Friday, March 26, 2010
I have this weird thing with the number three. I find that more often than not a lot of good things come in threes. I take signs very literally if I've had three of them. And then there's all these big to-do's about the number three. There's the Holy Trinity: Father, Son, Holy Spirit; an excellent, yet reassuring power of three. Or how about third time's the charm, or one of my favorite things, baseball-three strikes you're out.
But then I've also found that if three's can come in pleasant packaging, they can also come along dressed like the grim reaper. Those dastardly threes like the Bermuda Triangle. Now that's a triangle not even mathematicians can appreciate. And that's when the number three just plain old roasts my toast, because as I can't help but fear, once one bad thing happens, I start looking over my shoulder for what's inevitably two more doosies of despair.
This mentality may not serve me well if I am always on my toes waiting for the other shoe to drop, but I just can't fight history. And if I know anything about history, it's that it repeats itself. So it came as no surprise to me yesterday morning when I got a rather unwelcome reminder about a certain bill I've been trying to tackle that this wouldn't be where it ended. This put me on edge for the better part of the day and as I was driving home in a slight panic about my finances, I thought, okay, deal with this. It's just one thing. You can handle this one minor mishap. Yes, it started as one, but I had a sinking feeling that it wasn't going to end there.
Sure enough. As I was being a mature and responsible adult and penning a handy bill chart detailing how many different ways I can be broke throughout any given month, I got a phone call from my mother explaining that the very large sum of money she had previously told me I was getting from my taxes, was actually going to be a lot, lot less. Taking note from my mature handling of the previous bad news, I did what I do best in a sticky situation. I began sobbing and spewing claims that I would drown in debt and this was so typical, or oh I'll be fine, I'm just going to HANG myself! Yes, like I said, really mature.
When I finally got a hold of myself yet again, and went through my mental checklist of why being optimistic about my future is really the best route to take, I got yet another phone call from my sister explaining that she might need some of that money back that I had borrowed from her to make a car payment when I didn't have a job. (And yes I was planning on paying her back... when I got that really huge tax refund, that turned into a really paltry pittance)
And that my friends makes three (bits of crappy financial news that is). My mind started spasming with possible solutions, little neurons zinging and pinging around desperately in my brain to figure out where all this magical money was going to come from (surely my measly paycheck can't foot all these bills--no matter how many times I re-do the math).
I briefly considered becoming a phone-sex operator, but my morals got in the way. I thought about hopping the next train out of here and changing my name to Dimitri VanHeuson and working as a waitress in some small town in Alaska, where obviously no debt could find me.
But then reality sunk in and I realized these small, yet simple facts. Believing in yourself will always get you through. And having some really great helping hands once in awhile doesn't hurt either.
I have always had a sense deep down in my core that great things are headed my way and if I just ride out the bad, like this particularly nasty period of destitution, I will come out of it a better and maybe even wiser person.
Yes, I know I will. I will write best-sellers, go on book tours and fly my family to Italy to try the best pizza with my top-notch income. I will most certainly pay off all my bills before I'm dead. And I will help all those who have helped me along the way (like some promised designer bags for a certain best friend). My ship will come in. Why so certain you might wonder?
Because as much as I'd like to believe the number three is a total wang for turning on me every once in awhile, bringing me misfortune instead of fame, like I said before, more often than not I find the good in the number three and all she can do for me. And I think you need to look at life in the exact same way.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Since yesterday's post was a little bit of a debbie downer and I've had a day of reflecting on what I wrote and how I felt, I thought I'd backpedal a bit.
To put it simply, I've come back to my senses. Admittedly I was again swept up in the whirlwind of what it feels like to have a guy tell me I'm beautiful and play interested and it was all well and lovely. But all of a sudden all this hard-won independence and self-loving turned to self-loathing the second he lost interest. And, uh, that's not going to fly with me. No longer will this girl deem her beauty or self-worth on when a man says it's so. Fuck that. I say it. I'm beautiful. In and out, curves and cellulite, frizz and freckles, I am beautiful.
And you know what else? I'm happy! I forgot for a teensy-tinsy millisecond how deliciously happy I actually am with the strides I am making in my life. Funny how a man knocks me all off kilter and rules my senses. I get all woe is me, he doesn't like me, my life's a big pile of pond scum. Ummm, no it isn't. I love my new job. I literally didn't want to leave today. The people there make me feel valued and important; the atmosphere is beautiful and I enjoy what I do.
Oh and I'm taking horse-back riding lessons. Yeah, that's right. Something I've wanted to do since childhood, yet get around to doing once every seven years or so. I called and set it up today. One more life-long dream being conquered. Check.
And as many cracks as I make about not being a Wisconsiner, seeing the glory of the packers or ever becoming a party-girl, I really like this town. It has amazing qualities. I went for a drive today and just looked at old Victorian houses and parks where children chased each other, white steeples on old churches, breweries and wineries, theaters and coffeeshops and thought, this town has so much to offer me!
I went to the library today and was on a high filling up my arms with guides to off-beaten trails of Wisconsin and books I've been dying to read (Twenties Girl, by Sophie Kinsella). It felt like what eating really good pizza tastes like after you've been craving if for ages or dipping your feet into the water at the beach for the first time in the summer. And not just today, but my life feels like that; it feels really good right now. Promising is the word I'd use.
I am meeting people that I enjoy being around and make me laugh and rekindling with others I never imagined I'd form such powerful bonds with. I feel at peace with who I am becoming. And who I am becoming isn't someone's ego-booster or fall-back plan.
If a man doesn't see what I'm about, well it's not my job to show him. I'm worth looking into. And that's that, my friends.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
You know that old phrase if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it still make a sound? Well I want to apply that same philosophy to something else. If a girl gets all glammed up hoping to impress a guy and he doesn't notice, does she still look good?
It sounds really simple and like the answer should be yes, much like I've always thought about the tree making a sound, but last night this theory was put to the test and I hate to say it, but I doubted it.
All across the board I've met women who do this, get your haircut and your husband doesn't notice so you don't think the haircut was that spectacular after all. Or go to a lot of trouble shaving your legs (which is a lot of trouble guys!) and buying a new dress and your boyfriend does a once over and asks you if you're going to need to put on a coat and you want to deck him, because although you didn't realize it, you were holding your breath in anticipation of the awe he was supposed to have when looking at you.
Why the hell does it matter? It shouldn't, really. I love getting my hair done and as I don't have a husband or boyfriend to put it to the test, I generally always think I look pretty saucy. However, I will admit, I did take some extra time and care shaving my legs last night, and when all was said and done, I couldn't help but wonder, old country twang in mind, did I shave my legs for this? It was severely disappointing, even though before going out, the roommate and I made a pact not to get depressed at the end of the night. Boy is it that obvious what men do to us? And sure enough as the night wore on, I could feel it happening. The little you're not good enough chime in my head every time I went to the bathroom and re-fluffed my hair and adjusted my shirt.
It's easy to promise yourself you won't care and won't be affected and maybe some can pull this off, but when you go into an evening really wanting to be noticed, or that someone saying you're beautiful, and you leave with a little more smudge to your mascara and the bite of defeat in your step, well it's the sucker punch you thought you were prepared to avoid.
The one plus side of this sad little tale is one man (maybe not the man I had in mind, but it's no matter) did indeed compliment me. And in one of the most sincere ways. He told me I had the most piercing eyes he'd ever seen and then told me as he walked away, you have a wonderful evening, sweetheart, without trying anything more.
God bless you, Richard. Maybe the tree makes a sound after all.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Being the spontaneous, sometimes erratic person that I am, I decided upon waking last Saturday morning, that I would venture out of Green Bay for a few days. I threw some clothes/essentials in a bag and was on my way.
After stopping in Chicago to see a beloved college pal, who introduced me to a slew of documentaries I would most likely never have watched on my own, and also feeding me the most scrumptious home-made meals of ooey macaroni and cheese and breakfast skillets, I was on my way to Fowlerville to see the familia.
There I did the usual catch-up with the rents--explaining why I'd quit my last job and that they needn't worry about my vagabond lifestyle--played countless outdoor games with my siblings, ensuing in some tears, a few bruises, and a lot of sore limbs, (quote from Alexa on the game of Four Corners: "We don't hit people in the face with the ball... we've established that it's rude.") won some money and prizes in a cash booth surrounded by leprechauns, and then to my immense pleasure, received the job offer that I'd been longing for, hopped in my car and prepared to head back.
This is where things got dicey.
As I was cruising back into the Chicago limits, feeling a tad cocky about my ability to navigate the city, I attempted to land myself at another college friend's pad located in Wicker Park. Yes, a lot of my friends live the cool city life, lucky bitches.
Anyway, per my mapquest piece of shit directions I was supposed to get onto I-90, but somehow wasn't finding it with the last turn they had me take. So I whipped out my trusty GPS (or Ashley's trusty GPS that I kidnapped for the excursion) and keyed in Bre's (said college friend) address. I was happily snacking away on a crunch bar, making turns and keeping my eyes peeled for an expressway when I made a turn onto a street that looked less than inviting. I'd say picture an off-beaten trail in Detroit here.
My heart immediately started kicking in my chest as if to say, get US the hell out of here! But, I thought, the trusty GPS wouldn't lead us astray would it? I slowly inched a little further down the road. My pulse was beating a hasty we're doing to die tempo at this point. And I hate to say it but the Crunch bar was not forgotten, I was still eating away, slow but serious bite after bite as my eyes nervously scanned my surroundings, as if the prospect of imminent death in a bad neighborhood couldn't deter me from finishing what could be my last chocolate bar.
I decided after a few more streets, passing a few more ramshackle houses and (I'm sorry) but what I assumed to be gang members (One of the documentaries I watched was the Crips and Bloods: Made in America, so forgive me for instantly thinking the worst!) I agreed with my rapidly beating heart and sweaty palms--now sans-chocolate-- that the GPS was a damn fool if it thought there was an expressway in that neighborhood!
I pulled a U-ey in the middle of the street and started flooring it back the way I came. By the time I managed to make my way back to a well-lit expressway I was in a state of hysteria. My roommate can vouch for the phone-call made to her in which I couldn't finish sentences because of my gasping breath and the assumption that I was being followed.
Now again, I decide to entrust my welfare with the GPS's guidance, and so I dutifully follow it into, yet another not-so-lovely neighborhood. As I got more and more suspicious passing old train cars and boarded up gas stations, I thought, this is it, doomsday. The Crips and the Bloods said they do not take kindly to visitors and I am a visitor. And yes, I know the Crips and the Bloods are located in L.A. but tomato/tomato.
My Michigan plate was a neon sign that I was not from this neighborhood. As I slowed to turn onto what the GPS clearly deemed 1-90, I pulled into a construction site for a new expressway, drove underneath a bumpy underpass and then came to an empty lot where an SUV was idling near some city buses. Again, my insane and overwrought imagination assumed this was a drug deal taking place... though I'm pretty sure the SUV had some sort of city logo on its side, my histrionics didn't acknowledge this.
As I peeled out of there and sped to the nearest stoplight and waited for it to turn green, I panicked wondering if I should backtrack like before or pray the interstate actually was up ahead. I saw the signs for a detour to 1-90 and decided to follow them. As my heart thudded harder and faster with each street that led me further into decrepit kingdom come, I thought only of how I am not nearly as tough as I thought, and that I am not quite as city-savvy as I had previously assumed.
Once I finally, FINALLY reached I-90, I was almost near tears, could hardly take in a steady breath, and was gripping the wheel so tightly that if it were someone's neck, I surely would have killed them by now.
When my dad called to see if I was finding my way and I went into a twenty minute rant about how I would drive all through the night to get home versus venturing off the safety of the expressway again, he told me that he thought I was being a bit paranoid. The conversation went something like this:
Dad: It sounds like you were around Gary, Indiana, maybe outskirts of Chicago, that's a rougher area, sure.
Me: Dad, I was scared for my life! I cannot believe I made it out alive, I am certain I was followed three times, there were people milling about in the streets, and I think one car idled behind me so long that I thought I was about to be gunned-down!
Dad: I think the Bloods and the Crips has gone to your head. You weren't about to be gunned down. And it's not like you were driving a brand new BMW.... maybe then... but I'm sure you had nothing to worry about.
Me: No, you don't know. I've been through an ordeal! I know I saw gangs... I am not a tough girl, I am a big pansy!
My dad laughed. I started to see his point that maybe I was being a tad over-dramatic. In all reality I probably was in some rougher areas of town, but the likelihood that I was about to be shanked and have my vast collection of board games stolen from my backseat was most likely slim to none.
I didn't want to take that chance though and so I drove through the night, back to the safety of the land of cheese. Driving through Milwaukee felt like driving through Candyland and I made it to the comfort of my bed with no other incident.
Ah, the life I lead...
Friday, March 12, 2010
The other day while driving, I heard the song Time Marches On, by Tracy Lawrence. This song immediately brought two things to mind, my aunt Lacey, and my childhood, which really go hand-in-hand as I cannot imagine most of my childhood without her. Being the youngest of my mother's thirteen siblings meant that only a handful of years separated my aunt and I.
She was the one I would go to for all advice on the ways of the world. If Lacey was wearing it, I had to have it, because obviously it was very hip and trendy, much like my aunt Lacey. This explains my brief love affair with Abercrombie and Fitch, which you wouldn't catch me dead in now. She also introduced me to my years of devotion to Lauren Hill and the Fugees, which at first I just powered through while bobbing my head and pretending to vibe, but then realized they were quite soulful as well as slightly bad-ass, for me anyway. Ah and the good old country classics, one song in particular that pulled on both our heartstrings: What Mattered Most, by Ty Herndon. Remember that Lace? Her eyes were blue, her hair was long, sixty-four she was born in Baton Rouge... Still today, I can recall the lyrics, because of the days spent belting them out (most likely teary-eyed from the angst of it all) in her bedroom.
I've been thinking about my childhood a lot lately, not that it's so far gone, but it sometimes feels that way. Those days of babysitting for my Aunt Rhonda and discovering my love of late night TV. No, not SNL, but I Love Lucy, always a grandma at heart. I mean, my mom told me absolutely NO SNL as there was adult material featured and I listened, even if she wasn't around to catch me.
It became apparent to me in college, that due to me diligent pastime of babysitting/following of the rules in my christian household that I really was out of the loop on a lot of things. While most people in high school were perhaps partying, drinking, making out with their boyfriends, I passed my time reading, playing kick the can with my siblings and having slumber parties with my posse of church-going friends. Sure we played drinking games... okay with water, (booze would have never even entered our minds) the point being: let's see how much water we can chug until one of us pees our pants. It wasn't me, I am proud to say! But the hilarity that ensued when someone beelined for the bathroom hunched over in pain, was well worth the gallons of water we downed for sport.
You could call my adolescence nerdy, sure, but looking back on the fact that I was probably the poster child for D.A.R.E and couldn't fathom any reason why people would want to harm their bodies or their minds with drugs and alcohol, I did what most parents want their children to grow up doing. I watched Nick at Nite religiously, played games like freeze tag with the neighborhood kids, and abstained from sex and drugs.
Some may argue that it's a stretch for most kids in this world to grow to the age of 18 and celebrate New Years Eve with sparkling grape juice and The Princess Bride, but my parents proved it's possible. In fact I think they'd say wonderful.
The other day I got my roommate to watch one of my all-time favorite movies, The Long, Long Trailer, starring Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz. While this dreamy look came over my face bringing me back to all the times I reached ecstasy at seeing it on TV, I told her about how much I adored it as a child. And she responded, "Wow, were our childhoods different!"
Yes, it's true, that some teenagers will push the envelope on what they can get away with, others extent of rebellion (mine) might've been sneaking out to the railroad tracks with their childhood crush, Joel, and smoking one of his dad's cigars only to dash home, snarf down some pretzels to cover the smell of Swisher Sweets and take a long soapy shower to ensure the parentals wouldn't know about such a dastardly deed.
I suppose it might seem weird and maybe not what most parents expect of their teens, but I think they should. What's the harm in dragging out your childhood a little longer, curling up watching G rated programming with your mom, giggling into the night after stuffing your bra into your best friends freezer on a dare and then forgetting it the next day when you leave, only for her dad to find it.
I can't say I regret a moment of the way I was raised, playing Friday Night at 8o'clock (only my family could probably understand the lure and magic of this game) or watching Wee sing in Sillyville, which Lacey and I definitely watched well into our teens, and just being a kid.
We grow up much faster than we expect and one day we miss that innocence, that magic of waiting to hear sleigh bells, and being entertained with climbing trees and pretending to be the Boxcar children. I think every child, young and old, should stretch that time of innocence, because even if you spend 18 years being a child, you'll likely spend 60 or more being an adult. And you'll be wishing you were again so lithe and limber to run endless yards of cool summer grass and oh-so-naive about what sex really entails, pressing your Barbies together making kissy noises. To quote Peter Pan:
Wendy: My parents wanted me to grow up.
Captain Hook: Growing up is such a barbarous business, full of inconvenience... and pimples.
Those of you who still collect Babysitter's Club books because they bring you back to your youth, get immense joy from hide and go seek with five year olds, or perform song and dance routines in your bedroom with hairbrushes as your microphone, well to put it simply, I commend you Peter Pans. And even the Wendy's of the world, who knew eventually they had to grow up, well, who could forget that childhood time of enchantment anyway? It never leaves us. Lucy will always find a place in my heart, much like Peter Pan in Wendy's.
Time marches on indeed...
Sunday, March 7, 2010
I really got down and dirty today. Cleaning. Scouring. Distracting.
Over the course of my life, I have fought a long, drawn out, seemingly endless battle. My weight. It's up, it's down, I come to terms with it, I get furious and decide to give up--a sordid love affair if you will, as it's always on my mind, teasing and taunting, the forerunner for my attention.
After a weekend of trying not to acknowledge some powerful feelings of inadequacy, I finally had a face-off. Bulge, yes, you. I want you gone. I mean it this time. We're over. I am sick to death of you and this on again, off again relationship. I mean it! Easier said than done though, right? Ohhh, always right. I woke up this morning after my fervent promises to myself yesterday that I was starting anew. I would wake up and eat only healthy things, slowly. And then I'd go for a run so intense, you'd think an imaginary soldier was behind me with an official order to shoot me if I dared fumble and claim I was out of breath. Maybe I'd do sit-ups until my flab quivered. (No abs on this girl--not yet anyway).
However, promises made to oneself the night before while somberly eating what felt like my last cheesy steak quesadilla, are always easier to work through in the mind.
The moment, and I do mean the moment my eyes opened this morning, it was if I had woken up in rehab. My mind was already regretting the decision for betterment. What have I done, I thought? I have cinnamon rolls in the fridge! I can't start dieting with cinnamon rolls in the fridge. It's too great a sacrifice! I was in an instant panic warring with myself over whether I should even get out of bed. Could I really have a stand-off with the cinnamon rolls and come out the victor? I wasn't sure. I was rather petrified at the prospect.
Lucky for me, before I could even make it to the kitchen, a very wise friend's words came into my head helping arm me for battle. If you don't do this, you must not want it bad enough, otherwise you'll just do it.
It was enough. I didn't even open the fridge and look at the damn things. I instead made my low-fat, whole grain, hardly-any-taste waffles topped with bananas and strawberries. Yeah, yeah, sounds sorta good or something. It wasn't hot, gooey frosting topped cinnamon goodness. But a small battle was won and that was a start.
To say the rest of the day was just as smooth of sailing, well, this wouldn't be the battle of a lifetime without some choppy seas now would it?
I managed to get the oven preheated later and the pan out for the cinnamon rolls, and then quickly came to my senses and bolted for the door for my power run worthy of the Biggest Loser. A.K.A a brisk walk with a few (or one) bursts of jogging, followed by gasps of outrage at how difficult running actually is!
Once I got home, as any good addict would do, I contemplated the food in the house, feeling acute pangs of loss at what I wasn't eating and realized I needed a distraction.
The house didn't particularly need a whole lot of cleaning, but I also have another tool up my sleeve. An eye for the missed mess. This tool has been acquired and honed in part from years of cleaning in a house of 12 with my mother chiming in after a solid clean-athon in which I thought I'd done a helluva job, "You call this clean?! Look again!" The second part would be a small case of OCD, maybe acquired from the first part. Who can really know for sure?
I started on the kitchen and wound my way through, getting a solid beating on the stovetop, the counters, the fridge, the rugs... cleaning in a way that would make my mom more than a little proud of the lessons she imparted on overlooked mini-messes. I stood back admiring my handi-work thinking, you haven't lost your touch Sturos.
And I'd mostly forgotten about the cinnamon rolls. Even as I pushed them aside to scrub shelves. Why didn't I just throw them away, some might ask? Well, it is day one (or day 218936214387246 in a long list of attempts) but still. I'll get there. I need to save something to do tomorrow right? Throw away cinnamon rolls. Noted.
Ohh, this is going to be a brutal attack, but I have prepared my defenses. Don't you worry, those blasted cinnamon rolls have nothing on me!
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
You know what I love about my mom? (besides every single facet of enduring strength and astounding ability?) She is one tough bird. And a supportive bird at that. Now our family has had its share of ups and downs. And in times of despair, uncertainty or challenges, no matter how great, I have always known I can turn to my mother. She is the stitching that holds the fabric of our family together.
That's why when pondering this great question as to what do I do with my future, I naturally turned to her. If anyone's advice I value above all, it's hers. I shouldn't have been surprised by her immediate response of, "I am right there with you, if it's not making you happy, don't do it." But I was a little bit shocked. Wasn't she going to tell me to be practical? That a job's a job, or just stick it out for now and see how you feel later. No. None of that. She simply trusted me. Trusted that when I say I'm unhappy, I mean I'm unhappy. That sure, I may be financially strapped if I quit my job, but which is more important to me? Can and will I bounce back? Yes, she says. You will. In fact, she goes on to say that she never has a doubt in her mind when it comes to my drive, my passion. "I've always known you had it in you, Cassandra. You're going to make it."
As soon as I get my mom's approval I know. And I'm sure you guessed it, I start to cry, because well, I'm a crier and that was just beautiful Mom.
Not only did my mom's faith in me give me the push I needed in the direction I was yearning to go, but this quote I heard today on Oprah helped a little too.
"I believe that if at the end of it all, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime, to make ourselves unhappy is where all crimes start. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances, we must try. I didn't always know this and I am happy that I lived long enough to find it out."
Roger Ebert said this and though I may be 23 and haven't lived quite so long as he, I can firmly attest to this being true.
So my friends, I am quitting my job. Onward and Upward, they say. Let's see what happens.
Today I am torn. I am also really sick and maybe that's muddling some things in my brain. For those of you who read my last post, you're well aware that I am on the fence with my job. Well, more like holding onto the fence while desperately trying to get the proper footing in order to fling myself onto the other side... but as I've got considerable heft and no agility to speak of, this is proving quite difficult. Okay, long-winded analogy aside, bottom line: I want to quit my job.
I am sure none of you are surprised. Well, maybe some of you are. But here's the thing. I moved to Green Bay to find some semblance of happiness and order in my life. To do something involving writing, and if not that, then something that feeds my soul in even the tiniest of ways as to make not writing for a living, somewhat bearable. And there is nothing, and I do mean absolutely nothing, that feeds my soul about the health insurance industry. And even less soul-feeding are my pathetic paychecks.
It's one thing to do something really interesting and not get paid that well, because at least you're getting one rewarding thing out of the deal; but to have a job that is akin to going to getting a root canal and then to add insult to injury, in comes my meager paycheck.
Alright, I'm off topic. It's this damn cold making my head feel all fuzzy and sinusy. Oh, right, I remember, my doomsday job. So I have always been one for making grandiose declarations that I may or may not follow through on. I like to believe when I make these declarations (This is the year I get really skinny! or.. I'm joining the circus!) that I will actually do them, but ya know sometimes it just doesn't happen quite that way.
I say this because in almost every job I've had at one time or another, I've said, "That's it, I'm never going back. You can't make me and I won't!" And I really meant it. I didn't ever want to make another sub sandwich or deal with some irate customer screaming at me that I overcharged her twenty-five cents for a 99. bracelet. But what did good ol' reliable Cassandra do? She showed up for work the next day, gave her two weeks when it really was quitting time, and so on and so forth.
And really that's good of me. It's the way I was raised. To be reliable and hard-working. However, there is a part of me that has endured oh so many shit jobs, that I just ache to never go back. To just throw in the towel and say, no two weeks, no tomorrow. I am done.
I want to believe I could do that. That I have it in me, to just wash my hands of this whole thing, but I am not sure I do. I have such a deeply grained innate sense of commitment to these jobs--not because they're spectacular by any means, but because I don't like to let people down. And it's so ANNOYING sometimes. Because right now, I am thoroughly fed up. For once I really want to throw caution to the wind, and say ah, to heck with you and find something fabulous. Although knowing me and my luck, I'll do that and just end up having a panic attack over what I've done and settle for working at Burger King because I'm so ashamed of my behavior and nervous over my finances.
Blast. I just don't know. I think I need a nap, all this ruminating has really taken it outta me.