Last night was a swinging Virgo party, hosted by Reggie, where Marshall and I got to serve some of the most fabulous people I've ever met. One, a fifty-something queen who does hair and reads tarot cards, told us how to live our lives right, and made it all sound so easy. Another, a very strict-seeming lesbian astrophysicist, gave us advice about our credit ratings and offered to let us catsit sometime. When someone put Shakira on and Marshall wouldn't dance with me, I befriended a riot of a woman named Susan, and we kicked off our shoes and danced like fools in the kitchen. Later on, though, when Sarah McLachlan came on, Marshall indulged my dance fever and it was perfect. We got to meet a really sweet kitty who has feline AIDS, and made all sorts of new friends, and got to hang out more with Lori, whom we adore. And we got paid, which wasn't even really necessary, after all the fun we had.
Last week was an eleven-month anniversary, which we toasted with Marshall's mother and her best friend, Edie, at Tupelo Honey. It was a meeting with my new therapist (this one's number nine, if anyone's counting!), who is like Laura Ashley on uppers and thinks I need to listen to whale songs every night before bed. Shockingly, I love her, and think a change is on its way. I started a new medication, following a new, dubious diagnosis, but made my peace with my crazy shrink, who may or may not be a hack. An older dyke tried to pick me up in the McDonald's parking lot, in a really bizarre manner, and I could only pry my forearm from her grasp after blurting out that I was really, completely fucked up and had to get to therapy immediately. Seriously. I got an A in Poetics, after taking that incomplete and fretting all summer over the coursework; now I've just got to keep it together for my current classes, which shouldn't be hard, as I love all of them, and wish I could take them at least twice. I've been ordering too many earrings, and too many books, online, but it'll all be worth it when I receive my copy of Tennessee Williams's Notebooks this week! When fall break hits, I am going bra-shopping, and to the Asheboro Zoo, and no one is going to stop me.
Saint Nicholas, the brilliant man we met last night, said that we must be impeccable with our word, that "I" is one of the most important words in the language, because it includes the divinity that dwells within us, and that we should always be cautious about what promises we attach to "I." He said the promises to ourselves may be the most important, because if we don't keep them, we eventually lose our capacity to believe in ourselves, and then our word will always mean less. So here's a shot: I am going to get better. No, fuck that - I am getting better. I am going to get into the right grad school, and I am going to turn in a solid draft of my thesis very soon, and I am going to be good to myself in the process. Now that I've said it, I have to, see? I have to believe, anyway. So watch out, friends, because soon, I will be back, and I'll be better, this time. Promise.
Last week was an eleven-month anniversary, which we toasted with Marshall's mother and her best friend, Edie, at Tupelo Honey. It was a meeting with my new therapist (this one's number nine, if anyone's counting!), who is like Laura Ashley on uppers and thinks I need to listen to whale songs every night before bed. Shockingly, I love her, and think a change is on its way. I started a new medication, following a new, dubious diagnosis, but made my peace with my crazy shrink, who may or may not be a hack. An older dyke tried to pick me up in the McDonald's parking lot, in a really bizarre manner, and I could only pry my forearm from her grasp after blurting out that I was really, completely fucked up and had to get to therapy immediately. Seriously. I got an A in Poetics, after taking that incomplete and fretting all summer over the coursework; now I've just got to keep it together for my current classes, which shouldn't be hard, as I love all of them, and wish I could take them at least twice. I've been ordering too many earrings, and too many books, online, but it'll all be worth it when I receive my copy of Tennessee Williams's Notebooks this week! When fall break hits, I am going bra-shopping, and to the Asheboro Zoo, and no one is going to stop me.
Saint Nicholas, the brilliant man we met last night, said that we must be impeccable with our word, that "I" is one of the most important words in the language, because it includes the divinity that dwells within us, and that we should always be cautious about what promises we attach to "I." He said the promises to ourselves may be the most important, because if we don't keep them, we eventually lose our capacity to believe in ourselves, and then our word will always mean less. So here's a shot: I am going to get better. No, fuck that - I am getting better. I am going to get into the right grad school, and I am going to turn in a solid draft of my thesis very soon, and I am going to be good to myself in the process. Now that I've said it, I have to, see? I have to believe, anyway. So watch out, friends, because soon, I will be back, and I'll be better, this time. Promise.
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