Between the two jobs I now have, I’ll be clocking in a rather fabulous 47.5 hours this week. Since I love money and having stuff to do, this is most definitely a good thing.
All of the things I want out of life right now are completely within my power to achieve. So now I need to get my shit together, sort out my busy money-making schedule, and do what I need to do to meet all of my goals.
Said goals include but are not limited to:
- Eating healthily even after Lent ends (I’ve given up cookies, cake, candy, chocolate, fast food, deep-fried food, soda, and meat)
- For once in my life actually maintaining some sort of work-out schedule so I can have a confident summer at the beach
- Writing my book
- Staying as positive as the past few days have managed to make me
- Earning shit-tons of money and buy my tickets soon
Like I say, there’s a lot more I want to accomplish, but I think the above five bullet points are a pretty solid start.
Something else that’s really great about life right now: my promotion to a department head has reminded me of what a capable individual I am. I am a kick-ass authoritative figure that can handle far more shit than my last few jobs have required of me, and it’s refreshing to actually have important responsibilities. Not to mention I’ll finally have something worth mentioning on my resume. Yes, I like to think that this whole writing gig is going to work out for me in the long run, but until then, this chick’s got bills to pay, and a handily fucking awesome resume will go far in doing so.
And that’s all I got for now party people. Time to listen to some jams and write a bunch of words.
Carey Elwes does not approve.
Now it may not be the world’s most exciting list, but it’s what’s making my week doable right about now:
- My weekend
- The massive plate of spaghetti I ate Monday night
- The world’s sweetest cat
- Kicking ass at Mario Kart 64
- Kicking ass at DOA2
- Cheap beer
- Making friends
- Deciding not to settle
I love the word clavicle.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what’s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I’m the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment
from its hanger like I’m choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,
it’ll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.