Like You Want It

Life as a blonde seems particularly light. "It looks better," my uncle sputtered. A low-end compliment if I do say so, but most others have appreciated my recent transformation from dark to dim(mer) and I can't say that I regret the change. Just last night I found myself explaining to a customer the evolution I wish my hair to endure and I confessed that I had to wait until after I completed student teaching to shave one side of my head, because such "freakish" style choices wouldn't bode well for my burgeoning career as a (respected? let us hope) educator. He laughed. Freakish? Such a choice of words. Not odd, but so telling. We should all pause for a tic and thank Ms. Alice Dellal for being the final catalyst in my decision to wreck my hair. Destruction with a purpose.

And what about my two-week hiatus? I feel shame for not having written letters in so long, especially to a handful of people who deserve two or three a week - and there are a few other important "to-dos" idling on the proverbial backburner that have seemed to help stave off any attempt I've made to write. Want to do so every damn day, but look where that's gotten me. The difference between desiring and doing. And I sit here and remind myself that I work and I do other things related to not-computers and still I feel cheated. Just like when I say (to myself and people that really do fucking matter) that the letters are coming; my time will free-up soon; I don't know when I'm coming to visit but I know for sure that I plan on doing so.

Stagnation - the death of productivity. So perhaps I will attempt to make a pact with myself, starting today: I will work my eight-to-twelve shift and prepare for the planned hike/picnic at Mohican State Park as if it were the most important trip I've taken in a good long while; and I will finish the letters I've already started when I return, make phone calls that I've avoided for no reason at all, and read all of that unopened mail that should have been viddied upon reception. Not going to make promises (although many might argue a pact and a promise are essentially the same thing) but I am going to make progress.


Bated Breath:



Kissing Somebody

Red-orange blanket,
sleeping dog,
upright plastic waterbottle in the middle of the living room carpet,
grey low-top Chucks.

What I like about some boys I despise about others. It's all about specifics: time, place, mood. I like'm punk and I like'm clean-cut but never both and never consistently one or the other. It might occur every once in a great while that I come across someone who possesses qualities that defy definition, but he hardly ever shows his face and I tend to become extremely impatient looking for men like him. We will be friends, and he will hand me compliments left and right, but part of his game includes pinpointing my flaws and weaknesses, using them as a means for separating the two of us. He adores my sense of style but hates the way I give equal attention to "everyone"; he's made assumptions about the nature of my sexuality but still asserts his debauched interests. As if I were an object to claim, a territory begging to be owned and dissected. Most often I find the idea of sharing joint custody of my own self absolutely horrifying, let alone the prospect of relinquishing full control over thoughts and behaviors. I always prefer to "do" for myself and that self only, giving of my being only when I feel absolutely inclined to do so. Selfish and overprotective.

I'll kiss just about any cute boy, though. Just because.
(not really)


Nothin' But the Truth

Cannot wait to move to Chicago. Felt at home, vital, inspired. Sort of like when a bride-to-be tries on that perfect dress, she cries, and an automatic attachment occurs. She knows it's the one.