Space is no place to raise your kids

Yesterday I sort of fell apart. Not physically, or even metaphysically. I just reached that point where I felt like destroying things, or driving a fast car, or disappearing into the woods, or some other equally cliched image of the tortured artist breaking down internal boundaries. Whatever. It worked at the time. But afterwards I  got up from the dirt, took a deep breath. I dusted myself off, shook out the cob-webs, and decided that boxes are for toys, not grown-up girls.

I’m trying to be good. I’m trying to scribble things down. I’m trying to sort it all out. I’m a grown-up, damnit. I make me. Other people don’t.

I have a new job that I’ll start sometime after Easter, so there is that to look forward to. I’ll be making better money with fewer hours and more flexibility. I won’t have to dance for my life to makes end’s meat, only to fall short in the end. The semester is almost over, then summer break (my last classes will be in fall, then I graduate), two trips to Dallas (one for Lady Gaga in July, another in August for a week of shopping and wandering city streets and sleeping in hotel beds). I’ll have more time to write, to plot, to tinker, to get things done.

I just have to get there in one piece.