Bible has lain stagnant, but I'm working to renew my inspiration and fill it with beauty and hope and life.
My totems are a pair of pink striped plastic heart earrings, a delicate silver heart necklace a family friend gave me a long time ago (to remind me to love myself), and a TokiDoki heart and crossbones necklace Dan gave me for my birthday (to remind me that I am loved by others).
College is officially done, and I have no desire to return in the coming years for a higher degree. Two bachelor's degrees are adequate for now.
But jobs aren't easy to come by, and without proper connections I can't imagine getting a real (good) job in the publishing world.
I'm looking though, and there are days when I come very close to praying to the gods I don't believe in.
I got two new FLB books this week. One-- Blood Roses-- bought off Amazon after a few weeks of considering, the other-- Wasteland-- stumbled upon at the local used bookstore. With the temperature creeping in through the foggy windows and nothing much else to do but clean, I'm sure I'll have them done soon.
Christmas is coming, and all of my presents are bought except for Dan's. The simple act of wrapping colored paper around boxes and books makes me feel busy and artistic and wonderful. I'd wrap everything in shiny paper and plastic bows if I could.
Every time I glance around my bland, beige apartment I consider buying more christmas lights-- some to string across the walls and wrap around the lamps like little colored reminders of theoretical happiness. But just the idea of going out into the night's 18 degree weather makes me curl up into a ball and go back to my books.
It's strange being content, yet still unhappy. Something about the world, or myself, right now leaves me unsatisfied
I want to write a new list of "How to Be Happy", a winter edition that takes into account frigid gusts of wind and foamy cups of cocoa and hot buttered rum. Lovers and Puppies cuddled on the couch, hiding from the cold.
"Just like any woman,...we weave our stories out of our bodies. Some of us through our children, or our art; some do it just by living. It's all the same.." ~Francesca Lia Block