I'm working on it!

Listen, seriously, this blog sucks. I have no wision, as they say in Armenia. I am working on this. I am thinking all day and taking in all this pain and straight up fascination all day and wouldn't it be nice if I could ball it all up in a haiku and put in on the internet? I would feel so much better and you would have read the greatest haiku ever! A summation of the human condition and all the awesome love and pain in the universe!

I'm working on it. Seriously. Maybe I'll take a class. And use the class to meet men AND explore the inner reaches of my soul, blah blah blah: bookish men. Until I have fully developed my writing voice or met the bookish man of my next couple of months, I watch Project Runway. I pretend that Santino Rice is my best friend in Chicago and we make eachother LAUGH and he is never mean to me. He takes the clothes I own but only mildly like and he makes them super hot. Tacks some shredded fabric on them and some cording. We have good times, maybe I ride on his back down Michigan Ave. If inside jokes were discounted underwear then we would be Big Lots. If good times were hot coffee then we'd be Dunkin' Donuts!

Crybaby!

I would like to note, for the record, the record being this blog, that this is the right job for me. I just cried at work and was praised for it; after the praise I was congratulated, and after the congratulations, I get to hide in my office and write on my blog. Soon I'm going to my co-workers office to take a Fun Size candy bar, and I'll bet she gives me commiserating eyes. I'll bet that I could punch my supervisor in the neck today and still finagle more praise.

All this AND looming poverty? It's an embarrassment of riches.

Skillz that pay the billz.

I am not going to drink until St. Patrick's Day. In order to save money. Not because I have a drinking problem, although, sure, I replace love with food and then food with beer, sometimes I combine food and beer and crying with my cousins, sometimes I prioritize beer above food or CTA money or my medical loans, but that is not why I'm not drinking for a month. Friends, I am broke.

Jesus said something about the lilies of the valley. What was that again? Because I can't breathe and I just keep thinking that lilies would be nice, Tuesday is St. Valentine's Day, and St. Renegade is brainstorming internet hustles to support the Lord's work. I feel unduly burdened. I feel like I was given my Purpose Driven Life: social work. And my Personality Driven Life: I like my free time. So why should a decent Masters level clinician have to get a second job? I mean, I buy clearance clothes from H&M. I drink High Life. I'm not Big Pimpin. I'm Big Scrimpin'! Hollaback!

The woman I was hired to replace had another job, it was rumored. She'd work at 6 AM on some sort of crisis line. She also ran a marathon and mentored a kid. What a good person. I want to think she was a speed freak...I am picturing her secret stash...and there. I have just decided to know that she was a speed freak, because I can't stand how whiny and self-pitying I feel right now. I don't want to think that I have made a series of choices that really didn't seem bad at the time but now maybe add up to panic and worry and bankruptcy. My Hippie Doctor friend is selling sex toys at home parties and going to med school and calls me sometimes when she isn't stripping wood floors or collecting cans. So I should get a second job, right? I mean, I still have my hands. Some people don't even have hands.

Please send employment ideas. Really I would prefer shady and scandalous hustles, but use code words. Oh, here's a code word: prayer. Pray that I stop being such a shameful Saint, all whiny and petulant. And pray that I get a part time job that involves talking, reading, dancing, and napping.

Destroy your heros. I am just now emerging from a 4 hour internet hole. If I mapped for you the path I took the map would be a total of both my individual and our collective unconscious; you could not look at this map without dying. Suddenly as though hovering above my body I saw myself--no, please, not that--looking for pictures of Eddie Vedder. I loved Eddie Vedder with the searing intensity of an obese, lonely, mentally ill 16 year old; I didn't really drag him with me into adulthood, and so I thought I'd check. How are you, object of all my earliest, saddest, sickest sexual desires?

He is dating a model. He divorced his indie rock wife and had a baby with an international model. Back in the hole, Eddie Vedder. I am going to sleep.

These are the breaks.

These shoes have changed my life. They have made me cooler, and I think that they add to my safety, as I walk a lot and their whiteness sort of glows. Plus who is gonna mess with a sexy lady in Missy Elliot shoes? I'm talkin signed by the Misdemeanor. Step off.

I have a blog, and I don't know why. It started after the Yuppie Catholic Meet and Greet and all the fashion there; it was going to be about clothes and shoes and what they say and how sparkly they are.

And then I was weeping about how my mother don't love me.

Followed by, and I can promise more of this, the exploitation of the people for whom I work. Mostly the people I work with require casework and therapy because they have been so tremendously exploited already, but then again, people and love and pain are fascinating.

I think that I should write more limericks, take more pictures. Also I will continue to write about race, because check this: I dominated the 'diversity' meeting at work, which has touched off all sorts of mess; my super Catholic cousin asked me to help explain racism to the 'rich white kids' he teaches; and Dave Chappelle is right now on Oprah and breaking my heart.

Sorry about the libraries thing, the two people reading this. But remember this: if you have a problem with me, you have a problem with my kicks, and if you have a problem with my kicks, you have a major problem with Missy 'Misdemeanor' Elliot.