout the day and whether or not their mucus plugs are still intact, but the truth is that I still don’t block them because I secretly enjoy the (completely unwarranted) superior feeling I get when I read them because, you know, I have so many better things to do with my time.  Like blogging.  Right?

And… I don’t care what anyone says – fedoras should totally make a comeback.  There is nothing sexier than a fedora.  Except maybe a newsboy cap.

And sometimes I want to turn off my phone and hurl it across the room.  Actually, I have thrown my phone across the room.  Like a frickin’ 2-year-old.  Sometimes I don’t want to be reached.  Is that such a terrible thing?  And I hate texting.  Doesn’t anyone actually talk to people anymore??

Now I feel like I owe you something for all of this truthfulness that makes me look like a crappy person (because I have a feeling this isn’t going to be one of those “movie moments” where first one person stands up and starts empathetically clapping in support and soon he’s joined by the rest of the audience because it’s finally okay to admit how we really feel and stand together without fear of admonishment and disapproval).

Because I know I’m not better than anyone.  But just like everyone else, I sometimes feel like I am.  But then Karma steps in and bitch slaps me back down.  It’s the perfect system.

So about a week ago in Omaha, we were hanging out at a bar with some friends.  I was a couple of Amber Bocks into the evening, when I did something that probably every single one of you has done at some point in your life (or maybe I’d just like to think that so I feel a little less awkward about it).  But if you have done this before, you also likely did it before the age of 12.  I am 28.

I announced that I needed to use the facilities, and with an air of confidence that comes from 7 years of public legal drinking, walked across the room – maneuvering around waitresses and busboys like it was my job – pushed open the door with a zeal that announced I had arrived at my destination and there better not be a line because dammit I have to pee, walked in, and found myself staring, much to my initial confusion, directly at a urinal.

Why is there a urinal in the women’s room?

That was my first thought.  Really.

And why is there a boy standing at the urinal in the women’s room?

Second thought.  No joke.

It was about that time when my brain stopped sloshing around in its pool of Michelob and caught up with my surroundings.

Urinal guy hasn’t turned around yet.  It’s not too late to escape unnoticed.

I took a step back, and the high heel of my boot made a very audible clack! on the tile floor.  Why weren’t my boots this loud when I walked in??!

At that point I turned and ran out of the door, quickly slipping into the safety and comfort of the other door, which was unmistakably marked with the skirted stick figure (aka. the universal symbol for a women’s rest room) and quietly prayed that no one had witnessed my humiliation.  When I finally emerged, I found myself wondering if urinal boy was somewhere in the room, sitting at a table with a bunch of his friends, just waiting for me to come out of the restroom so they could laugh their asses off.  We hadn’t actually made eye-contact, so there was a good chance he wouldn’t recognize me.  Right?

I guess I’ll never know, but the good thing is no one ever confronted me about it.  So I had another drink and got over it.  And now I’m telling you about it.


Because we’re all human.  We all do stupid things sometimes.  And I’m a firm believer that it’s how we handle these things – whether we own up to them and admit our flaws (either inwardly or outwardly) and work on fixing them, or if we try to hide them and pretend they don’t exist – that affects the type of people we become and reflects the way others see us.

And I know that I’d rather be flawed than fake.

V is for Validation

Okay, it’s that time.

What time?

You know what time.  Resolution time.

This year I’m keeping it simple.  None of this “I’m going to read 587 best-selling novels, earn a 43% pay increase (which in my case wouldn’t actually be that difficult at this point), and have a body like Jillian Michaels by the end of the year” bullshit.

Nope.  My resolution is to make myself worthy of mention in my mom’s 2011 holiday letter.  And not just a quickie single-line nod to the fact that I’m still alive, either.  I want an actual, unskimmable, entire blurb – or maybe even a paragraph – the kind filled with an unmistakable tone of pride on the part of the writer – about a positive aspect of my life.

An accomplishment.

This is not because I want notoriety or depend on my mom’s holiday letter for validation about my life.  I want to do something for me.  I want to not feel like I’m failing.  And okay, maybe I do need to see it in the letter for validation.

The proof of the fact that I need to pick things up came when I realized the only mention of me in my mother’s 946-word holiday letter email – the one she sent to all of her friends and family – is right after she announced that one of her (practically) step daughters is pregnant and it’s the best thing ever except that it’s not because my mom and Ed are not actually married and I guess that means she won’t “officially” be a grandmother because in order for that to happen, one of the children she bore from her womb and whose butts she lovingly wiped and whose noses she lovingly sucked free of boogers with one of those booger-sucking devices would need to have his or her own child and lovingly wipe its butt and suck boogers from its nose.  In other words, I would need to get pregnant.  Or my unmarried (but totally awesome) little sister.  Or my unmarried (but totally awesome) older brother.  Except he’s gay so there’s even less chance that he’ll get pregnant.  AND he’s a guy so actually there’s zero chance he’ll get pregnant.

So what was I saying?

Oh yeah.  I know that I need to work on accomplishing something because the only mention of me in my mom’s letter is how she’s keeping her fingers crossed that I’ll give her a grandbaby one day, but her guess is that Ed’s other daughter will be next.  That’s it.  And it’s justified because I really did not do anything worth mentioning in 2010.  Except the Costa Rica thing.  That was kinda cool.

And for the record, Ed’s daughters really are great.  They’re really nice people and they do things like… you know… visit Ed and my mom.  So they have that going.  And they want to have babies.

I suppose I wouldn’t have to actually get pregnant to earn a more notable mention in the holiday letter.  Which is good, because I have no intention of doing that any time soon.  Finding a job – especially a job that means something – would probably do the trick.  Or maybe if I make an important discovery or save someone’s life or become the first woman to reach the summit of Mount Everest wearing nothing but my Uggs and a smile.

And now enough of this emo crap, am I right?  This will be a year of happiness.

So while I’ll admit that I might have lost some of my earlier resolve over the holidays by distracting myself with red wine and peanut butter balls, rest assured that I’m back in the game.  The résumé update starts January 1st.  Possibly the 2nd if I’m too hung over on the 1st.  But you get the idea.

What are some of your New Year resolutions?

*Disclaimer: I am NOT blaming my mom for my lack of mention in her letter about HER year! I’m simply using it as a testament to the fact that this year I need to do… more.

Tupac and I Have Something in Common…

We’re both not dead.

Ok, actually Tupac might be.  But I’m not.

So what, praytell, caused my whole month-long, shrouded-in-mystery absence from the blogosphere (PS:  I totally hate that word and can’t believe I just used it)?

Some of you might have suspected that I finally got popped by a drug kingpin for all my years of sordid dealings.  Some of you might have suspected that I snapped under the pressure of the holidays and am now in jail serving a five-year sentence for committing aggravated assault in a grocery store with a bin of discounted Christmas wrapping paper tubes.  (Haha, and how much fun would it be to just whale on unsuspecting patrons with those suckers??)

And some of you might have completely forgotten that I even existed on this blog.

All of which are entirely likely conclusions, but wrong nonetheless.

Turns out, I’ve just been… busy.  I know, way less interesting reason, right?  Feel free to make up your own, much more exciting tale about what happened to me.  I recommend working in UFOs and a secret CIA conspiracy that I cunningly uncover.

Anyhoo, I can’t promise that I’m not going to disappear again ’cause I’m feelin’ squirrely, folks.  Squirrely and flaky.



In fact, this might be the only post you get from me for a while because I’ve got job-hunting and apartment-hunting (our lease is up in February so we’re moving… again… frick.) and all sorts of other shenanigans requiring my immediate attention so I’ve got to start paring down my obligations to the bare essentials for the time being.

Rest assured, though–even though I’m too scattered to be clever or dependable or available to entertain you on a semi-weekly basis right now, know that I have mad love for you all.

I’ll try to make it up to you at some point down the road when things settle the eff down, but I’ll totally understand if you decide to get all bitter about it and snub me like the son does to the father in that “Cat’s in the Cradle” song.  Stupid, non-catch-playing father.  Serves you right, jerk.

Anyhoo, until then, keep your noses clean, bellies full and hearts happy.

And now, I will leave you with some words of wisdom from the famed poet-rapper, Tupac:

“Every other city we go, every other vi-de-o
No matter where I go, I see the same hoe.”

Well-said, Mr. Shakur.  Well-said.

Getting into the Spirit(s)

I’m back from Miami!  I would’ve tried to write a post while I was there – really I would have – but it turns out yet another one of my electronic devices has decided to fail me.  Yep, my netbook took a clue from Cee Lo and said f*** you to all the abuse I’ve been putting it through.  Or maybe it just didn’t like being dropped onto a cold tile floor.  Who’s to know?

I’ll have more on the Miami trip for you soon.  (There were ‘gaters!)

But right now it seems like I’m scrambling, just like everyone else, to get ready for Christmas.  Except in my case, “getting ready” entails popping vitamin C as often as Courtney Love pops Adderall in order to hopefully prevent that nasty travel sickness people seem to contract on planes, making appetizers for a mouth-watering Christmas Eve FEAST at the home of one of my bestest friends in the world, and of course getting into the Christmas spirit by consuming various Christmas spirits, including (but definitely not limited to) red wine, coffee with Bailey’s, spiked eggnog, etc.


I Could Drive a Long Long Way and Not Even Have the Gas to Make it Back

Last night I was alone.  I was alone (which is really not too unusual), and at one very distinct point I found myself somewhere on that uncomfortable teeter-totter line between laughing and crying.  It was uncomfortable because I really don’t like to cry, no matter how good it makes me feel.  And creepy because laughing when you’re alone is just weird.  Ask the Joker.

I had a really great fire, a couple of cozy warm dogs, a glass of cabernet… it really was the epitome of relaxation.

But I thought I wanted to cry because I honestly was feeling a little sorry for myself – despite the awesome words of encouragement you gave me both in the comments on my last post via other venues.  But then I went and looked at the stats of this site, and I almost had to laugh.  You see, yesterday I had over three times more hits than most any other day I’ve posted in the last few weeks.  I can only guess that people saw the first few sentences of my post on the link I posted to Facebook – the sentences that stated what a colossal, epic failure I’ve been as of late – and they just had to come see what that was all about.

And that, my friends, is why I love you.

After all, isn’t that how we ultimately make ourselves better people?  By learning from our own mistakes and those of others?

So really.  It was funny.  In such a good and relieving way.  Like, okay… so maybe I’m screwing up right now.  Maybe I just stepped on a big fat bag of poo to put out the fire and you’re all standing around watching me try to scrape the poo off my shoe, but it’s okay because I know now that none of you will make the same mistake.  Should you ever find yourself in the same situation, you’ll dump water on the bag.  Or beat the fire out with an old towel.  But you will not, under any circumstances, stamp that fire out with your shoe.  And if you do, at least I will be able to say, when your shoe too is covered in poo, that I told you so.

To top it all off, “Sexx Laws” by Beck came on the satellite station.  Tell me – how can anyone be in a bad mood when listening to that song?  Hadn’t heard it in ages.  Totally made my night.

Then later this one came on.  And I seriously made me feel like luck was on my side, you know?  The Lithium gods really knew what I wanted to hear.

And of course, that made me think of this, which is even better:

And wow, maybe I really am old.

So thanks to you, and thanks to Beck, and thanks to the Refreshments, I’m pretty sure I’ll be okay.  And I’m thinking this whole “honesty on the blog” thing might not be a bad way to go.  I mean… it kind of sucks to put all your weaknesses and failures out there for the world to see, but it kind of sucks in a good way.

Like shock therapy by way of intense humiliation.

Especially when it comes to my horrible taste in music.

And that can’t be all bad, right?

Hard to Admit

Lately have I not only been failing, but I’ve been failing with apparent epic resolve.  I mean, when I make up my mind to do something, I’m really going to do it, you know?

Friday night we attended that military holiday party.  It was warm and decadent and a lot of people went to a lot of trouble to make sure we had a good time – which I did, thanks in large part to the 3 complimentary vodka collins’ I consumed during dinner.  I was smiley and sociable with some very accomplished and genuinely interesting people.  I even won a Kindle as a door prize, and I didn’t even trip when I made my way to the front of the ballroom to graciously accept the gift.  All-in-all, I held it together.

So why do I feel like I failed?  Maybe because even after all of the mingling and smiling and networking, I still didn’t really feel like I fit in.  I wasn’t the perfect military spouse winning points for her husband by charming his superiors and singing his praises.  I didn’t have to run off every 5 minutes to check on our kids in the daycare room and then regale everyone at the dinner table with tales of their latest naughty-yet-adorable escapade.  I didn’t bond with the other spouses by complaining about how hard it is when he deploys.  Hell, I deployed myself not too long ago.

It’s not like these things are requirements for Justin to succeed at his job.  Trust me, he doesn’t need my help when it comes to doing well in the military – but me having the drive to do those things certainly wouldn’t hurt.  Could I really be jealous that he’s got it figured out and I’m still floundering?  That it seems like the only way I can measure my own accomplishments anymore is by being a cheerleader and pillar of support for his advancement?  It’s not true, but it’s how I’ve let myself start to think over the past five years.

It’s not easy for me to write this and then post it out there for everyone to see.  It’s an admission of weakness, and the person I set out to become after high school graduation wouldn’t have allowed herself such a mediocre performance.

Somewhere along the way I lost sight of the girl who ventured from her home in Nebraska to attend a challenging little liberal arts college in the wondrous and as-of-then uncharted land of Ohio; the girl who quit school her sophomore year and moved back to Nebraska in an (apparently unsuccessful) attempt to bandage the bleeding wounds of her family; who served bottomless soup and salad to ladies who lunched during the day and bottomless pints of draft to men who drank at night to fund a month-long road trip through America’s western mountains and deserts; who ate warm Nutella crepes in freezing rain at the base of the Eiffel Tower; who followed a boy to Georgia and finished a degree with honors in Environmental Geoscience (whatever that is) with big plans to travel and not only change the world, but to change it but good.

Losing sight of the person we were in our youth is something that’s supposed to happen to other people – blissfully content stay-at-home moms, successful career people, and cheesy narrators of wistful indie films.  Not me.

Which is probably why I quit my job to live in Costa Rica.  I wanted that feeling back.  But I failed – am failing – because there’s something I just don’t seem to be getting.  I’ve taken baby steps towards change, rolled the boulder to the top of the damn mountain, but I can’t figure out where I’m supposed to go from here.  I kept hoping that dream job – that one inspirational idea – would slap me in the face and all would be right with the world.

But waiting for a sign is foolish.  It’s lazy.  Apparently I’m going to have to work for the things I want in this life, just like everyone else.  But what if I spend all this time making a decision, following it to accomplish my goals, and then it turns out to be the wrong choice?  I guess that’s life.  And there it is, the ultimate and unavoidable cliché.  We try something and see if it works.  And if it doesn’t, then I guess we adjust and try again.

So right now I’m failing.  I’m failing because I only went halfway with my resolve to fix my job situation.  It’s time to embrace the fail, kiss it goodbye, push the boulder off the top of the mountain and see where it lands.  Ready or not résumé, here I come.