Inane BearheadedSh*t

Just started working with a new recruiter, Lauren. I really like her, she’s amazing in so many ways. And she says “fuck” a lot. Like me. Last night we had a “Come to Jesus” discussion about my portfolio and resume. Something no one, frankly, wants to hear. Seriously. Especially an artist.

But afterwards I started thinking, and I really realized why I haven’t been getting the responses I want with what I have. Yes, I have a gorgeous portfolio, but it’s diverse and diversity isn’t what the market wants. The market wants focus. 

So tonight I need to sit down and figure out my focus. Do I want to do web design? Animation? Illustration? Packaging? Nose-picking? What do I want? What am I willing to accept, and where do I want to go from here? 

All questions I’ve been avoiding asking myself. And even if the answer is still diverse, I need to tear down my stuff and create different versions for different focus. 

And Lauren is right: I need more than one recruiter. I need to get on that.

See? I fucking LOVE her. It’s nice to finally feel like I have someone in MY court for a change. It’s been a long damn time.

Move 1 is complete and has gone well despite a brief mishap with a missing remote for my Sleep Number bed. But I found it! So, yay, I can finally sleep in my bed tonight.

I’m beyond exhausted and my everything hurts. You forget how awful moving is until you’re actually doing it. Ick.

So, now the plan is to relax for a minute or 3, take a deep breath and maybe a few more soaks in my parent’s amazingly huge whirlpool tub, and start planning for move 2. 

It finally dawned on me this morning why my dad has been such a huge crabby-ass over the past couple of weeks. 

My dad and I have always been fairly close. I’ve been lucky enough to only have a dozen or so “daughters” moments with him. (arguments, etc.) He’s not always been so stellar at showing affection or his true feelings about things. For that, I blame my Gran. Despite the fact that I loved her very much, she was kind of a bitch and a crappy mom. I can’t imagine the shit he had to deal with growing up with her. 

Dad hasn’t been his usual helpful self lately. He’s been crabby, and bitching about all the shit I have, and how there’s no room for it in the house, or how my plan to move to NYC is “sketchy” and stupid. He’s made me feel guilty about moving in with him and my mom for a couple of months while I get all my ducks in a row to move to New York. 

I had a brief flash of clarity about it this morning. It was only two months ago that he was helping me look for a townhome that was close to where my parents live. He was excited that I wanted to move closer to home. (I was living about 30 miles away from them.) He was happy that I was working at a place that finally paid me well enough I could afford a really nice place. Then I lost that job and ruined all those plans by deciding to move to NY instead. 

The other week he asked me why I had such a burning desire to move to NY. Part of my response was that I wanted my own adventure like he had when he was younger. Like when he and mom lived in England for 4 years. His response to that was that he didn’t have a choice because that’s where the military stuck him. (Insert my eye roll here.) He also brought up how our move to Mississippi when I was 13 was a horrible mistake and how we all hated it. But I didn’t, I actually really loved it there. 

This weekend I’m moving in with my family. Mom, dad, my sister and her 5 year old son. Maybe this will give dad and I the chance to work it out and spend some quality time together before I leave for NY. It’s not going to be easy being so far away from my family. Pop finally moved into the 21st century though and has a laptop in his garage. I think I’ll install Skype for him and teach him how to use it. Maybe being able to see me whenever he wants will help.

Just talked to a really nice guy named Jacob. I’m hiring two of his guys to help squeeze my crap into a trailer. And he’s relatively cheap. Two guys, 4 hours, $280.

I’d cry about the money however…

I called Comcrap. Cheerfully whined about how my bill has mysteriously managed to more than double over the past few months. She reversed some charges, fiddled some switches and got my $330 bill down to $172. Bless her sweet heart. Sometimes it’s handy to play a cheerful, dumb blonde in need of assistance.

So it’s on like Flan.

Now I have to go pack the bathroom, hide my sex toys in a box my mom won’t open and start loading my car.

#FunTimes

When you have nothing to lose, you have nothing to stop you from being spectacular.

I broke a bottle of nail polish in the trash bag. It actually reeks in here. MmMmm. Chemical smell. Speaking of nails, all I have are little nubs at the moment. It’s making typing feel very strange since mine are usually long-ish and well manicured. Tonight I broke 2 nails right down to the quick and they are both very tender. Oh well. They’ll grow back. 

I’m at the point where I just want to say, “fuckit” and throw a match on the whole pile. It feels like I have 800 tons of crap I don’t need. Probably because everything I own is neatly stacked in one room. 

Move 1 officially starts tomorrow. Another day closer to the dream. I think once I’m out of here it will start feeling more real. Right now, it just feels like way too damn many boxes.

I could write about 8 million things right now.

Like the awesome homeless lady I saw on my way home. Old as fuck and no teeth but girl’s hair was DONE. Cute little side braid with a bow she made out of paper that matched her outfit. 

Or the discussion on tranny smears I had over the weekend. Ok, well, maybe not that topic.

I could talk about how my living room is stacked with boxes segregated into three piles: keep, keep and take to NY and garage sale. The combined keep piles are smaller than the garage sale pile. 

But you know what I keep thinking about?

Regrets.

They say if you don’t have any that you haven’t really lived. Sure, ok, I can see that, but I don’t like having them in my life. 

I can’t stop thinking about David. I blew him off the last time I heard from him. I looked up the email, it was days before he died and I had no idea. I know you can’t beat yourself up for that kind of thing, but it still cuts. I think about how many times he told me I’d saved his life, just by listening, just by talking, just by being there. I always thought he was being dramatic. Maybe he wasn’t. I wish I could have been there for him one more time.

You can’t live your life for someone else’s pain. We all have our own battles to fight, and no one can fight them for you. But your friends are supposed to be there. The ones who have your back. Friends who listen, or hold you when it hurts too much. Or punch you in the arm and tell you to suck it up, buttercup, and then make you laugh. 

I keep trying to remind myself that he was hellbent on destroying himself and there was nothing I could have done. But you know what? It doesn’t make it hurt less. I want to yell at him—scream until my throat hurts, but I know it wouldn’t make a difference. Even if he were standing right in front of me, still alive. He wouldn’t listen. He was always such a stubborn fuck like that. 

Honestly, I’ve learned a lot of things about myself over the past few days. Once I love someone, I always love them. Even when I want to drop kick them in the ass. I’ve never really learned how to give only a tiny part of my heart. I don’t know that I ever want to change that, even when it means hurting in the end. 

Loving someone is always worth it. 

Always.

Even if they think they don’t deserve it.

And maybe even more so if that’s what they believe.