We’re moved in. When I first saw the claw foot tub in the bathroom, I was delighted–it reminded me of my parents’ claw foot tub back home. They live in a house that was once my greatgrandfather’s barn; like the house we’re renting, it’s charming and small.
Only, they have heat and hot water.
For a long while now, I feel as if I have been living in my boyfriend’s apartments, although I do most of the work around the house so to speak, and I have been the one to pay most of the bills. When he found a house for rent–less than what we’re paying for a one bedroom apartment–I decided to stay and finish my degree because I finally have what I want: a room of my own.
I have never enjoyed the Christmas season, even as a child. Perhaps I intuited then what I know now: the excess attached to the holiday meant to bring us closer actually rams a steel pry bar between us and leans heavily against it.
Apologies for disappearing for a while.
A quick update: As of the end of this month, I’ll be moving back in with my parents, which is rather frightening and comforting at once. I’ll be working, paying bills and rent, helping out with a renovation project and so on, so I won’t be too much of a burden, I hope. For whatever reason, I am able to concentrate on my writing there, perhaps because of the quiet, semi-rural nature of the place.
A screenplay in the works, the novel I’ve avoided after finishing the second draft, and poems, poems, poems.
Maybe I’ll stop avoiding the world sometime soon. . . .
I’ve learned this week that there is no good balance between coffee and xanax, which, when taken together, cancel each other out.
It’s a matter of staying awake and staying calm. In the end, you’re still tired and freaking out.
Only you’re tired and freaking out in a slightly fuzzier way.
Spent the day in bed; since my mind was quiet, I listened to my sometimes-erratic heartbeat, to a slow progression of the world news.
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