Oh. I have a minute.
I got a new job. Did I mention that? An opportunity literally came knocking at my door, in the form of Kristie's now ex-roommate Jamie needing some office help, and it's turned into quite the lucrative project. It also means I am insanely busy, 9am-7pm some days, no lunch, no break except driving back and forth across town, 9am-3am others, no break except to change clothes and shove a roasted pumpkin in my mouth.
I drove ninety miles and walked three to see U2, thinking mostly of Rachel Cooper-O'Malley: my roommate my second and last year at boarding school; the Irish one who's stepfather killed himself; one of my soulmates. Being very ancestrally Irish, she was obsessed with both U2 and Frank McCourt and suffered accordingly. The last time I heard from her, she had escaped from an abusive boyfriend. U2 was great and worth the blisters that formed, popped, reformed, and eventually just rubbed raw and rawer (rawr) whilst wandering around Pasadena.
At some point, the boy said, "It does seem like you have unusually high quality friends." (I'm just sharing the things I've noted that I keep meaning to expand upon.) I guess I should mention how great Rachel was, but I will have to do that later. Speaking of expanding, or not, rather:
I'm down to 27.8% body fat, having lost something in the vicinity of 7% since I started boot camp classes in March or whenever. I got on a scale for the first time this year and was still pretty horrified by the number, but I have until next March before I just have to accept that I'm not 20 anymore (and when I was 20, I had to accept that I was not 15 anymore) (and when I was 15, I had to accept that I would never be curvy) (and now I am very curvy and I want to be a smaller version of the same shape) (I will never be satisfied with my body). I decided to give myself a year of these classes to see what kind of shape I could get into, and after that I would have to be happy with myself regardless of my weight and size and percentage and all the numbers that go into pummeling my self esteem. In an ideal situation, I'll get back to between a size 2 and a size 4, but if I'm stuck at a tight 6, then so be it.
The boy and I got back together. Did I mention that, in so many words? Then we said we love each other, in more words than that, and now we can't stop saying it.
All of the passion for my passions disappear when I'm in love, which means I have a lot more time to work, which means I'm making fucking bank, which is great. But I miss craving music. I miss that compulsion to write.
The boy is completely obsessed with my body. Did I mention that? Everything he does makes me realize what a complete assface Aaron was.
Here's where I get abnormally scatalogical:
Speaking of assfaces, Kristie and Jaime have been complete buttholes to each other these past few weeks while Kristie has struggled to move out. I know how it is with roommates--when escape is imminent, the hatred you let lie dormant explodes. Fortunately, I am infinitely amused by shittalk, so it's working out pretty well for me.
Here's where I talk more about gross things about being a girl:
My period is two weeks late, and I am very much Not Pregnant (confirmed, double confirmed, triple confirmed, "are you sure? Because I will be suing if you are wrong"), but after bragging for months about the tight schedule my uterus keeps, I guess I had it coming. I tend to skip one a year anyway, but it's fucking with how I'm, um, fucking, which is what has taken the place of music and writing. I'll come back someday soon.