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This entry doesn’t know anything about any hookers, you must be

misinformed There was a really long melodramatic maudlin entry here but I deleted it because even though I was trying really hard to refrain from being all “poor me” and “fie on the people who done me wrong” and how I didn’t (in a quote directly from the entry) “want to be the poster child for childhood trauma”, it still became exactly what I didn’t want. Ah well. It was an important thing for me to write, but not as important for you to read, and now it is where it should be and that place is Away.


This was a sort of wasted weekend. I have about a million projects on my plate, most importantly two tons of stuff to hand in for class tomorrow. I cleared my social calendar for Saturday, with the intent to write my ambiguous term paper, reread Frankenstein, write the reaction paper, and maybe, if I was lucky, watch an episode of The OC (which is certainly not required viewing for my class, but feels oh so good, and also educational in that I’ve now learned about yogalates. Certainly it’s a crime that this has not been taught in higher education yet. Thank you, The OC!) Yes, I had a reasonable agenda (with the exception of the book, which I figured I could skim) and even time for a Starbucks break along the way. I sat down at my computer and then spent the rest of the day messing around with address labels for the Holiday Card exchange. I am a complete tool. Paper? Frankenstein? Who what now?

On the upside, my address labels are REALLY cute.

Besides, I had the entirety of Sunday to work on class stuff. Except that I did more work on the cards and also a bunch on my latest freelance project. I know! I know! This is the same professor who will be writing me a recommendation letter and I’d rather that it not read ‘I recommend that you don’t accept her lazy address-label-making ass into your writing program’ but I’ll pull it together between now and class. I hope. I am obviously broken in the head. My only excuse is that I have the tendency to self-sabotage. I am clearly destined to be a great artiste.


I woke up so early this morning, I swear it was still Sunday. Esteban had to catch an early flight, which meant that he woke up at a ridiculous hour, showered, then stomped back into the bedroom where I was sleeping and flipped on the overhead light. Good morning, dearest. I would like to point out that I have mastered the art of getting dressed in the near dark, or, during three months of the year, via indirect light from the dining room, which does not shine onto the bed (or anywhere near the closet) and sometimes must make several trips from the bedroom into the dining room to make sure that I’m not matching a black shirt with navy pants. I grumbled, because, man, at least give me a second to open my eyes before you throw on the 60 watts, ok? Then got out of bed, threw a pair of jeans on over my boxer shorts, a sweatshirt over my camisole, and shoved my feet into giant thermal socks (which seemed the only pleasant way to encounter the first snow that had fallen through the night) and then stuffed them into my biggest pair of tennis shoes with a modicum of success. Then, I shuffled off outside to start the car and clean the four hundred pounds of sodden heavy snow off the car. And I did this with joy in my heart, because it was the first snow and it was still dark outside, and everything was beautiful and that lovely sort of pinkish glow that happens when it snows at night and also because I didn’t want Esteban to have to clean off the car in his suit. I got him to the airport and was driving back, right past my office, at the time I was normally in the shower. I cursed myself for not showering the night before, when I had had plenty of time, and now would be in a major rush and have to forsake my normal morning Sbux constitutional. I got home, discovered that Esteban had used my favorite towel in the whole universe so that it was damp and I couldn’t use it for my shower, threw on a pair of jeans and a DKNY t-shirt and then rushed off to work, forgetting my jacket. Which turned out to be fine, because it was a balmy 36 degrees and apparently I have toughened up. Like a lumberjack or maybe a pack mule. I feel so feminine.

And right now, Esteban is in the Bay Area this week. I have to admit, I’m a tad jealous. I had originally planned to travel to SFO last month to assist in a Fu-tastic celebration, but then work would have required that I only be in the City for roughly 34 hours and it seemed really pointless to spend $600 and two four-hour plane flights to only get but a taste of crazy wild adventurous fun.

So instead I paid someone to put in my kitchen floor. When did I become my grandmother, with all of this pragmatic crap? And then I had tried to finagle some way to travel to California along with Esteban, but then it was for naught, mostly because this month, we’re replacing every window in the house, so my bank account is currently calling the abuse hotline and asking for asylum. Where did that free spirited travel girl go? Other than falling down and breaking her crown. Apparently, we hardly knew ye. Must think of new travel plans for spring. Must or go mad.

(or buy a new couch)

Forget I said anything. Travel! Rock star! Extravagance! Leather couch from Restor–, er, hookers, hot pants and candy!

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