I am in an uncomfortable and unfamiliar place. I find that I have trouble describing that last two months. While I strive to present a full and honest account of what it is truly like to be a hapless house whore, some things I cannot share. What I can freely share with you all is my new awareness of how crappy I am at handling stress. It's not pretty.
All the more reason to thank heaven, the Flying Spaghetti Monster, and/or Isis that Dan for some strange reason loves me and has vowed to continue to love me even when I have stress meltdowns. His sanity is obviously questionable.
The Domestic Mastermind must find gainful employment. Not such an easy task. The economy, well, it's fucked. Now, after all this time, having worked as a waitress, an Address Lister for the Census, and currently as a volunteer tutor I don't have a bloody clue what the hell to do.
The thing is, I want a house. I want to paint walls kelly green, I want to plant plants, I want to turn the Rock Band up hella loud and sing Journey, or Kelly Clarkson, or Black Sabbath. This goal will probably happen sooner if I get my ass a job. How this will benefit you: I will write exciting exposes on how Richmond PD couldn't resist my apple pie and ultimately did not fine me with disturbing the peace. Just think on that.
Here is the really embarrassing part: What I'd really love to do is this. Write. Sitting here in my hot pink mumu, my kitties napping in the sun, with only the sound of my keyboard clicking is a great life. I read things and often think, shit, I could do better than that.
Will this un-domesticate me? Am I converting back to the automaton I used to be? I will just pour myself a little mid-morning libation and ponder that.
Also, holla if you think you've got an idea on how I can make money in my mumu.
Clickity-clack-click my Masterminded friends. Until... soon. ;)