The Night My Apartment Burnt Down (But Really Didn't So Don't Freak Out).

I haven't talked much about my current state of mental health on this blog for a while, but it is still something I think about often. I lost my really intense diagnosis some time ago after a great deal of personal work, healing time, and minor emotional epiphanies that finally added up. Also dropping the doctor who seemed to believe if the low dose pills weren't working, that we should probably up the dose or add this other prescription to the regimen instead of discussing diet changes or homeopathic remedies was a pretty good move too. Nearing a year and a half of being pharmaceutical-free is pretty awesome.

So. Current status.

Pretty damn good most days. Like, really good. Maybe even, is this how normal, usually positive people experience and feel life, because they are totally on to something! Of course then I quiz myself about what is going on in my life and wonder if feeling positive in the face of unemployment and divorce is really such a great sign of mental stability...

But not to worry (or maybe to worry lots!), I still have these blistering moments of anxiety and depression so abysmal and ridiculous that I get this urge to reach up and pat my own head while saying, "whoa there, Nellie. You are gonna be just fine if you could just start breathing slower." (We have already established that I often times split into two characters when sort of losing my shit. One is sweaty, panicky, GI-track issues girl with the million-words-of-worry-per-minute-thoughts and the other is this sensible, knows I'll make it through, somewhat amused by the flurry of nervous activity the other is putting on display character. These two parts of me talk to one another. HEY I COULD SAY I TALK DIRECTLY TO JESUS AND HE TALKS BACK OR SOME SHIT, so just roll with it.)

(This is my favorite kind of Jesus. The kind that calms nervous velociraptors. This picture has nothing to do with this post really, but you aren't going to complain because it is Jesus holding a fucking dinosaur and you know how rad it is of me to have shared it.)

The longer I am not employed the more frequent these little bouts of hysteria occur. We are coming up on FOUR MONTHS OF UNEMPLOYMENT PEOPLE. I mean, I have this amazing internship that I love, love, love, but love ain't paying my damn bills. It does allow me to feel productive most of the time, but I still experience this distinct sense of FAILURE AND SUCKITUDE at being an adult.

Anxiety by definition is: Unjustified fears or concerns that are likely to meet other fears you may have and then they all start mating in rabbit-like fashion and pretty soon you have rabbits falling off all the available surfaces in your brain and did you guys know they smell funny when they get packed in tight, and how am I going to feed them all, OMG I AM GOING TO COMMIT BUNNY GENOCIDE IF I DON'T KEEP WORRYING/FEEDING THEM, SOMEONE HELP ME STOP THIS SIMILE/METAPHOR DISASTER. Well, that is my definition at least.

Okay, so I started this post like five paragraphs ago with the intention of telling a story about this totally out of hand anxiety response I had to a very minor situation that I now can laugh about. Worked out really well, huh? Whatever. Today was total shit and I just needed to vent about having a sort of loose, shaky structural feeling about myself. Like I might just collapse into a vibrating puddle of emo when I get a really kind, loving message from someone and don't feel worthy, and don't know why I don't feel worthy, and I thought I was over these internal and irrational chantings of "no one will really love you if they could see you as you really are which right now is in faded yoga pants, popping amoxicillin and pain killers for that wisdom tooth you need to get pulled but haven't, peanutbutter smeared on your cheek and a general outlook of doom and misery."

Phew.

Finally here is the story (though I doubt if I need to illustrate further that I am neurotic at this point):

I woke up the other night to the smell I realized (after nearly hyperventilating from huffing the air rapidly) was like something burning. I sat up and pointed my nose in every direction. I got out of bed and wandered around. Was a burner on? Can radiators break and suddenly turn waaay up and explode (even though I know they are water based and probably don't make smokey smells)? Not shockingly this spiraled into "SHIT WE ARE GOING TO DIE IN A FIRE IF I DON'T FIGURE THIS OUT RIGHT NOW" and "HOW AM I GOING TO GET MY GRANDMA'S HOPE CHEST DOWN THE STAIRS IF THEY ARE BURNING?!?!!" I woke the gorgeous german that was staying the night (yes, he stays the night sometimes family; don't freak out on me) and asked if he smelled it too. Yes, he did, and it smelled a bit like a cigarette he thought. I believe he turned over and had the audacity to go back to sleep not realizing that we really needed to plan our emergency exit strategy OR WE WILL DIE A FIRERY DEATH, WHY DON'T I HAVE ONE OF THOSE ROPE LADDERS LIKE IN THE ADVERTISEMENTS, FINE I WILL DO EVERYTHING. I stayed up another 45 minutes sniffing the air (which pretty much didn't smell like burning for 40 of those minutes, but I stayed vigilant) and organizing how I would corral my cat, grab my most important things, and swiftly get us all to safety only to watch the rest of what I have burn to the ground.

Um, so we didn't die and my apartment is still intact, if you are wondering. Turns out I have a new neighbor that smokes directly below my place. I am in the process of submitting a courtesy request that he knock it the fuck off so I don't have to fear for my life and wonder if I have told the people I care about that I love them enough.

This post is sooo done now.

Hipster Freakout

Sometimes I just embrace that I have these vaguely hipster tendencies here and there. For example, I do like the scarf with t-shirt/thin jacket/no-it-is-not-cold-out-but-I-am-too-cool-to-care look. Never mind how idiotic and obviously contrarian it appears, I dig it.

Also related:

• I have a weakness for girls who pull off messy, butch haircuts.
• I get a kick out of introducing music to a group of friends that is 1) amazing music and then, yes 2) unknown to them until that point.
• I do own vinyl and yet no record player anymore.
• I understand how one can have good taste in wine and beer all while being on unemployment.
• I have a friend who collects grandma shoes and rocks them for all the comfort and radness they are worth (a lot, according to her).

And then there is this song which is my current anthem.

Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros pretty much rocks my face off

with hipster happiness and I suggest if you have any qualms about how

asshat-ish hipsters can be, that you put them aside and revel in this

goodness.

Then we can return to mostly hating on those pretentious pricks as per usual.

There Was An Old Woman Who Lived In A Studio Apartment. And Her Name Was Stoleyourprozac.

I am getting old.

Okay, not really, because come on, I'm only 28 years along, but I am going to drop a bomb right here, right now. I have white hairs. WHAT THE OLDER-THAN-I-FEEL-IS-FAIR FUCK? The other week I leaned into check out my extensive roots (hey, I am a red-head, but I like to amp it up a few notches) in my bathroom mirror to see if I can pull off a few more days/weeks of lazily not attending the disparagement between dyed and real. I decided, hells yes I can. As I pulled away from practically smooshing my face against the cool mirror I caught a little gleam in my hair.

What was that magical shimmer, I wondered.

I leaned back in. (Feel free to imagine the Jaws music playing in the background or some creepy CSI kinda tunage.) I saw it again. Right there, in my bangs. I innocently wondered if I had some blonde in my hair again. HEY, IT COULD HAPPEN. However, it did not happen. I believe I said " Oh, fuck me" when I realized this hair was white.

And then.

I SAW ANOTHER ONE. HOLYFUCKINGSHIT, I CAN'T REALLY HANDLE THIS RIGHT NOW, SO I AM JUST GOING TO HYPERVENTILATE ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR.

When I regained consciousness (it was touch and go for a good 10 minutes) I clung to the sink with one hand and rapidly plucked with the other. OUT DAMN SPOT kinda stuff was going on in my mind.

I had to get these suckers where I could really see them and confirm the shocking whiteness that was happening. If I had a microscope I would have spit on a slide, slapped those hairs down and dropped some biology knowledge, but as it turns out I got a C+ in biology and I do not own fancy science paraphernalia.

But don't worry that they are all gone. Oh-ho-ho noooo. There are more of them. Taunting me. For a week I sort of FREAKED OUT ALL THE TIME, but now I am embracing these thin wisps of I-am-closer-to-death-than-a-day-ago thingies. It could be a pretty striking look don't you think?

I mean Bonnie Raitt straight up rocks the skunk stripe. I'm thinking I could do the same.

What The What?

PICTURES! COMMENTARY! EXCITEMENT! ALLCAPS!

Let's do this.

First I will kill you with cute! I know, right? Eh Geh, so adorable I want to shove marshmallows in my mouth and raise flutterbies (that was what butterflies used to be called, which makes WAY more sense, p.s.) in a commune or some shit.

I am a little late with the cultural relevance on this one, but it has been just sitting in it's jpeg glory, waiting for the right post. And here we are. Ready to drop this hot shit like it is... well hot. I preemptively apologize for getting this song stuck in your heads if you know it. Damn, it catchy though. And cause I am feeling goofy, here is the best version of the song. Like I said, HOT SHIT.

Now that you are in the mood to dance, I give you titillating hints of pop-and-lock instructions.

Let us break it down, break bread together, beatbox, bust a move, bump-a-rump, Brokeback Mountain Hip Hop I Can't Quit You!!

Whoa. Yeah, I went there. And it was good.

Well, it's sweet and weird, which is pretty much me on my best day. I really like this work and you can find it here. A Softer World.

If this diagram doesn't explain everything in the world to you, I am not sure we can be friends. But let's get serious, if The Big Lebowski didn't offer the universal theory of everything to you with open hands and a come hither expression when you first watched it, then we were never meant to be anyways. Or just watch it again and get back to me. Because I need my readers. And the movie is SO worth watching approximately 56 times over the course of a few decades.

I love my chickadees, and I hope they love me. I will try to stay more on track with posting regularly again. I just needed a month or so of laxidasical posting habits to get my energy back. And beef up my random picture collection.

xoxo

Catch As Catch Can

Shit. This a catch up blog post. I took a break from publishing as life got busy and the posts that got started certainly didn't get finished. I think I have four or five posts still in the "edit" phase and today I am pulling some of them together in no real order and with no real purpose. Just a release of them and perhaps a release of some of these thoughts.

Orange wedges, divorce papers, forgotten about loads of laundry, spring walks, friends, internship, crushing on someone, ukulele jamming. These things, among a few others pretty much sum me up these days.

Exhibit A: I took to eating orange wedges in the mornings after seeing my niece go to town on them recently. She is nearly two years old and has a more developed palate for food than I did at 16, I think. If it's not oranges, it's grapefruit, or banana, or lentils, or salsa, or... you see where this goes. When her mom or dad cuts up the wedges of orange she wiggles in her highchair and reaches with a smile and hint of a whine in her voice if it takes too long. Once her plate is in front of her she jams the wedge into her mouth, slurping and gnawing away with a blissed out look on her face. There is much to learn from the young, and even if all I figure out is to eat fruit with distinct and obvious pleasure, I am totally cool with that.

Exhibit B: My dear friend came up with and introduced me to the term "the Divortex" and I love him for it. In essence it is can be defined as any conversation that spirals rapidly into only focusing on the proceeding of a individual's divorce you are not legally involved in and that does not allow you to extradite yourself with ease. The only surefire way to end the cycle of chatter is to establish "divortex" as a safe word of sorts that cues the other person that they have taken over the conversation to a degree that is no longer acceptable. I make a point to not really talk about the divorce at length to anyone, but there have been moments when the sympathetic ear of another has allowed me to teeter at the edge and once or twice, fall in. Swirled around faster and faster amongst legal forms, emotions, useless theories... it is a dangerous place to visit for anyone, even for me as I go through the process. Printing out the forms and filling them out for the first, tentative time was... heavy. I sort of buzzed in my fingers and lifted above myself at times, like the feeling you get right before you come down with the flu. Distant and confused.

Exhibit C: From February:

The light is changing in Sacramento. More often the grey morning breaks open by noon into puzzle pieces of huge puffy clouds and bastions of blue. I wasn't so sure I was ready to lose the promise of rain, muffled noises from the street... but after one afternoon of ennui the moment the sun shown in through my window, I think I am ready. It was silly, I suppose, to mope like a teenager when the weather did not suit my tastes exactly. And it happens every spring. I get a little panicky when the ratio of rain clouds to blue sky tilts in the latter's direction. It takes a few days to remember how the clear, clean light of spring brings promise, little buds on spindly branches, voices bouncing off buildings up into the open sky...

Many years ago February consistently was the hardest month for me. It harkened back to times of strife and stress. Those of you that know me well, remember how you became more vigilant and most likely more worried for me. Each February I feel it less and less until, I nearly don't feel it at all. And hopefully, so do my loved ones.

This year the rebirth metaphor of the season is particularly apt. I have a freshly tilled garden in which to plant whatever my heart desires. Never having a green thumb to begin with, I am hesitant to really go wild with it. I may love to look at dalia's, but I haven't the faintest idea how to care for them. And so it is with new endeavors, too. New friendships, new projects, new affections. I am operating on intuition and a solid dose of hope. Come on, blossoms! Wow me like I think you just might.

Exhibit D: The new affection. It isn't that new anymore. He's been around more often and I'd like to think I am better for it. I don't know how much to say or even how to say it. I'll just start with the words that come up first. Heartbeats, goosebumps, coffee and tea, fingertips to fingertips, silly chatter, meaningful talks, journal entries, discovery, surprise, trust, music, postcards, dreams (day and night), being present, being calm and excited all at once, reality exceeding fantasy. I realized I don't care if it is "too soon" or just a smidge crazy of me to feel all of these things. Life is for the living and I feel so very alive these days. A New Year's kiss that has brought me thrills and beyond as the months have passed. Fuck yeah.

Sie sind mein herz.

Bits And Pieces

A list!

1. On my plane ride up to Washington a week or so ago I had the pleasure of watching a somewhat odd and sweet man maneuver through his travel experience. He was a slight build with white, white hair and an equally white beard of about 3 inches. He was probably in his late 50's early 60's, but with a very youthful stance and sparkling blue eyes. I first saw him standing near the gate, looking out of the floor to ceiling windows at the planes as they came and went. He was wearing all denim and stood with his legs planted wide apart and his fists on his hips. Think superhero position. He would lean back slightly and then rock on his feet and smile. I should mention that it is likely he has a developmental disability and that my little blurb about him is in no way an insult or joke about him. I found I felt rather affectionate towards him actually, or at least as much as a stranger can about another. He stayed there for a good 30 minutes and then we boarded the plane. I think he was pre-boarding, but didn't pay close attention. When I found my seat I realized we shared a row, with one person between us. I smiled at him and sat down. He immediately took off his shoes and placed them next to the canvass bag (with cartoon cars on it) under the seat in front of him. Hey, yeah why not get comfy? It is only an hour and a half flight, but shit, relax all you want. Also, I was okay with it because his feet did not stink. Good hygiene goes a long way with me. He spent nearly the entire flight nose to window, occasionally murmuring things to the sky and world below. I like to imagine he was throwing out compliments to the mountains and clouds or was engaging in some interstellar communication (Mork and Mindy style). When we landed he started clapping and said softly, "oh hurray! good landing plane!" He put on his shoes, retrieved his bag and waited his turn to exit the plane. And I think I fell in love with his perspective on things a little. Wherever you are little gnome-like man, I sincerely hope you are still as happy and amazed by life as you were that day. However, to the man with the matted toupee in the seat in front of me? Let it go. You are not sandy blonde, you are not young, hip, and in the late 1970's anymore, and you are not going to convince anyone otherwise.

2. I have made two meals that are exactly the serving size for one person in the past two days. This is quite the feat as I usually cook for a family of 6 at the minimum. Adjusting to cooking for one (okay only down from two, but still, a change) is going better than I imagined. Leftovers are sort of depressing, so I am liking this plenty. Cooking related, I sort of had an unintentional flambe experience last night. My eyebrows are still in place and no fire broke out, but the flame plume was impressive. I know how to keep it exciting, even if it is only exciting to me.

(it was like this, but with me making the "oh shit!" face in the background)

3. Applied myself to applying for jobs today. Sent out four resumes and cover letters and am going to sit with my fingers crossed. Okay, I am going to go to band rehearsal, call a friend, and work on some art instead of sitting, but it felt productive to put myself out there. I am staying fairly upbeat about finding work, or at least surviving on unemployment for now until the magic of the fates bestows upon me a killer position somewhere for a reasonable amount of money. Ah, timing. It really is everything.

Well, You See I Was Trying To Do My Taxes When...

My printer ran out of black ink, I realized a specific form I needed was no longer in my possession currently, and my internal though process started resembling that of an ADD pre-pubescent boy. Time to take a break.

I am running low on energy, but as you all know, never low on pictures. You also know where this is going.

If you don't already see the winner in this picture look again. Now, imagine approaching life in his manner. Animal print! Thumbs up! One foot forward! That's right, chickadees, be a hand-full from the get-go!

Sexiest. Arrestee. Ever.

I am guilty of occasionally using vaguely internet-like lingo (acronyms such as BTW, OMG, FWIW come to mind) to retardedly comment on things of interest, but when it comes down to it, I fucking hate all the simpleton sounding phrases. And since I am all about harnessing the power of my random rageful leanings I use it for good. Or for snarking about people I hardly know as they walk by my window saying stupid shit and wearing frighteningly ill fitting clothes. I love being a bitch.

When I found this I nearly cried with joy. Stoleyourprozac has a lolcat, people!! (It should be noted that although this cat did take your prozac, it did so only because I carefully trained it to. So really it was me all along and my moniker is still appropriate.)

Hell, I don't know with this one. I thought about discussing hiding from the world, masks we wear, blah, blah, blah... really I just like this picture and hokey costume items.

I'm going to go create a Hall and Oates Pandora station now and pretend these picture heavy dealy-bobs count as a real post. HUZZAH.

A Post From A Month Ago: Last Night Was A Doozy

I wrote this last month after a particularly shite evening. I am posting it now, because a bit of time has passed and I have been mulling over the traits of various women in my family and in my life. How we each approach and deal with hardships and bad news. This is most recently felt and observed because my grandmother passed away and I am seeing the reactions and fallout. I have blogged about her before here. Being strong and being sad and letting tears fall or not fall is certainly on my mind. So, here is what I wrote for Last Night Was A Doozy:

And it is all Grand Torino's fault.

So I sometimes make a pact with myself not to cry about things for certain amount of time. Once in college I said three months with no tears. Four dry months went by. Recently I made an agreement to be very, very, very strong and to not give in to my tears too often, even as my heart broke and my marriage crumbled. Movies and happy tears have been excused from this, but the real tears... the drops that don't just mist, but fall; the swollen eyes and blotchy-chest tears I refused to let out. Maybe a stray one spilled for the briefest of moments or that one time I drank too much and let loose the existential angst waterworks, but day to day I. Do. Not. Cry.

It has been important to me to demonstrate how in control I am. When everything around me swirls in confusing, angry patterns I can have say over my reaction. Years ago the control manifested in the ways I have mentioned before. The self-abuse was key and allowed me to control simple things, even if it ended up hurting quite badly. But now that I treat myself nicely and so often am found smiling, I chose to put the reins on my tears.

I am getting a divorce and until tonight I have not truly cried real, big, painful, unlimited tears. Even now they pool in my eyes and I swipe them away. Annoyed. Sad. Soft underbelly bullshit.

Someone asked me tonight if moving out of AM and my shared home is going to be an emotional thing for me and I said "no, not at all. I closed my heart off long ago and I am ready to leave." I really believed myself when I first said it, but now a few hours later... I am taking on the weight of what it means.

Five minutes ago I was standing in my bathroom, tears streaming saying over and over "You failed. You failed at marriage, Anna. You are a failure." I let myself feel it very deeply and for the smallest glimpse of time I thought of self-injury. It is still there, after all this work and time. Ten seconds later I was back to pep-talk mode and believing that yes, I can do this and yes, it will be okay, etc.

It all started with Clint Eastwood and the movie "Grand Torino". I watched it tonight in bed with the covers up to my armpits and Kiki Dee attempting to snuggle my head. I misted over for the movie, but it triggered the tears that only real life knows and can summon. The cute white cat that every night tries to fall asleep on my pillow and next to my face will no longer be in my life. The boxes that have to be packed loom before me. The man I thought I was going to be with forever, snores in the back room as he has for months on end now, as I lay alone. Everything is changing. Nothing is as I thought it would be. And FUCK, IT HURTS.

So I cried. Sober, ocean filling tears. I let them be accurate and I let go of the pretend control I have over the emotions of something this sad. It deserves tears. I don't want to cry much more (though I am sure I will at some point) and think I might have purged something very deep in me so that perhaps the next time I cry it will be less. But I don't really know.

I know I am not a failure. I realize I am the best version of me I've ever known to date. I also know that honoring the pain and heartbreak of this decision is not weak or a loss of control. It just makes my eyes hurt and my lids to be awfully puffy the next day. That I can handle.

Tardy For The Party

I don't actually like that phrase, "tardy for the party." In fact I think I might hate it. Why would I use it then, I suppose would be the natural progression of my hypothetical conversation I have with my audience. Well, I am terribly glad you asked! (In my vivid imagination you are holding a small notepad to record my response. But hey, guess what? You don't need to jot it down, because I am WRITING IT ALL DOWN HERE, ON THIS BLOG. Internet/wackadoodle mind of Stoleyourprozac garners another win!) Sometimes, I use phrasiology that grates on me and others in an attempt to illuminate my strong sense of irony and humor. SEE, I AM FUNNY AND LOVABLE.

It is going to be a ALL CAPS kind of post, so just get used to it now. NOW.

The party for which I am tardy for is Valentine's Day. This wasn't one I was particularly pumped about say... a month or five ago? A heart that breaks slowly and having to reestablish an identity free of marriage will do that to a person. Turns out, the name or date of a day doesn't really mean shit; however, I still love... love. Dammit, I do. I see all these dear friends of mine planning weddings, writing love songs, making babies, celebrating years upon years... and I like it. I might be a bit shattered and just managing to keep my own heart together with a somewhat shredded fishing net, a wire tie from a bag of bread, and the elastic band from a fake pirate eye patch, but it works okay. I still pump blood and maybe, just maybe am able to enjoy glimmers of new affection.

Wait, did I just go a paragraph without caps-lock on? I AM THE FLIGHTIEST BITCH WHEN WRITING SOMETIMES, SERIOUSLY. Okay, I think we are better now.

So I have some Valentine related pictures to share. Let's bring them on stage now, shall we? (THE ANSWER IS YES.)

Titled "Ventricle Vessel" you can find it here at Tsunami Glass Works (Um, yeah, I just linked it. That is of course the extent of my linkage today likely, but I keep track of the few blogger brownie points I accumulate. ALL FOUR OF THEM.) (Hmm, caps-lock is even starting to annoy me now... perhaps a respite is in order. OR NOT! Aha!)

(Please keep reading my blog, even though I am annoying and plagued with limited desire to harbor any sense of self-control.)

I actually sent this as the body of an email to someone. What? Said person is very much fine. It was merely an observation of fact.

Okay, so the romantic in me would love to set this up, make a card indicating a significant other should visit its location (e.g. "Your presence is requested on the corner of 6th and St. Helens Ave at 7pm on the 14th of February") or create a treasure hunt for the person I care for to find among other hidden-in-plain-sight symbols of affection.

The moral of this story is simple really. A belief in love endures, even when the way I expect it to manifest changes dramatically. I haven't a clue if romantic love is near or far for me, but I certainly believe it exists and that alone makes me hopeful and happy.

Also, someone brought me flowers, and I totally swooned. I AM AN EASY SWOON, OKAY? It felt wonderful though.

Tulips and roses and orchids, oh my! (Yes, this a picture I took of them.)

I wish you a (tardy) day, month, life of love from friends, family, and if you want it, from someone special. You certainly all deserve the happiness you crave or have already found, built, and nurtured. To all of us:

Playing House

I have a new apartment and it is all mine and I love it. I started moving on Monday and am completely done as of yesterday. My cat is slightly unsure of it all and has spent much time under the bed or weaving in-between my ankles, never not in physical contact as I walk around straightening things.

Here is a sneak-peak blurry picture I took yesterday. These are the apartment's first flowers. A dear friend brought them by and they just look so happy sitting there. Love them.

So, once I get a bit more organized, etc I will also get back to blogging more often again I hope. Give me a few more days to lure my cat out from under the bed, cook my first real meal, and dance around in my underpants a few more times, singing "I did it! I did it!"

Lastly, thank you for the support that many of you have provided, whether it be through comments on this here site, private emails, calls... It has made this transition immeasurably easier and more hopeful than it might have been.

I Never Liked That Stupid Game Anyway

There are a few major life changes that are going on in the Stoleyourprozac universe lately and as always, my body is noting them. All of them. In unique and specific ways. (Here is where I turn into an old lady and list my ailments.) My face is reminiscent of a teenager, my hair is frizzing out daily, and as always is the case when I have to deal with things that are emotional, my digestive track is all, "let's play red-light/green-light, but not actually tell you when we are changing the light." Fuuuuck.

Red Light: Most of my stress is from getting ready to move to my own apartment. I am doing it all pretty much alone and although it is going very smoothly so far, the toll of coming across unused wedding invitations, old photos, and the like is, uh.... DUDE, IT SUCKS SO HARD. And it hurts and I don't really have any tears for it, but man oh man can my stomach knot up and just sit there like a grumpy toad. Arms crossed, refusing to move, and majorly scowling. That was much of yesterday.

Green Light: Then suddenly, umm... a shift occurs (oh god, is this post seriously about whether or not I can take a crap due to stress? Just... wow.) and serious gurgling and movement starts. And I then shit myself wild for the next 14 hours straight.

It's been great fun around here.

But my new apartment is fucking cute as hell and has all these built-ins and lots of sunlight. I know that once I am settled in and out of this emotional (and gastric) purgatory, I will be back on top.

On top of what, we are not so clear about, but let's not question the slightly dehydrated, overwrought, redhead today. Let's just feed her Malox and weak tea, and give her sweet compliments about her appearance that may or may not be true.

Yep, I totally look like this today.

There Are Real Post Written, But It Isn't Time For Them Yet

So instead of my emotion based rantings, I give you some youtube videos. Enjoy, chickadees.