Warning: Expect foul language. I often blog when sleep deprived, and even when I'm not sleep deprived I cuss.
Warning the second: TMI often occurs. Read at your own risk. Feel free to laugh at my expense (I know I do!).
Warning the third: I suppose I should just put a general Trigger Warning here. I talk about mental illness (Anxiety, panic disorder, depression, social shit), abuse (rarely), and my fucked up relationship with food. And...other things. Actually, just consider this a general warning: If you might be triggered by things, you probably should read no further.

Monday, January 27, 2014


Haven't posted here in a long while. Ended the semester on a good note, overall GPA of 3.7...would have been higher if I hadn't procrastinated. My dad's voice in my head still tells me "That B should have been an A" and since in this case it WASN'T math, I have to agree. It should have been an A. Kicking myself on that one.
I'm not attending this semester. Didn't have the money. Spent months trying for a job and didn't get one until late December. So, that makes me sad. And a bit morose. And...feeling like I fucked things up and that I put yet another delay on my dreams when I'm not getting any younger.
Most of the time my age is just part of who I am. It's not a negative...until it comes to this. Because I'm so much older than most of my classmates, hell, I was older than two of my teachers last semester (though one of them, not by much). I'm so much older, which means that I'm going to have less time on my chosen path and it just makes me anxious. So anxious. Because I don't know if I'll have the money to pay for classes over the summer, and if that's the case it'll be a good 8 months before I get back in school. Which is a big chunk of the year.
I started training for the job I got. It's work from home, which is nice. But the schedule is not the most conducive to school. And I'm feeling so hopeless I can't even write my silly drabbles lately. I don't know how much is the job itself, how much is the school situation, and how much is just crazysauce. But...I just feel hopeless...and adrift. I fear that I will become comfortable in the rut of working a job like this (customer service for a big ol' company) and give up my dreams. I fear I'll let my fear of living like I did with my ex (one step away from eviction, surviving on ramen and peanut butter) make me make a bad decision. But I can give no less than my best, because that's how I was raised. I can already tell that I could progress in this company quite easily if I wanted to. It wouldn't even be a bad thing, necessarily, because mine is a personality that is great for a business like this. But it wouldn't be the best thing. The best thing would be to achieve my dreams and see more of the world than I currently do.
But I wish I could write right now. That would make me feel so much better. I spent my twenties mostly not writing, when it's always been one of the things that makes me happiest. I've never needed to be published, or needed acclaim, or needed recognition of my skills from any but my loved ones. I just...feel better, more whole, when I can write. Even when it's a senseless little romantic drabble. Maybe particularly then. Because those senseless little romantic drabbles are written for no one but myself, even if I do end up sharing them with my friends. But they are written solely for me, because it makes me happy to create those scenes.