12/8/10

Thirty years ago today, the world lost one of its ... what? Voices? Spirits? Inspirations?

There aren't words for what John Lennon means to me. At all. We share a birthday, which okay, one in 365 people do. That's not so unusual. It didn't really even mean that much to me until I was in my teens and started to grasp what he meant--culturally, artistically, everything. I knew about the Ed Sullivan Show; I knew about the Fab Four and the British Invasion; hell, I'd been to a Rolling Stones concert. My parents were hippies, for goodness' sake. I knew. I understood on an intellectual level, but it didn't occur to me until I was about sixteen that he really had an impact.

There's a photo of me in the Munich airport in April 1998. I don't have it scanned, but the general idea is this: I'm laying on my back across a row of airport seats at about 6am, reading The Hunt For Red October in paperback. I'm wearing round glasses, bell bottoms, and a brown corduroy jacket, hair pulled into a ponytail, and resting my head on a backpack. This was back when we had to get photos developed, and I'm sure that if I'd had a preview of the picture I'd have freaked out and made the person who took it delete it immediately. Instead, when the picture came back I did a double take, because there's a very Lennon-esque quality to it.

I realized shortly thereafter that John Lennon died at about the same time that I was conceived, and for some reason--it really affects me, to this day. Hell, when my mother got her '68 Beetle, we named her Yoko. There wasn't any other name she could have. (Say what you will--she made John a happy man, and that's worth a lot to me.)

Today was a rare day; I got to change the radio station at work to NPR and so all day it was conversation about Lennon and McCartney and Yoko and Sean and Julian and frankly, I spent most of the day on the verge of tears. I remembered sitting in Grandville with Brian and Jen listening to music, about this time last year, after dinner and the boys' bedtime, and Brian pulling up a live video of "Hey Jude" and explaining to Jen that there was a really good reason that John looked pissy... remembering the first time I heard "Because" and getting the chills... downloading most of the Beatles' catalog last fall... spending a good chunk of time over the last two years bathing in that music...

Today is a sad day. We lost Elizabeth Edwards yesterday, and that wrenches my heart for her children. Thirty years ago today, we lost a generation's voice to the gun of a crazy man wielding a copy of The Catcher In The Rye.

Someday I want to be at the Dakota Hotel on December 8, to lay a flower and sing "Because" and hold that moment. I want to see Central Park's strawberry fields, stand on a rooftop and hope for the best. I want to lay in bed with a lover and make it matter. I want to create one single thing that has one-tenth the impact that he did.

John Lennon will never stop inspiring me. His art, his voice, his life: he is missed terribly. We did our small part to commemorate him tonight; the Wednesday night karaoke crowd sang a good many of his songs in celebration and remembrance. It wasn't enough. I want to live up to the legacy that I've made for myself from just sharing his birthday and one small photo.

I leave it with this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n5qXVODCvC8

Because the world is round

It turns me on

Because the world is round

Because the wind is high

It blows my mind

Because the wind is high

Love is all

Love is new

Love is all

Love is you

Because the sky is blue

It makes me cry

Because the sky is blue

Winter

This morning I woke up to a perfectly formed memory in my mind. It's one that comes up at least a few times every winter, usually when I'm feeling secure and warm and cozy, when snow starts falling.

When I was six, my parents and I moved from our tiny cottage on Lake Michigan to a normal suburban house outside of Lansing. The only things our new house had in common with the old were ourselves, our things, and our dog. We were on water, but the Grand River, while lovely in its own right, isn't Lake Michigan. I didn't have my friends, or my backyard, or my beach, or my little play area with my own tree stand. I lived in a neighborhood, with people around, instead of in a national park where the loneliness had its own beauty, the history was palpable, and breathing meant smelling cedar trees and sand. Nothing was familiar anymore. My father was home more since he wasn't traveling all over the state supervising a corporate restaurant culture; I couldn't ride with my mom on her home health visits anymore. I lived in a town. I'd had to leave my incredible Montessori school on Old Mission Peninsula and enroll in public school, which I hated because it turned out I needed glasses. Overall, the move hadn't been positive for me. At. All.

One day, I woke up to fresh snow falling. It was dark and cold when I got up for school, and I padded out to the kitchen, sat down at the table and found the warm spot on the floor for my feet, and my mom brought over cinnamon sugar toast and hot cocoa for breakfast.

It was a moment of pure, unadulterated comfort. Suddenly that house, that neighborhood, felt like home. The smell of buttered, cinnamon-y sweet toast and warm, creamy cocoa always makes me feel a little more whole inside. Today, I woke up and made that meal for breakfast. Because I'm home, in that same city, with snow falling, and I've finally found my place.

Edit: to complete today's theme, my dinner consisted of a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. I can't think of a meal more homey and more comforting.

A repost:

I just read a phenomenal essay by Terry Brock.

I hope you'll all read it, re-post it, take it to heart. Having recently experienced one of the best total-consent moments of my life, and also swimming in ire at the recent absolute catastrophe regarding the Michigan State men's basketball team, I've rarely read something more reassuring and calming.

There are truly men who are men. There are men who treat people, their partners, with respect, with dignity; who appreciate that strength isn't used to harm, but to heal; who understand that their sisters, lovers, friends, aunts, nieces, and lovers are likely one of the one-in-four.

So, here.

Thank you, Terry. And thank you to the men in my life who have been incredible--and to the women. We're all in this together, folks. It will take every single one of us to stop rape. Terry has some great tips on starting conversations and getting people to think about their words. I can't say enough positive things about his words.

A huge thank-you goes to Elizabeth Battiste, who was lucky enough to meet Vice President and Dr. Biden last week in her role as Sexual Assault and Domestic Violence Prevention Program Peer Educator at Michigan State. She's a remarkable woman that I'm lucky to have as my friend.

varying levels.

Okay folks.

There's stress.

There's stress that's like.... okay, I've got to get the house clean before Mom gets here. And have dinner with my aunt and uncle and they're going to ask the questions that my parents quit asking, like "So, are you seeing anyone special and when are you having babies? AND OH YEAH, ABOUT THAT DEGREE...." It's annoying, but tolerable, and there's a light at the end of the tunnel. Situational stress, if you will. Dinner will end. The house will get clean (enough) in time. Lines will get memorized. The exam will happen. Whatever. The project, the Event, it'll be done and over and then the stressy bit goes away.

Then there's Stress.

This is the kind of Stress that has your day starting with a really sweet automated text from your bank letting you know your balance is low--and knowing beyond any shadow of a doubt that you don't have the ability to fix that any time soon. This Stress includes getting to walk right by your landlord's door without a check. It's ducking phone calls. It's making hard choices, like between cat food and self food. It's sending out what feels like thousands of resumes and cover letters and filling out applications and never getting an interview (because, you know, you're apparently not even able to staple papers in an office, only sling drinks at people. It's a very affirming feeling). It's realizing that you're drinking too much, and it's realizing that that's associated on some level with having to go to a job that you're so burned out at, it's the only way to make it through some days. It's trying to numb yourself. It's feeling excluded and alone all the time. It's feeling on the verge of tears more often than not. It's watching your grandmothers decline and feeling powerless to help anyone.

This is the stress that doesn't stop. There's no light--or if it's even vaguely present, it's immediately followed by a train whistle.

And days like today, even though there is a faint light--one that doesn't have a train whistle attached--it's almost too much to handle.

I know I'll get through this. I know that in a month or two, once I'm caught up and have my LSAT score firmly in hand and am starting work on a show that I love and my birthday's over, things are going to seem a lot sunnier than they do right now.

It's been a rough few weeks here, and I'm trying to keep my chin up. But keeping your chin up is awfully hard when you're barely keeping your head above water.

Comfort

The smell of Lake Michigan.

The sound of waves on the beach.

The open-airiness of my mother's living room.

The clicking of a gas range.

My dad's blue couch.

Wood smoke.

Bash.

The flannel-lined sleeping bag that I used for bedding my freshman year of college.

Diesel purring on my chest.

The pressure of a cheek resting against my hair.

A Labrador leaning against my leg, and the silkiness of her ears.

Hugging my nieces and nephews.

Cold bedroom, warm blankets.

Waking up to an arm wrapping around me.

Coming into an apartment that just feels perfect....

...in a city that feels like home.

Ten days

The Grand Rapids experiment is coming to a close. I move in ten days.

It's been a very trying few weeks, and I can't even really think of anything to write, necessarily... I know that eventually I'll need to get it all off my chest, but right now it isn't happening. Nothing's organized in my brain (including moving logistics) and nothing, nothing makes sense today.

I don't get it.

There seems to be a set of people who are just touchy-feely. And in certain instances, I have no trouble with that--in fact, when I'm around people I know well and like, or feel comfortable with, I am incredibly physical. But to a perfect stranger? No.

When I'm working, I don't want my co-workers touching me. They aren't my friends, and I have no real intention of becoming friends with them. It's not okay to grab my shoulder or touch my face (which happened day before yesterday; a girl I work with stuck her hands in my face in a concerted effort to freak me out) or tug my braid.

Today at work, a woman I'd never set eyes on walked through the door and immediately grabbed my hair. Told me it was beautiful, that it reminded her of her childhood when she had a long braid. Touching. But seriously? How is that okay? How did we lost the knack of respecting personal space? I have a braid--it's long and somewhat resembles a rope, sure; this doesn't give anyone the right to touch it or pull on it or anything. At all. Unless I say it's okay, don't fucking touch me.

stuff.

Mother's Day is annoying. FoodWoolf sums it up nicely in her post Where (Not) To Eat on Mother's Day. In all honesty, folks, take Mom out to eat the week of Mother's Day if you MUST take her out. But why not just stay home??? *

I'm quitting smoking. Which is really, really, SERIOUSLY hard. I'm down from about 15/day to 3. It's good progress, especially since I've really only been working at it for a few days. Mom and I have been discussing strategy at length, and she's of the opinion that 3 is a good number to hold at for a while. Nicotine is a physical addiction, and going cold turkey can really screw with your body and your mind. Three a day will let me adjust before completely stopping. I'm not going to buy another pack; when this one's gone, I'm done. That being said, I'm going to buy stock in peppermints. Because holy shit, the amount of peppermints I'm going through is absolutely insane. Milestones thus far: one-hour drive completed without a cigarette; drinking coffee; full shift at work; post-eating. These are huge.

I started a new job in Lansing this past weekend, and so far it's pretty cool. I hope it works out. The added funding is crucial right now. Moving is expensive.

Also, it's May. WTF? I'm moving in just over two months.

*I understand that Mother's Day brunch is a big fat tradition and also that my income depends on people going out to eat, but it is so stressful for everyone involved that trust me, my new shoes can wait for a day and you can cook a meal.

On a (much) lighter note...

One of my friends texted me last week and asked if I'd be interested in playing with some baby bears and a baby lion.

UM. YES PLEASE.

Here goes.

One night, about four years ago, I was at a bar in my hometown, having a quiet night with a dollar pint and a good friend. The bar was filling up, and since it was holiday break, there were a lot of people back from college. I was starting to see lots of faces that I hadn't seen since summertime. And suddenly, I caught a glimpse of the most unwelcome of them all: I saw the guy who raped me.

I ran outside (having been paying my tab as I went), mildly hyperventilating, and begged my friend for a ride home. I kept repeating, "I can't be in there. He's in there." My friend had no idea what I was talking about, but he could see how upset I was. So he drove me home and let me finish my freakout. I didn't tell him the details, but I did tell him that I'd just seen the one who did it. I was shaking from the cold and from the knowledge that that guy was back in town, that I wouldn't set foot outside my house or job until after the holidays, and that he could still affect me so greatly, four years after he'd taken me on a date, held my hand, driven me home, kissed me, been invited in....and didn't stop when I said, "No."

I started remembering how he pushed my legs apart, pushed my underwear to the side. He didn't hold me down, but I was too drunk to do much except say words. He didn't listen to those words. I'm sure he heard them. I know he did. I remembered the party we'd gone to, playing beer pong, and knowing I couldn't drive myself the three miles home. I started feeling sick again, like I do right now thinking about it. I couldn't say any of this. I could barely get the words out to tell my friend why I needed to leave.

This guy. That guy. The one who was so charming, so trustworthy, so cute, so polite. The one who was best friends with a lifelong friend of mine, that was the son of well-regarded people in our very small town. The guy who didn't drink too much on our first date (being responsible enough to drive home, I thought). The guy who had a nice car, soft hands...

And, I found out later, the guy who'd taken my friend's virginity by fucking her from behind against her will, without using protection. The guy who even the adults in town knew was trouble. The guy that no one ever reported, because he made sure to date a lot and build himself a reputation as a womanizer. The guy who wasn't violent, who never left a mark physically, and who I'm sure did it all on purpose.

That guy. The guy who remains unnamed to the few friends of mine that know the details. The guy who's been the only person to tempt me toward vandalism (I've said that while I wouldn't press charges, I'd be more than happy to spray-paint his parents' cars and house with the words "We raised a rapist"), the one whose home and family business I have to drive past every time I drive from my mother's house into town. The only people who know his identity are my ex-fiance and, oddly, my mom's best friend (her son, who I was raised with, is that guy's best friend). And she only knows because of an oblique conversation that we had years after the fact.

The very few people who know what happened have been incredibly supportive and wonderful. One of them messaged me on Facebook after I wrote my last entry here and said this (T, I hope you don't mind my making this available for the public):

Even tho you didn't have to change my mind about it, because i already agreed with you, I hope that more will soon. rape is one thing I don't joke about ever...and part of the reason for that is from my friendship with you, and knowing how much it affects you. Just wanted you to know that.

That kind of support from the few people I've confided in has been gratifying. It's helped me move from a place of fear to one of... well, acceptance, I guess. I've tried not to let my rape affect me, and luckily I've had some amazing relationships that have helped me remember that not all men are scary, conniving, and able to take advantage without remorse. I've been able to regain control (and I really did lose it for a while).

I'm glad that I don't live in the same town as that guy anymore. I'm glad that the odds of running into him are slim to none. Even though it's been eight years, I don't know what kind of reaction I'd have to him. I don't know whether I'd find myself in another alley in the middle of winter, and I'm not sure whether I'd be with a friend to put his hand on my shoulder and get me home.

But it's equally likely that I'd be able to sit at the bar if he walked in, turn away, and ignore him.

Not too many people read my blog, and that's just fine by me. But for those of you who do, I'd like you to know the inspiration for this post: Solidarity, by Britni. It's been eight years since I was raped, and virtually no one knew.

Until now.

In honor of Sexual Assault Awareness Month, well, I'm making you aware of my sexual assault.

postscript: this has been, hands down, the most difficult piece I've ever written. Thank you so much for reading it, and I want to offer particular thanks to Travis, Britni, and Joe for being so supportive in the process, as well as Jim and Jerry for being amazing friends and listening, comforting, driving, and occasionally offering to find that guy and teach him a lesson ;) I love you all.

Victim....blaming?

I really would like to write about the dude I ran into last week that told me that women who get raped are to blame for it.... but for some reason, I cannot bring myself to do it. Not in any way that would actually matter, anyway. Because I got so furious at his comment that I couldn't complete a sentence afterward other than to tell him that I had nothing to say to him.

If I wear a short skirt, that's not an invitation.

If I drink a beer, that's not granting permission.

If I kiss you, that's not a cover-all consent.

If I'm on a date with you, it's not a guarantee of sex.

If I dance with you, it doesn't mean I'm going home with you.

If I invite you over, that's not to be taken as granting access to anything except my kitchen. And possibly my bottle of bourbon.

If I tell you to stop, it needs to stop. And if it doesn't, that's rape.

I'm so tired of people assuming that rapes happen at night, in dark alleys; that they're committed by strangers that break into homes or assault you on your way home. That's the stereotype, and it's not accurate. Something like 80% of rapes are committed by acquaintances, and I think that's what ticked me off the most: in discussing this issue with others, the image of rape is almost exclusively tied to the stranger-in-a-dark-alley concept. Date rape, acquaintance rape, so-called "gray rape" isn't even considered. And that's a serious problem.

Changing the mental picture of rape is crucial to changing the victim-blaming mindset. If we only consider stranger rape to be rape, that negates the experiences of women (myself included) who have been taken advantage of by their friends, boyfriends, lovers, husbands, and partners. It's becoming more apparent to me that for the most part, the men I know don't consider my rape to actually be rape. Because I'd been on a date; because I'd invited him in; because we'd kissed; because of a thousand things. Fact is, I told him to stop, and he didn't. That's it. I wasn't in a dark alley. There wasn't a knife or a gun. And you know what? It wasn't my fault.

I'm sick of people thinking that it was.

If I can change one person's mind, that's all I ask.

Dreamscape

Joe and I headed to Chicago to audition for a production of Uncle Vanya that one of the Lansing directors was putting on. The auditions were held in a huge old school building--brick, five stories, lots of lockers and industrial windows. We both read really well, and afterwards decided to head down the street, find a bar, and have a quick drink to celebrate. We stumbled upon a Ruth's Chris Steakhouse, paid $1.30 for the cover, and sat at the bar. It was a strange bar for a couple of reasons: first, it really looked like the back patio area at a local GR brewery converted into a tiki lounge; second, President Obama was sitting at the bar next to us and struck up a conversation. He was waiting for his Secret Service detail to arrive so he could sit down and have a quiet dinner.

I've been dreaming really vividly for the last few months, but this one's stuck in my head. Hmm.

One year.

Turns out, a lot can happen in a year.

I've moved twice.

I've fallen out of love.

I've changed jobs.... um... three times?

I've experienced unemployment for the first time.

I've reconnected with old friends, made new ones, and lost others.

I've made some positive steps.

I've lost some ground, too.

I've gotten back to my roots.

I've learned a lot about where I came from and where I'm going.

I've auditioned.

I've seen more live theatre than I have.... probably ever.

And I can see good things to come.

March first has been a date of extremes for me in the past. On March 1, 2006, I woke up in a jail cell after being arrested for DUI. On March 1, 2009, I worked my last shift at Zingerman's and moved to Grand Rapids. Today doesn't really show signs of being anything like that exciting, but I'm still starting to pack....because in July, I'm moving again. This time, it'll be to the city that trapped me from 1988 to 2000. It'll be by choice. That city saw my first speeding ticket, my lost innocence, my first group of real friends, my overweight years, my uncle's death, my disordered eating, my parents' divorce... a lot of tragedy, a lot of beauty. It's not the same city it was ten years ago. Back then, it was a GM town--everyone had a job, everyone got paid pretty well, there was a new minor-league baseball team, MSU was winning championships.... it really wasn't so bad, in hindsight.

Now it's a desert. GM is a different kind of company. There are far too many people out of work. It's a drab, post-industrial town with some hidden treasures--and that's what I'm making it my job to rediscover. I've spent the last ten years talking about how much I hate Lansing, and in the last three months, I've already found more to love there than I have in a year in Grand Rapids. Even--dare I say it--more than I found to love in Ann Arbor.

It's not the place, it's the people. The atmosphere of a city can change in a heartbeat. Lansing's a perfect example of that. But the people... that's what really makes a place home. I still feel at home in TC and in Ann Arbor, but I don't think that they're where I need to be right now. I want to be closer to my family. It's becoming more and more evident that my life is in Lansing.

And I'm ready to go. Right now. I'm ready to hang up my apron and do something different with my life. I'm ready to pack the boxes, recruit the help, and just... go. Now. Since New Year's, I've gotten a glimpse of what could await me there, if I can just make it work. And I'm going to.

It's been one hell of a year.

Blog For Choice

I've never had an abortion.

Hell, I've never had a reason to think one might be necessary. I'm 28 and have had exactly two scares in twelve years of being sexually active. For that, I thank my mother--who, when she found out I was having sex, made me an appointment to go on Depo-Provera (which was sort of like hell, but it kept me non-pregnant, so I guess it's all fine), sat me down and gave me a very long, involved talk on risk and reward, and made me think. A lot. It's stuck with me.

I'm not entirely sure how to put this all into words. Do I want kids? (I think so....?) Do I want kids now? (Definitely not.) How have I made it to 28 and not gotten knocked up? (Um....) What would I do if I got pregnant now? (I have no idea.) My upbringing was pseudo-Catholic; two of my nephews are significantly disabled; there's no logical cause behind the fact that I haven't had a kid already except dumb luck; the scariest moment of my entire life was my doctor telling me that my cervix had pre-cancerous cells that required an operation (what if that means I can't have children? ever??).

I'm more aware of that now than I was at 21, when that conversation (and diagnosis and procedure) happened. It makes me wonder now--really, what if I can't have kids? What if it's going to be so difficult to conceive that IVF becomes my best option? My mom had a hysterectomy at a fairly young age--what if I never have kids? What if I can't? It's so scary, and the idea of creating a life has always been so central to me--if I can't, then what?

But then I stop, and I think: what if it happened now?

There's half of me that believes I'd feel so damn lucky to be pregnant at all, ever, that I'd go through hell and brimstone to have a child. I'd sacrifice my life (such as it is) to do it. Even if I had to go through it alone, part of me is that desirous of a baby that I'd do it. I'd carry that child and I'd raise it properly and I'd be an amazing mother.

And there's the other half that's screaming about how I can barely make rent as it is; that my "career" wouldn't support a pregnancy; that I'm just not ready emotionally; that I've always sworn I'd never be a single mother; that a child should be celebrated and wanted rather than a source of stress. And I consider the options.

Would I have an abortion if I got pregnant right now? I don't know. It's possible.

Would I carry a baby to term, deliver it, raise it with love? It's possible.

Would I go through a pregnancy with the knowledge that at the end of it, I'd give the child I carried to a loving home? That's possible too.

And that, in a nutshell, is why I'm pro-choice.

The options are there. If I opted to terminate a pregnancy, I know I could have a safe, sterile, medical procedure performed. If I opted to raise a baby, Michigan has programs that would help me adjust and deal with the (altogether sudden) life changes--and there are places in Michigan I'd feel happy and comfortable raising a child. And if I wanted to give up a baby for adoption, I could do that too.

Abortion hasn't ever stopped. Ever. Women have been inducing miscarriages for millenia. The Catholic Church hasn't always condemned early-term abortions as excommunicable offenses. The fact is that now, in 2010, if I got pregnant and didn't feel (for whatever reason) I was equipped to deal with a child, I have options. The difference between now and 1910, or even 1970 in many states, is that if I choose to terminate, it can (and will) be done in a sterile, medically safe facility and performed by a doctor. And in the very recent past, that wasn't the case at all. Illegal and unsafe abortions cost the lives of women all over the world. Unplanned and unwanted pregnancies kill thousands of women, and destroy the economic and social standings of thousands more, every day. This isn't an issue of anything except human rights. I have a right to plan my procreation. I have a right to not have children, and if I decide that it's a fantastic option, I have the right to have a child. Millions of women in the world are denied that choice. If her country criminalizes abortion; if she's been raped or the victim of incest; if the pregnancy threatens her life--as a full, actualized, independent (ie, not umbilically attached and dependent on another human for sustenance and existence) human--that woman is faced with a harder choice than I'll hopefully ever look at. That is: an illegal, unsafe, and possibly fatal procedure to terminate a pregnancy--or carrying an unwanted child, delivering it, and all the subsequent consequences.

I'd certainly prefer that everyone have easy, cheap (if not entirely free), and accessible birth control. I'd love if the entire world--every man, woman, and child--was taught that sexuality is part of being human, and that there are ways of preventing pregnancy. I'd be blissfully happy if sex education--real, honest sex education--was mandatory for every person on the planet. The biologies of pregnancy and STDs should be things that we shouldn't have to think about--we should be unconsciously competent at this stuff. Condom usage, medication, NFP, anything--this should be ingrained into us.

But it won't be.

As long as there are people who think it's a duty, rather than a choice, to become a mother, there will be those who oppose legal and safe abortion. I know that they will always exist and that sometimes they will have the power.

However:

My uterus is in me. It's mine. If I carry a child, that child is mine. If I choose to not carry a child, that choice? IS MINE.

I don't know that I'd ever have an abortion. But I know that having the option is ethical. It's humane. It's giving a woman control of her life.

Talk ethics all you want. Talk about murder; talk about anything. I'd honestly prefer that comprehensive and honest sex ed exists, so that abortion becomes a non-issue. But as long as there are people making choices, there will be a demand for abortion. And I'd much rather see it safe, and fair, and not something that happens with a bleach douche or coat hanger or whatever back-alley options exist right now.

I'm pro-choice.

Happy Roe v Wade!

THIS.

Britni,

thank you.

This is exactly what I've been feeling.

Beautiful.

How I've Spent My Day

Well... it's not that exciting. Really.

But it sort of is.

I mean, laundry, browsing on craigslist, mlive.com, careerbuilder and monster... that's really not interesting. Updating a resume so it appeals to more than just restaurants? Also, not that interesting. Getting frustrated to the point of throwing things? Meeting someone you follow on Twitter, out of the blue, while you're at a coffee shop and getting more frustrated at their wifi? None of that qualifies as anything but banal, everyday shit.

Except it is.

Travis, you'll hate to hear it yet again, but.... I really want to move.

I miss having a life. I miss having (plural) friends that I can see with any sort of frequency. I want to have the quality of life that I had in early 2006, when I was in rehearsals for Rocky, and what that means is this: getting up in the morning, working a job with normal hours, spending my evening in a theatre, and being able to afford a cocktail afterwards. I want to get back to the me that I used to adore. It's starting.

New Year's was a bloody revelation. The friendships, the connections that I left ten years ago are all still there and still strong; in fact, they're stronger than anything I've built since. Proof is in the pudding: I have a place to live there, with a roommate I adore and have known for 13 years. My surrogate mom is still my surrogate mom. I have family there. My best friend from high school could become my best friend again. I already have more friends--honest, real, true friends--in Lansing than I do in Grand Rapids, and I've been here since March. I met more people in one night that I could really be close to than I have in months.

And so I'm updating my resume again; I'm spending hours haunting all the job search websites again; this time I am not compromising, but waiting until I can find a job that can pay my bills and afford me some kind of life quality. I'm tired of all of this BS.

It's uninteresting, and of no consequence. But I've reached my breaking point in this place. My MO has been to run away, but this time it feels like running to. My gut is telling me that this isn't where I need to be, and when I'm there it feels more right. It's not 100% right--but even Empire isn't anymore, and that's been Home my entire life.

Enough venting. No more. Enough.

enneagram

I generally don't put a lot of stock in personality typing, though they're often a lot of fun (and, if nothing else, can lead to great conversation). I find that my results vary greatly from day to day on most tests, depending on my mood, my alertness (ie, have I had my coffee yet?), financial and other concerns, etc. Maybe that's the case for everyone. When I'm being completely honest with myself, I tend to answer most of the "always-almost always-sometimes-almost never-never" continuum questions in the dead center, because some days I DO want adventure and thrills and some days I want to curl up and not speak to anyone; some nights I'm the life of the party and others I hide in a corner; sometimes I like neat, orderly spaces and sometimes I don't care if I can't see my bedroom floor. It just depends.

Today, I'm feeling pretty average. I'm excited to go to Lansing, but I didn't get enough sleep (which generally puts me in a downer mood) so I thought my results would come out more or less where they should balance out. I found an enneagram tool through Profligacy's post comments on Britni's blog and thought--well, I've got pirated internet. Why not?

This is pretty much the best way I've seen my personality summed up. I've done all the Myers-Briggs tests (straight down the middle; I can go from INTP to ENFJ in a snap) and while they're accurate, I found that these results just.... summed it up. In terms of a short intro to my personality, this is pretty much it.

Main Type	Overall Self

To give some idea of what I'm talking about when I say "down the center," check out the distribution for my answers:

Enneagram Test Results Type 1 Perfectionism |||||||||||| 50% Type 2 Helpfulness |||||||||||| 50% Type 3 Image Focus |||||||||||| 46% Type 4 Hypersensitivity |||||||||||| 46% Type 5 Detachment |||||||||||| 46% Type 6 Anxiety |||||||||||| 46% Type 7 Adventurousness |||||||||| 38% Type 8 Aggressiveness |||||||||||| 42% Type 9 Calmness |||||||||||||| 54% Your main type is 9 Your variant is social

It's funny (at least to me) that the conflict-resolving/avoiding, peacemaker, taking-in-all-views traits also pretty well lines up with Libran traits. I don't read a lot into astrology either, but it's fun.

If I can keep this *wink wink* new Internet connection going, expect to see more from me. I miss writing.