i'll never be picture perfect beyonce

"baggage."

i don't understand the stigma surrounding it. like...people are supposed to live, right? we're supposed to be engaged and experiment with all of the fruit that life gives us, dangles in front of us, and behind us, and above us, and below us. and some of this fruit is, mostly sometimes poisonous. and, yet, after ingesting some tainted, cyanide-laced, arsenic-dipped fruit, we're supposed to remain as pure as we were when we came into this world?

for seriously? no.

if you've had to endure betrayal by friends, you might actually start to be kind of skeptical about allowing people to infiltrate your bubble.

if someone went to bed madly in love with you on tuesday night, then woke up wednesday and decided they were over it, um...yeah, i think it's perfectly legit to be a little bit scared of romance and its implications.

if you went sky-diving, and the parachute didn't open, and the back-up one didn't either, and you plunged into the earth and broke every single bone and tore every ligament in your body, maybe you're going to be really committed to ensuring your feet are always on the ground.

basically, i guess i don't understand why it's not okay to be a little bit traumatized. i understand that being a basketcase isn't cute, and no one wants to be around that, but experiences have consequences. some are positive, and some aren't, and both deserve to be respected.

xoxo,
a neurotic's attempt to justify her neuroses

i'm trying to remember that we are in a recession.

that there are millions and millions of other individuals who are also unemployed.

that i am not unemployed because this is natural selection's way of trying to get me to peace out via a deadly combination of depression, boredom, and mild starvation (ie, not being able to buy mcdonald's fries on the daily) that will eventually lead to my death.

that in fact, i merely happened to graduate at a MOST inopportune time with a degree that is not engineering or nursing related, and henceforth, i am competing for a scare number of jobs with a not-so-scarce number of people.

but it's hard. being unemployed is hard. being a "professional recessionista" is miserable. i hate not being "productive." i hate not being able to complain about wack coworkers. i hate that i can't have a mildly inappropriate work-crush. i hate that i am perpetually broke or almost-broke. it's draining. especially when almost everyone else that you know is doing something. they have obligations. they have lives

i keep waking up at fairly ungodly hours for no. freaking. reason. like my body hasn't gotten the memo that i am jobless; therefore, i can sleep in. but no. instead, i wake up early. writhe around in bed with my laptop until for a couple of hours. shower. get dressed. go to borders for a few hours. maybe splurge on tea. feel read. use their wifi. feel extra distraught when i have to buy food/toiletries/LIFE supplies. go home. writhe around in bed more. maybe go downstairs and watch some tv. play on internet until bed.

this lifestyle? sucks. i can't help but think back to this time last year. senior year of college. only four classes, which allowed me to hustle for more hours at my not-so-bad on-job. actively engaged in a feminist organization. fun meals with fabulous friends. GOING OUT. oh my god, i miss going out so much. i miss drinking and aggressively dancing and making hos jealous and all that good stuff. i miss my friends. :/ my unemployed status coupled with the fact that i am a few years younger than the people i do socialize with = inferior status. there's always an undercurrent of me feeling less-than in every interaction i have, and that, to be oh-so-eloquent, just sucks.