All Caught Up

I've been taking pictures for the 365... just lazy about uploading them.

After a backlog of 20+ pictures I think I'd like to stay on top of things again.

No, that was definitely insomnia.

I need to stop downplaying problems. Not sleeping well for over a week at a time is not normal for me. I can sleep through almost anything (except snoring).

I couldn't even fall asleep to my own breathing one night. I think that's when something signaled being wrong.



Today I got my ambien. I took it about an hour and a half ago. Everything is pleasant. I know I am going to be sleeping tonight and man, that is a load off of my shoulders. I miss waking up and being awake. I miss remembering what I'm doing. I miss remembering where I'm going. I miss talking to my family without losing it.

Hello bed. I'd like to get to know you again.

Running on Empty

Crunch time. Second FIDM interview Monday. The deciding interview. Application stuff needs to be finished, need two more reference requests, things that were supposed to happen didn't.

Tired of sitting in my chair all day. No matter how I sit it's not good enough. The old abdominal pain comes back and I freak out, envisioning another trip to the ER for a ruptured ovarian cyst. That's the kind of pain that brings you to your knees and makes you remember your place. You are human. You are not invincible.

I haven't been sleeping enough. I don't want to head back to Junior year when I didn't really sleep so much as wait until the next day. I don't know if I slept or what but for three days I don't think I did. Hiding from nightmares.

Of course I'm not doing that now. I'm just working too late.

Starting Again

The feeling I got from some of my peers at high school is that you apply to a bunch of colleges, sell your soul (and money) to the college board, get your hopes for your top school crushed and go to another one and be done with it. Or if you got into your dream school, that was it. Set.

I had an easy time. I took the SAT twice, couldn't care less, applied to my one college (and didn't have to pay any fees), and got in early. Set.

Or so I thought. What you want out of life can change. It's not the end of the world. Realizing what you're doing isn't what you want to do isn't the end of the world. It's just another path.

Change Abound

Well, a lot has happened in the last week. For a while I've been feeling that as much as I love my college, I'm not doing enough of what I want to do. I brought this up about a month ago and predictably, it did not go over so well. Since then I'd been turning the idea of transferring over and over in my head. I've been feeling more and more like I need to have a change of scenery, too.

The 14th we all talked about what I would do.

The 15th I officially withdrew. As soon as I got home I started looking at jobs, apartments, and getting stuff together to sell on craigslist. A job is already looking likely. A friend of mine is leaving a loss prevention position and his boss already likes my résumé and experience. I used to be an Explorer so I have experience in this area. It would certainly be interesting to work that position in the (very rich) community I went to high school in. The idea is to sock money away for college (it's a full time position) while applying to art schools in southern California.

I could comfortably downsize into an efficiency unit.

Yes, I'm looking to move to Los Angeles.

I need to think of a name for my plan. Operation: OutRun? Operation San Andreas?

Tattoo, Part 2

Back in January I got Saul Bass' iconic Golden Arm inked on the inside of my left bicep. A symbol of success over struggle and some really damn good graphic design.
Today I got my inner right bicep tattooed with Mr. Saturn with a balloon tied around his nose which is how he fishes for birdies in Mother 3.

it seems my left arm is all about serious business and my right one is about fun things.

My Love, My Lost City.

A long time ago, but more like it was five years ago, I met you. I don't remember how I met you. How I got to you. There's no memory of it.
Why? Well, there was a term the neuropsychologist I was seeing used. Irony is I can't remember it. Oh, the sweet irony.

I didn't like her. She was a nice person but she was more interested in telling me about the plight of girls at Albany High and how they spread rumors about each other and wasn't I glad that I didn't deal with that?

One minute I was fine, and then fear started to build. In the office I knew I would die. If I didn't get out I would die. I was deaf to everything but the high-pressure hum in my ears like a jet plane about to take off. I exploded out of the Victorian and rocketed down the steps to the street below. Safety? Not there. It wasn't the office that would kill me. It could be anything. Nothing but thoughts of fear and death and the End of Times came to mind.
It was too much.
And the fear and the panic and the terror, that's why I don't remember how I got there.
To end up in a place, just like that.

I found the Lost City of Letters, myself equally lost.

Five years later, I'm in a better place. The Lost City of Letters is not so lost any more. The neuropsychologist's card I so carefully taped under my mousepad ("In case of emergency," she told me) was long shredded to pieces. The other psychologist I saw, that card also became confetti. Perhaps it was unwise to do so, but it seemed like the right way to move on.