We're going down, down in an earlier round, and Sugar, we're going down swinging. . .

Today was an eye-opening day.  

I was going to go into extreme detail here, but I've decided not to.  The long and the short of it is, I'm in for, not exaggeration, one of the biggest fights of my life.  I don't know how it's going to end, but the stakes?  They're high.  I'm. . .vaguely concerned that my job could be at stake here, but if it works, even if my job is some of the collateral damage here, it'll be worth it.  Entirely worth it.

What I have done this evening, in essence, is set into motion something that may or may not get me to my ultimate goal.  It's also entirely possible it will get me. . .sent to the poverty line, but sometimes in life, you have to decide what is and is not worth the risk.  And this particular cause, I feel very strongly about.

I've been fighting with God a lot recently.  That sounds kind of weird, but I've had a lot of really weird/bad/frightening/worrisome things happening to me recently, and I just wanted to know why.

Most people who know me think that I don't believe in God.  That's actually not true at all.  I believe very much that God, in some form or another, is there.  It's the whole Jesus thing I don't really buy.  I guess I am, in essence, kind of Jewish.  I've said that before.  I have a very real fear of God, in whatever form he's in.  What I don't believe in is the whole construction of God that Christianity has made.  It doesn't make sense to me.

What I'm saying here is that I believe in. . .something.  I also believe that when we die, we aren't necessarily just dead and gone.  I feel like there's something left behind.  It's that particular belief that keeps me from feeling like I'm crazy when I talk to my aunt, who died in 2006.  

That has a legit correlation with what I was talking about, because my point is that talking to God, to me, is like talking to my aunt.  I have no real proof that God's there or that any part of my aunt is there, but I still feel like someone's listening to me when I'm talking.

OK.  Upon looking back on this, I may sound like I've lost a couple of my marbles, and that nothing I'm saying has to do with anything.  Aside from an insight into my beliefs, religious and otherwise, I'm going to say that if you're the praying kind, I could use it in the next couple of days.  One of the most important people in my life needs it, too.  I am legitimately afraid I could become unemployed by this time next week, and if you're not the praying kind, just think about me occasionally, OK?  Also my person.  He definitely needs it, and I could potentially need it.

I'm scared, but I'm ready to take whatever consequences might come from my actions.

Thanks, guys.  Sorry I haven't made a lot of sense.

It felt so wrong, it felt so right (don't mean I'm in love tonight. . .)

Been a few days.  I've been. . .monstrously busy at work, and then I get home and I think to myself, "Self, you should blog."  And Self says to me, "But Sarah, wouldn't it make more sense to have a glass of wine and watch Friends?"  And then I realize how practical I am.

But really and truly, I've been working really hard.  And I've also been going to the gym!  Which, you know, is kind of an uphill battle for me.  I'm always glad I went when I go, but it's the getting there part that's so tough.  I went both Monday and Wednesday, and if I go tomorrow, I can make it into kind of a 3-4 times a week thing, and that'll be good.  (I say 3-4 because I can go on a weekend day, too.  I just won't be doing it Saturday because I have plans for. . .most of the day.)

Saturday, Carol and I are going to go to the Biltmore and drink.  They have a winery there, and she and I both have passes, so we're not actually paying anything.  It's a win-win-(win), in all actuality.  Then there's this poetry reading thing at a bookstore in Asheville that I put in the calendar that seemed like it could be interesting, so I'm going to go to that.

Then Sunday, I'll probably put in a few hours at work (so this Monday isn't like last Monday), and then either go to the party one of the guys at work is having for the Super Bowl or go to Carrie and Frank's church for what sounds like an ungodly amount of chicken wings.  We'll see.  I think everything'll depend on what time things start.

It was. . .brought to my attention today that I'm becoming one of those friends that pop up in your buddy list, and you hope they don't talk to you.  (No, it wasn't actually said like that.  Because that would be horrible.)  But I realize that there are certain problems that certain people get to hear about.  You know, like, one person is the "oh my God, I have no money" friend, and one person is the "relationship issues" friend, and one person is the friend with whom I only discuss superficial things and one person gets all of my family drama. . .that kind of thing.  I do have a couple instances where those things overlap, and a person or two gets more than one,  but I feel like I'm subconsciously doing that so I don't overload any one person with everything so it doesn't happen that they don't like me anymore.  It also prevents people from getting too close, you know?  Because. . .well, that's just how I am.

So!  I'm going to go back to zero.  It's entirely possible that problems are better left unsaid, and that if I want to bitch about something, I should. . .actually, I don't know.  I'd say "blog about it," but I don't want this to become "Oh, Sarah has woes!" any more than it already has.  Maybe I'll go back to the livejournal and put them all on "for my eyes only" or whatever that category is called.  I think that's actually what I'm going to do.  That way, I get the writing about it out, and people don't have to listen to me.  Again, win-win(win).

I don't know if anyone's seen the movie "Proof," but it's based on a play that I've decided to try out for.  There are two female characters, and I'd love to get either one.  Obviously, I want to lead (who wouldn't?), but I'd like the part of the sister, too.  She has a similar personality type to me, and she has fewer lines, which would say possibly that work wouldn't get SO much in the way.  We'll see.  I know better than to go into it saying, "Oh, yeah.  I'm a shoe-in.  I'm SO going to get either parts."  We have a lot of talent around here and the shows at this theatre are usually really good.  But we'll see.

This week's issue of my publication is going to be centered around Girl Scout cookies, which I think has the potential for some really cool centerspread art.  Although, come to think of it, maybe I shouldn't go to Super Bowl parties and. . .no.  I'm going to cut myself off there mid-sentence.  I am limiting myself to three hours on Sunday.  That's it.  I'll go in 1-ish, leave 4-ish, and be done with it.  Last weekend, when I didn't go in at all, aside from causing a minor meltdown Monday, it was wonderful.  I'd forgotten what weekends were like.  They're there for a reason, which is to prevent you from burning out, which I feel I am dangerously close to doing.  Maybe I'll take a personal day next week.

Actually, that sounds like a really good idea.  I won't have taken any in January.  I have 5 personal and 10 vacation days, so that's 15 (obviously).  Maybe I just need a real day off.  And maybe I'll take one.  That's what they're there for, right?

Going to go attempt to sleep.  I'd slept for, like, 3 nights in a row without any help, and then I had a night of tossing and turning, so I started with the PM pills again.  I got home too late to take them this evening (I got home at 11:30 after a basketball game with Carrie and then a few minutes hanging out at her house) and since the pills take about an hour to kick in for me and you're supposed to get 8 hours or so of sleep after taking them, I don't like to take them too late.

Also, they've been giving me really weird, really scary dreams.  So I'm thinking it's time to lay off of them anyway.

Hey, kid. Good morning. You look like an angel. I don't remember when we fell asleep. Better get up, kid. Cathy is waiting. . .

Went to a high school basketball game tonight.  We lost by one point, and that was. . .well, even I was screaming by the end of the game.

There was a guy behind me that. . .apparently, I always end up sitting in front of (or standing beside at football games) the loudest, most annoying redneck in the bunch.  This guy was literally screaming the en. tire. time.  It was physically hurting my ears.  He was yelling at the boys, yelling at the refs, yelling at. . .everyone.  I had my finger plugging up my right ear for most of the game.  So I was really freaking sick of him screaming in my ear, and at one particular point, he yelled really loudly, and I yelled, too.  I don't remember what I said, but it was indicative of me not being pleased with my ear being yelled in.  This guy puts his hand on my shoulder (False, sir.  Do not touch me.  I do not like being touched.) and says, "Sorry about your ear, Darlin'.  But this is why you pay the money to see the game, Baby."

First of all, no.  I do not spend money to see basketball games to yell at the refs.  (I actually don't spend money to see them at all, because I have a press pass.)  Secondly, if you have never had a conversation with me and do not know my name, do.  Not.  call me Baby.  I am not your baby.  You have not earned the right to call me by anything except my name.  

Up until the point I was a. . .junior in high school, I hated it when ANYONE called me Baby or any derivative thereof.  Baby, Babe, Babydoll, whatever.  I hated it.  I hated it with a fiery vengeance.  And because I was friends with a bunch of douchebags, as soon as my guy friends found that out, that's what they called me.  My name ceased being Sarah and I was from that point on known as Baby.

As in, walking down the hall, "Hey, Baby!  You have the Algebra notes?"  "Where do you want to go to lunch today, Baby?"  "That history test is a killer, Baby!"

You get the picture.

They did it so much, I just got accustomed to it.  And by the time I started dating Richard junior year and that's how he generally referred to me, I found I rather liked it.  It's affectionate and cute, I think. 

However.  I was not dating this redneck behind me.  So it irked me that he touched me (strike one) and then called me by a cutesy nickname.

I need to go to the rec center tomorrow.  I really need to.  I just. . .it's hard to motivate myself.  Especially when I have a house that badly needs to be cleaned and work that badly needs to be done.  (Because of Christmas Sunday.  Yes, Christmas.  No, I don't want to talk about it.)

I also really need to write.  I've got this novel in my head.  It's an entire story, from beginning to end, but I don't have the time to sit down and write it.  I don't have the time and ENERGY to sit down and write it.  But I want to.  I need to get it down.

I'm going to see The Last 5 Years tomorrow.  I'm going by myself which. . .sucks a little, but I really want to see it, so it's OK.  I'd asked MK to come with me, but he already had something else he was doing.  And I can't go Sunday, because of Christmas.  I listened to the soundtrack on the way to the basketball game and I cried the entire way.  

Remember the thing I wrote about how, when I was younger, I used to watch the saddest part of "Follow That Bird," and just cry and cry?  And my mother worried she was raising a masochist?  These days, I keep doing that to myself.  I'm especially bad for it watching Grey's Anatomy and listening to The Last 5 Years soundtrack.  I've been really emotional lately for. . .a myriad of reasons, really.  

Actually, I'm wondering if I should even go to the show.  I love it, but I'll be there alone, and I'll probably cry through the show and all the way home, and most likely when I get home, too.  I don't know if I need to do that to myself at this particular point in time.  

I have. . .a lot of stuff going on at the moment.  I'm not talking about it because I just don't even know myself where I am in it all.  (No, that's not true.  I talked to KentuckyNicholas the other night because I was about to lose my mind and I needed to talk to SOMEONE who wasn't involved in the problems I'm having and who was a completely unbiased point of view.  It made me feel better to talk about it, but I didn't actually come to any grand conclusions, which led to the first part of my day being really sad.

As for now, though, I'm going to finish watching "Halloween" and go to bed.  And try to sleep.  Which actually probably won't happen.  

I should add that it's at the part of the movie that the two characters just had, apparently, a lot of sex, and that just brings to light the fact that I'm going to be. . .well, I'm probably going to be spending my Friday nights exactly like I am right now, alone watching other people get it on in scary movies, indefinitely.  That's. . .it's just a little sad to me is all.

I guess it's some consolation that everyone who gets lucky in this movie is killed.

Been alone since you were 21. You haven't laughed since January. You try and make like this is so much fun, but we know it to be quite contrary.

I have been working.  my.  ASS OFF this week, and I've been doing a good job.  I wrote a front page story about a stupid blood drive that I think turned out better than expected.  I laid out the Lifestyles pages on Tuesday because Jeff made it sound like he was covered in 900 things he had to do, and I was trying to be helpful.

The next day, Vi come in here and tells me she had given him that much to do because she notices that he spends a lot of time doing nothing and screwing around.  She said I was "enabling him."

Well excuse the fuck out of me.  I guess I'm just going to not try to be helpful anymore.  Otherwise known as "stop offering to do things for people because they are most likely trying to take advantage of me, and I let them, because I"m an idiot."

He also let her think he'd done the pages.  It wasn't until I said something about how I couldn't proof them because I'd done them that she realized what I'd been doing all day.  When I mentioned it to Jeff, he said something to the effect of, "Of course I told her I'd done it."  Or something like that.  And that burned me.

That, of course, is why I made sure that she knew I'd done it.  Because I might be a little too trusting, but I'm not stupid. 

It's like in high school.  I was dating Richard, and he'd come over to hang out for the day.  He got a phone call, which he took outside, and then came back in and told me that it was his father who had called, and his father needed him to come home and "help him move his office."

I should note here that Richard lied to me on a fairly regular basis, so I knew what to look for.  What I said, though, was, "OK, baby.  Tell your dad I said hi."  He left.  I waited a few hours, then called his house.  His mom answered, and I said, "Hey, (whatever her name was.  I don't remember).  Is Richard there?"  She said, "Hi, Sarah.  I. . .thought he was with you."  And I said, "Oh, no.  He left a couple of hours ago, because he said (his dad's name) needed help moving his office.  I was just wondering if they'd gotten back yet."  She paused and said, "No.  He hasn't gotten back yet.  Would you like me to have him call you?"  I said, "No.  I don't actually, but thanks!"

Later that night, he did end up calling me, and it turns out I'd gotten him into huge trouble with his parents.  Which . . . was the point, obviously.  I asked him why he'd lied to me, and he said he didn't know.

All that to say, if you're going to pull something like that on me, I'm going to make good and sure you're found out.  You might screw me over, but I'll make sure you screw yourself over as well.  Maybe that sounds vindictive, but I like to think of it as a "reap what you sow" kind of circumstance.

Also, Vi comes into my office this morning and tells me that "no one else" is available to go to this boring-sounding business meeting this evening, and that I need to cover it.  I'd been planning on writing the freelance articles I do on the side so I can afford to eat due to the paltry salary I receive here tonight, but now, I get to take notes on a business meeting.  YAY!

I need to go see The Last 5 Years at some point this weekend.  Maybe I'll go Saturday?  I just can't let what I would probably consider my favorite show ever to come and go without seeing it, even if it is just being put on by a smallish college.  I listened to the soundtrack for an entire day last week, and I was thoroughly depressed by it.  I love it, but it's sad.

It's kind of like how I keep watching those two episodes of Grey's Anatomy that make me cry every time.  Maybe I'm a masochist.  Maybe I'm a control freak and, rather than letting completely outside circumstances make me cry, I put myself into a situation where I know I'll cry, but I kind of have control over it.  I don't. . .actually know.

I had a whole other thing I was going to go into, but instead, I'm going to go have lunch.

Could it be you? I've been searching so hard to find. (Tell me how could I have been so blind.)

So in general, this day was one made of suck.

I was relatively pleased with my publication today.  I wrote a story about a massage place that I'm considering going to.  I've never had a real massage, and I feel like I desperately need one.  She's got a $15 discount going on because of Valentine's Day, and I might actually be able to afford it with the $15 off.  I'll be getting paid Friday, and I'll have another pay day before Feb. 14, so if I put half of the cost in the bank this Friday and then the other half in next Friday, I can probably afford it by the time the week of the 14th rolls around.

I was just. . .I was in the same funk today that I was in last night.  People were. . .I don't want to say they were picking on me, because that sounds like I'm 5, but they were.  NewJeff was working my nerves in a particularly annoying manner.  

There was. . .something I was looking forward to all day, that I anticipated getting at the end of the workday, and I didn't.  That. . .you know when you're really looking forward to something, and then it ends up not panning out or whatever, and it just. . .I can't really describe it.  It made me a lot sadder than it should have.  It would have helped my mood exponentially.  But you know.  Can't always get what you want.  And I can deal with it like a big girl.

So I drive home and, thanks to the snow and the slick roads, I end up sliding right before I get to my house, and I hit a light pole.  I was able to turn the wheel so I didn't hit it dead on, but I was sliding at a fairly good clip when I hit it.  I heard a loud bang as the side of my car hit it, but as far as I can tell, I didn't do any damage.  And, I mean, I'm OK and everything.  It was just. . .it was annoying more than anything.  And I hit the thing and said, "Of course.  Of.  Course."

I get inside and think, no, I'm not going to have mac and cheese like I'd originally planned.  I decided to make breakfast for dinner.  I knew I had either pancakes or waffles in my freezer (which, incidentally, I had both) and I'd just bought some eggs and shredded cheese.

Incidentally, I bought the eggs because I told MK I had eggs in my fridge, but they were sell by August something, and he said, "Well, what if you get drunk one night and decide you want eggs?  You'll die."

I told him at the time that, for one, I never make eggs when I'm drunk.  Also, I've never been drunk enough to make eggs with really old eggs.

Regardless, after that conversation, I threw out the old eggs and bought some new ones.  When I went to get some eggs to make my patented Awesome Cheesy Scrambled Eggs, I opened the carton and made a startling revelation.  The bag I dropped taking my groceries out of the car on Saturday?  Of course, contained the eggs.  Three of them had broken, and I broke another one trying to get it unstuck from the carton.  I started out with a dozen eggs, and ended up with 8 I was able to use.  I won't repeat what I said at that point.  It wasn't very ladylike.

The upshot of this, however, is that I did make my Awesome Cheesy Scrambled Eggs (made with my secret ingredient that I think only Nick knows about.  And no.  The secret ingredient is not cheese.), along with mini pancakes complete with sliced strawberries (the last of the ones I bought the other day) and honey.  And wine.  I'm aware that wine is not typically what one eats with breakfast, but after this day?  I think I deserved it.  The only thing that would have made the meal complete would have been if I'd had sausage.  I do love sausage.

Now, I'm just waiting for Gossip Girl to come on.  I'm hoping that sleep comes more easily this evening than it did last night, because I tossed and turned for hours, even with the aid of Faux Tylenol PM.  I'm worried that it's not having the proper effect anymore, and that I'm just going to be screwed when it comes to taking things to help me sleep.  I refuse to take. . .what is it?  Ambien?  Because people walk (and drive!) in their sleep while on that, and I would be the person that would happen to.

I think I'm actually going to have a salad now.  Again, doesn't go with breakfast, but I'm still hungry.

I don't want to wait for our lives to be over. I want to know right now what could it be.

I am in such a funk.

I was in a normal mood this morning.  I talked to Karen for a while.  I watched the two-part episode of Grey's Anatomy that never fails to make me cry (and cried).  I had two giant cups of coffee.  And then I went to work.

The mood didn't really hit me at work, either.  I got the calendar pages done, which are my most hated pages in the thing.  Dennis came in with Kelly, and while I probably should have kept working, I played with her instead.  That was my own fault, but she's just a fun kid, and I am almost incapable of telling her no, I'm working and I can't play with you right now.  Because it's. . .it's an amazing thing when you've got this person, even a little person, constantly telling you that they love you, and that they like playing with you. . .that you're cool?  I don't know.  Maybe it sounds really pathetic that I like getting validation from someone 20 years younger than me, but. . .I can't explain it.  I guess it's that kids don't lie.  I mean, if they have no reason to.  If you catch them doing something they shouldn't be doing, they'll lie, but they won't walk up to you and say, "Hey.  I like you," if they don't, like adults will.  It's the little things in life.

I'm sorry.  I'm just in a really weird mood.

MK called me when I was about to leave work and could tell I was in a funk.  To cheer me up, he read me this kiddie book called "Silly Sara," and it was. . .really, really cute.  Not the book itself, but that he read it.  I don't know.  It made me smile, and I think that's what he was going for.  I looked the book up on Amazon.com when I got home, and it looks cute (I liked the drawings.)  See what I mean about the little things in life?

I'm dreading going into work tomorrow.  Not because I have an overwhelming amount of work to do.  I can handle the work.  I just. . .it's a funk!  I wish I could blame it on "that time of the month," but that was last week.  I have nothing to blame it on except not wanting to do anything but stay in bed, curled up with. . .a person, napping and watching stupid TV.  That's what I want to do right now.  I've got the bed, I've got the stupid TV, but I'm alone.  I'm always alone.

I had a woman come in for an interview the other day and she has a massage place, and even though I think it's vaguely overpriced, I'm thinking of calling her and making an appointment.  I've been so tense recently, and not for any good reason.  My job isn't stressing me out like it used to, my boss generally leaves me alone (except for the moments she makes me want to throw myself out the window) and. . .I don't know.  I'm going into one of those places where I want a change.  Usually, I do something to my hair when I get in these moods, but I don't have enough of it left to do anything to it.

I think I'm lonely today.  Maybe that's what it is.

I'm going to stop being a bummer, because this entry has been nothing but a woe is me.  I'll try to be in better spirits before I write again.

My body is callin' out for you, bad boy. I get the feeling that I just want to be with ya.

I have several different stories I could start this post out with, but I feel absolutely compelled to share what I've been doing for the last 20 minutes or so.  

I'm warning you now, this is going to be long.  Don't start reading if you're going to be easily bored or if you don't want to hear about the weird, scary things diabetes does to me.

Every now and again, I check craigslist for freelance work.  I realized that I go to the same post areas every time I go (art/media/design, part-time, education, wanted, creative, and writing) and I'd never really paid much mind to anything else on the site.

Well.

I went into the "personals" section, and I have been through a few pages on misc. romance, casual encounters, missed connections, rants and raves, women seeking women, and women seeking men.  (Honestly, I'm a little afraid of the men seeking men and men seeking women sections.  I'm not entirely sure why, but I feel like I'd be scandalized and horrified by what I'd find.  I'm already a little scandalized and horrified by what I HAVE found.)

The casual encounters section, by far, is the most interesting.  I just don't understand the. . .the concept, really, of posting on here, looking for sex, whether it's a one time thing, a recurring event, whatever.  I suppose one could argue that it's very similar to online dating (which, as you all know, has NOT been something that worked out for me).  But. . .I don't know, man.  I can't see putting up an ad saying something like, "Hey!  Want to have sex?  Send me a picture!"  I guess if I were desperate (and unafraid) I might consider something like that, but I can't see EVER being that desperate.  I've been holding out for. . .24 years, so I think that my desperation has probably plateaued, and I never EVER got the urge to ask strangers to service me.

The funny thing about these is that I'm generally looking at the ones from my county and there are a. . .surprising amount of people looking for gay hookups.  I mean, I know there have to be gay people around here, but you just don't really hear from them.  I guess that's why they're looking on craigslist.  I have also seen. . .more penises than I'd care to admit.  If I were into porn, I could just get it here.  There was also a woman who posted pictures of herself. . .servicing a gentleman caller, and I KNOW I've seen that woman before, but I just don't remember where.  If I ever see her again, I'm probably going to laugh.  In Raleigh, I could see posting pictures of yourself or your junk, because it's unlikely that any random person would see you and run into you on the street and recognize you.  But this is a small town.  It is a conglomeration of small towns, and I would never do something like that, not only because I'm not into that kind of thing, but SOMEONE would be bound to recognize me.  Especially considering my job.

Anyway, some of my favorites from my town thus far have been the "Cop looking for a good time" who said, "hey guys!  hot average build white male, 6 ft tall brown eyes black hair.  6 to 7 inches cut.  cop in training so im fairly good shape, looking for guys in the the 20's near (my town) to have a good time tonight.  im straight but curious.  hit me up!"  Then there's "Hey, let's relax together" and it says "HI.  One of my biggest fantasies is getting up with a friend, laying him down, and slowly stripping him as I give him a massage, making sure to hit all the most tense areas with some oral techniques.  I don't expect anything in return.  Think you might be that friend I'm looking for?  If so, hit me up and we'll make it happen."  That was also in my town.  All I'm saying, I guess, is that I dated Richard for a year and a half and didn't sleep with him, so I don't understand the concept of advertising for some random person.  

So my day.

My alarm went off at 10:30.  MK called me at 10:45.  I lounged in bed until 11:30 or so, chit-chatting.  I decided not to be entirely lazy today, so I got ready to go to the rec center.  My shower still wasn't working, so I took all my shower stuff with me to just take a shower there.  It made sense.

I ellipticaled, "ran," and machined for 45 minutes or so.  I feel like such a loser when I hear people like my friend Carol say, "Yeah, I was at the Y for 2 hours."  I'm thinking. . .what the hell do you do for 2 hours?  I'm saying an hour tops.  Maybe because I'm. . .not the gym-going type?  I don't know.  So after all that, I go get a shower.  I had, in fact, forgotten what it was like to take a public place shower.  I felt like I was either at camp or in college again.  It was not an altogether pleasant feeling.

So after the shower, I had one of my "episodes."  I have two kinds of these.  The first one I haven't had since I left Raleigh (thank God), but it's when my blood sugar goes dangerously low overnight, and I don't wake up unless woken up.  The last time this happened to me, I was hours late for work because my blood sugar had gone so low, my alarm didn't wake me up.  My dad always left before I did, so he didn't think anything of the fact that I wasn't up when he left.  My mom called me like 5 times before the phone woke me up and I answered.  My job had called me, my temp agency had called me. . .none of it woke me up.  When I was finally roused from my being passed out (there's a fine line, I've found, between being asleep and being passed out.) my blood sugar was, like, 20.  Luckily, this hasn't happened since I've lived here.  I'm super careful to eat something before I go to bed so it DOESN'T happen, but I'm continually scared that it's going to happen, and no one's going to realize that I'm. . .essentially passed out.  And then I will die.  And no one will know.

But anyway.

It happened once in college, senior year.  I went to bed at midnight and didn't wake up again until 5:30 the next day.  When I came out of it, I was actually getting out of the shower.  I don't remember getting INTO the shower, so that was particularly scary.  I also missed a fraternity meeting, but when I explained what had happened, it was excused.  But really?  I took an entire freaking shower, and washed my hair without being conscious of it.  I think the only reason I came out of it was because I had (thankfully) detached my insulin pump before getting in the shower, so that probably helped my blood sugar to rise.  

It's like being in a daze.  You really feel like you've lost hours of your life, because you have.  I lost that entire Sunday.  And I don't know why it happens. 

The kind I had today is ever so slightly less scary, but still vaguely terrifying.  What happens is, I feel like I'm getting overheated, and I start to black out.  Like, I can see blackness creeping in from the corners of my eyes, and if I don't sit down, it's entirely possible that I'll hit the floor. It seems like this happens to me most often when I'm in the shower, and I hypothesize that it has something to do with the hot water.  Probably the reason diabetics aren't supposed to get into hot tubs and saunas (I did hit the floor in a sauna once.  That's actually kind of gross, but it happened.  I never again ignored that sign that said diabetics should not use the sauna.)  The last time this happened to me, I was in the shower, but I was at home, so it wasn't so bad.  I just laid on my little sofa until the overpowering blackness went away.  The time before that, it happened in the newsroom.  If I remember correctly, Dennis and Kim were there, and I may have worried them a little.  The time before THAT was actually at graduation.  I was walking toward my seat and I literally could not see where I was walking, because. . . I couldn't see.  There was literally blackness closing over my eyes, and it was all I could do to walk straight.  And I was wearing heels.  I had to sit down when I got to my seat, despite the fact that everyone else was still standing.  That was really scary, because there was the potential for me to pass out in front of thousands of people.  I didn't, luckily.

So today, I got through the shower, and decided to get dressed in the stall, because there were children running around the changing area, and I felt creepy walking out in a towel.  I managed to get my shirt on before I got really, really dizzy.  The overheated dizzy that goes along with one of these "episodes."  Luckily, the shower was one of those with. . .there's the shower, and there's a curtain in front of it, and then there's a little area with a bench-looking thing, and a curtain in front of THAT as well.  I wrapped my towel around my waist and sat down on that bench thing, putting my head on my knees.  I felt like the room was spinning, and I was honestly afraid I was about to pass out.  I didn't know where to go for help because, for one, I'm wearing a shirt and a towel, and for another, I couldn't stand up without feeling like I was going to fall down.  I could feel the blackness creeping over my eyes, and I would be DAMNED if I was going to pass out in a public shower.

So I sat there for. . .however long (The entirety of this story took place between 1:08 and 1:53.  I know this because when I put my insulin pump back in, having taken it off to take the shower, it was suspended at 1:08 and when I unsuspended it, it was 1:53.)  I felt a little better, and decided to try to make it out to the changing area/locker room.  I didn't attempt to put my jeans on, because I didn't want to overexert myself.  I made it. . .to the bench about 5 steps outside the shower before I had to sit down again.  Again, I had to put my head on my knees.  I was seriously overheated, and I couldn't walk straight.  After an undetermined amount of time, I decided to try again.  This time, I made it to where the bathroom stalls were (about 25 paces away), and I had to make the choice again to either sit down or fall down.  I chose to sit down.  Unfortunately, I chose to sit down in a stall where someone had, for some reason completely unbeknownst to me, thrown a really, really dirty diaper away in those little things intended to throw away feminine hygiene product wrappers.  Thanks to this, I gagged every time I tried to take a deep breath to clear my head.  I tried putting the towel around my just-washed hair over my face so I could breathe, but the smell of the flower shampoo I'd used made me even more dizzy.  It was a lose-lose.  Really, a true comedy of errors.  If it weren't so utterly terrifying, it would have been. . .a little funny.  I'm sure I'll find it at least mildly humorous one of these days.

So I'm sitting there, really thinking I'm going to either A) die, B) pass out, or C) pass out, catch some gross disease from a bathroom floor, and then die.  I put my head between my knees, trying to breathe and not gag or get dizzy, and I notice something very odd.  I don't know if this has happened to me every time I've had one of these "episodes," but my feet were. . .purple.  They were swollen and purple and you could see every cute shoe-induced scar I've got on them.  Also the scar from the removal of the tumor thing.  Every little imperfection on my feet was very pronounced, but what really concerned me was the color.  They were honest to God purple, with weird white spots along the arches.  I'm wondering if this could give me some insight into why this happens, or what exactly is happening when this happens.  But they were gross-looking.  I mean, more gross-looking than feet usually are.

After what had to have been 25 minutes or so, I was finally able to get up, get my jeans on, and walk out to where my locker was.  I got my stuff together VERY slowly, didn't bother to dry my hair (like I needed more heat pointed straight at my head), and left.  When I walked outside, the sun seemed oddly bright.  It hurt my eyes.  This may have been thanks to the "episode."  I sat in my car for a while before leaving, not wanting to, you know, pass out behind the wheel.  I felt better by this point, though, so after returning Carol's message she'd left, I headed out to get groceries.

I now have legit groceries in my house, and I will be bringing my lunch EVERY DAY this week (except Tuesday, where I'm going to a luncheon.  Not just a lunch.  A luncheon.  I'm going to have to be "business professional" that day.  And I will be lunching on quiche.)  And I have dinner, probably, too.  Unless I get the urge to go out for dinner one night or something.

Then I met up with Carol, and we walked Main Street a little while (in the FREAKING cold), went to a little store I'd told her about, and then went to a little bookstore where we had awesome, AWESOME tea.  Then she went to an engagement dinner she had tonight, and I went to Zaxby's (because they have my boneless wing meal back again.  LOVE!) and then to Wal-Mart, because I was having this mad cherry pie craving like you would not BELIEVE.  So I got a cherry pie.

And now, here I am, looking at the freaks on craigslist.  I also got to talk to Karen, which was cool.  We were able to catch up (since we hadn't talked in a while) and all is good in the world.  I've had 2 glasses of wine, and it's about bed time for me.

It's been snowing this evening, and I'm hoping the roads aren't horrible so I can go into work tomorrow and not have to work a crazy day Monday.

Oh, and if you're wondering?  My shower is working again.  So that's good at least.

Mr. Photographer, I think I'm ready for my close up tonight. (Make sure you catch me from my good side. Pick one.)

I want someone to remind me, come this summer when I'm complaining about the heat, of today, Jan. 16, 2009, when I woke up, walked out of my nice, warm room into my den, and could see my breath in the air.  I still maintain that I'd rather be cold than hot (my rationale being, you can always put on more clothes, but there's only so much you can take off) but my GOD, it's cold.

Apparently, my pipes are frozen or a pipe is frozen or something, because when I turned on the shower this morning (hoping for a brief reprieve from the cold by the way of a really, REALLY hot shower), a few drops of freezing cold water dripped out. . .and that was it.  I said. . .well, what I said wasn't particularly lady-like, but then I realized that every other source of water in my apartment worked just fine (bathroom sink, toilet, kitchen sink) but it was just that one.  Of course.  If it's not functioning by the time I get home tonight, I'll probably have to see if I can take a shower at Carrie's.  But that was just annoying.

And then!  I'd almost forgotten about this, but I was really glad today that my epic, extreme fear of birds, which has since been basically dissuaded, isn't as bad as it used to be, because while I was locking the door to my apartment, I heard a faint rustling at the bottom of the Stairway of Doom.  My first thought was, "Great.  Crazy Lady's outside, and I'm going to have to talk to her/be yelled at by her/have her tell me how I'm the noisiest tenant ever/etc.  I'm not in the mood for this."

So I started down the stairs and stopped when I realized there was a bird sitting on the very bottom stair, giving me a "You lookin' at me?" kind of look.  Seriously, it looked pissed.  The door was closed, so the best I can figure is that my neighbor inadvertently let the bird in last night when he came in and closed the door behind him.  

I'm having this stand-off with this bird.  It's looking at me, I'm looking at it.  I take a step down the stairs, and he FREAKS OUT, flapping and flying everywhere.  I'm reminded of why I was so afraid of birds.  He lands on the door frame (I'm still not sure how he was holding on, actually) and stands there looking at me again.  I take another step, and he freaks out again.  I duck and cover, because I don't care what you say, I remain convinced that it is possible for a bird to decide to attack a person.

I finally decide that going to work is a good option for the day, man up, duck and cover, and take the rest of the stairs.  Quickly.  Bird FREAKS OUT and flies past my head, up the stairs, as I take a flying leap out the door.  I left the door open so he could get out, though.  I just hope he didn't scare the bejeezus out of my neighbor.

I have not gotten nearly enough work done today, which is why I'll probably be here for another hour or so.  Friday is the day I should get the most done, but I just wasn't feeling it today.  I'll come in either tomorrow or Sunday (probably Sunday, so I have some company) and then finish everything on Monday (deadline day).  I hate how lame my cover stories have been here recently, but I've got a cool Girl Scout cookie one coming up in a couple weeks, and when the spring and summer months finally hit, I'll have events to put on the front.  

Coming up, I also have the bridal tab (March), Home and Garden (April), Graduation (June) and Choose to Refuse in August.  I've never been much for looking in the long-term, but I got the schedule yesterday, and I know if I don't start thinking about them now, I won't remember, and the deadlines will sneak up on me.

OK, so I'm home now after, like, 7 hours.  Carrie and I went to IHOP for dinner, and I actually ended up bringing the copy of my publication with the column I wrote about that IHOP and giving it to the manager.  As it turned out, a couple that was there at the same time Carrie and I were had told the manager about the article.  It's amazing how stuff like that happens.  I, occasionally, love my job.

Some stuff has been going on recently that has brought me, in a rather violent fashion, into remembering aspects of my childhood that I hadn't thought about, hadn't cared to think about, for quite some time.  (That sounds more dramatic than I needed it to.  I'm not talking about any kind of weird abuse or anything in my past.  There was none.  I'm talking more on an emotional level.)  I've thought about stuff and remembered things and actually, that in combination with that short story I found the other night, has made me write again.  Fiction, I mean.  I started writing another short the other night, and it's a lot slower goings than writing used to be for me, but that's because fiction hasn't been something I've been focusing on, I think.  I may put it up after I finish it.  Possibly.  

It's 8 degrees outside right now.  And, incidentally, my shower is still not working.  I'm going to have to go elsewhere for my shower tomorrow.  Probably to Carrie's.

I'm going to head to bed.  

I'll be there for you (when the rain starts to fall)

I went to this writing Web site I used to be a member of, years ago this evening. Back in the day, I was a "preferred member," of the site. I had a portfolio of a couple dozen short stories that people told me were really good, they got 4- and 5-star ratings consistently, and they were probably decent.

I let the site lapse for a year or two, and when I returned in 2005, I found that my portfolio had been deleted. I, of course, typed these stories straight into the site, and I have no record of them anywhere.

When I returned back then, in 2005, I wrote three things. Upon signing in this evening, I found that they're still there. The three things I wrote four years ago. I was 20 years old, a sophomore in college, writing short stories because that's what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to be a writer.

Now, four years later, I find these stories again, and I wonder where it all went. Where did the ideas for short stories go? Where did that drive go that I used to have, when I wrote short stories all the time? Now I try to write long, involved novellas that I lose steam on halfway (or a quarter of the way) through that never go anywhere. Maybe my short stories weren't Pulitzer Prize-winning, and maybe I was writing about things I had no idea about, but they were mine.

I'm going to put the shorter of the two on here. I don't know where the idea for this came from. I'm going to put it straight in as-is, so there may be typos or whatever. But when I read this, I wondered where this person went.

I don't think I'm going to leave a note.

That's what everyone does, you know? Whenever someone kills themselves, there's usually a note. It tells whoever is unlucky enough to find the body why they did it, who they're blaming, and sometimes what is supposed to happen to their stuff. "Give all my money to charity" or "I want my sister Joyce to have my puppy" or even "I leave you all with the guilt of knowing that you drove me to this."

No, definitely no note. I don't think that anyone would really understand it. A note would make things worse.

You're probably asking yourself at this point why I would do it. Why a pretty, popular 18-year-old cheerleader would be sitting at a table with a bottle of vodka and ten codeine pills in front of her.

You want the truth?

Truth is, I'm bored. I'm just tired of living.

I'm not depressed. I've never been raped, beaten, treated badly, or even dumped. I just don't feel like there's anything left for me to do.

One pill. A swig of the vodka.

I'm supposed to graduate next month. And then do what? Go to college. I got a full ride to the State college for cheerleading. I didn't even know schools did that. But there she was, that cheering scout wearing way too much eyeshadow (it was blue for Chrissakes) and that big, blonde hair teased within an inch of its life. That was probably the style back when she was a cheerleader. In the 60's.

So my college is paid for. But I don't actually want to go to college. Try telling my mom that.

"For God's sake, Trinity. You'll never meet a man if you don't go to college."

She doesn't care what I do, really. And I'm not saying that in a, "Oh, my parents don't love me, guess I'll kill myself" sort of way. I just mean that she really doesn't care what I do. I've been drinking since I was 14. I've been smoking since I could drive. I got a car for my 16th birthday. I've been fucking guys, sometimes in mom and dad's bed, for. . .How many years? I've lost track.

I've basically got the parents that are every high schooler's wet dream. They sign the report cards, come to the games when I'm cheering. . .do all the good parent stuff. Mom even makes my lunches. Usually bologna, or peanut butter and strawberry jelly. Sometimes she'll make nachos. I bet you didn't know they were good cold.

Pill number two. Two shots.

Seriously, though. I'm done. There's nothing left for me. Seems to me that dying is the only way to erase the boredom. I'm never going to go anywhere. Never going to do anything.

It's not like I'm Natalie Keys. She's known since she was, like, 5 that she wanted to be a doctor. Got a scholarship to fucking Princeton. She turned down offers from Yale and Duke University in North Carolina. That girl's going places.

It's not like I'm Radeesha Jones. She wants to be the next Oprah. She's been hosting our school's gay little morning talk show that lasts maybe 15 minutes since we were freshmen. She's got the look and the personality for it. All she needs is the millions.

It's not even like I'm Jenny Figler. She had to drop out in January because she had her kid, Emily. Beautiful baby girl. I went to her baby shower and gave her a pink blanket, made out of the softest fleece I'd ever felt. She's living with her boyfriend, this guy she met over the internet named Ted. They're getting married in the fall. She says this is all she's ever wanted. To be a young mother and to get married.

I've never wanted anything like that. I've never wanted. . .anything.

Pills three and four. Two more shots.

I guess it's a good thing mom had these painkillers left over from her knee surgery. Because otherwise, it would have been a bitch to find something that worked. We don't keep any kid of medication in the house, except for aspirin. And I wasn't going to use a gun. Too nasty. And I wouldn't hang myself. Too dramatic. I'm just gonna fade away.

That's what I'd do anyway, you know. Fade away. Once I got to college? Just fade away. Sure, I'd be a cheerleader. But what would I do once there was nothing to cheer for? Once all the uniforms were all hung up, and I had just my academics to look forward to.

I don't want to do anything. I don't want to be anything.

I'm kind of a waste of space. Shit, I'm getting dizzy.

Five, six, seven. One, two, three.

I've never actually liked the taste of vodka. Nasty stuff. Tastes like rubbing alcohol. But that's what people are drinking these days, I guess.

I wonder if I'm dying now. It sure feels like it. It's like my eyelids are twitching, and there's this weird roaring in my ears.

It sounds like that time I almost drowned at the beach when I was 4. All I can remember about that was trying to cry, but instead, getting a mouthful of salty water. I think i swallowed a little fish. But that sound. I could never forget that sound. It was like everything was caving in on me.

This is all I have left.

Eight, nine, ten. One big gulp.

I certainly feel like I'm dying now. I've never been so dizzy in my life. Even when I fell off of that pyramid. Sydney wanted to be on the top, but I insisted. I guess she'll be able to be on the top now.

Maybe I should have written a note. I hope someone takes care of my fish. And that someone knows how valuable my CD collection is.

But most of all, I hope they know I wasn't unhappy. Not really.

I was just bored.

And now I'm just tired.

So I'm going to lay my head down on the table.

Good night.

So there's that. It's. . .it's kind of morbid, and it's cynical and it's. . .how I used to write. Why can't I still do that? Sure, it's angsty, but it was. . .I don't know.

I'm not even entirely sure why I'm putting this here. I don't tend to like to share my fiction writing.

I don't know. I miss fiction.

I'm not here for your entertainment. You don't really want to mess with me tonight. Just stop and take a second.

Another day, another dollar.

I did actually sleep last night, thanks to a couple glasses of wine and one off-brand Tylenol PM.  (I only took one because I didn't want to pull a Heath Ledger combining it with the wine.)

Last night, I left work early (well, no.  Early for me.  I left at 5:30.)  The snow was pouring down in such a way that I couldn't see five feet in front of me, so I was driving at a crawl.  I get home, hang up the phone from the call I was on, and decide that I'm going to make myself dinner, wash a couple of dishes (because they're gross) and have some wine.  And watch Friends.  Sounds lovely.

So I did.  I made pasta salad (a little too much mayo, but still edible), washed plates (the cups, bowls, Tupperware and utensils will come later), and finished off the bottle of wine Nick and I had begun the night before.  There were like two glasses left.  If you know me, you know I tend to have a very low alcohol tolerance, so I was feeling pretty good after those two glasses.  During this time, MK called, so we talked for 20 minutes or so.  Then I settled in to watch TV on a freakishly cold night.  Some might think that sounds like a pathetic evening (and by some, I mean NewJeff, who called me and told me as much), but I thoroughly enjoyed myself.  And I only sent one sad "Come back!" message to Nick.

I don't know if I mentioned how excited I was about my issue of my publication this week, but it, literally, turned out perfectly.  There is nothing I would change.  It is perfection, and if I were a TV show like Seinfeld, I would quit right now.  Because it isn't going to get any better than this.

No, that sounds pessimistic.  I don't mean it like that.  I just mean that I had this vision of what I wanted, and that vision was printed and distributed throughout the county.  I'm especially excited because I designed the centerspread myself.  Well, no.  Dennis helped me with Photoshop, because I'm unable to do that myself, since I know nothing about it, and after he put the individual pieces in for me and showed me how to work it, THEN I did it myself.

I have to, right now, say that when it comes to helping me with things I need, design and photo-wise, I could not ask for two better people to work with than NewJeff and Dennis.  Between the two of them, they make me look good.  Seriously.  Out of the. . .however many issues I've done so far, there's only been one cover I wasn't crazy about, and that was the first one.  But I was too stressed out and behind deadline that I wasn't going to worry about it.  Since then, though, I've had no complaints.  And thanks to Dennis, I now know a little bit about Photoshop and I can start designing and implementing my own centerspreads.  So thanks, guys.  Even though I know at least one of you doesn't know this blog is here.

I wonder, wonder why the wonder falls. I wonder why the wonder falls on me.

3:49 a.m, and I am shown, once again, that being up all night with no sleep (because I didn't take the proper drugs because of the wine I consumed) is not as glamorous and as rock star-like as one might initially think. In this case, though, I blame a combination of not taking the proper sleep aid and being stressed out about. . .things I don't need to be stressed out about. I'm expecting a phone call today that I'm dreading. I'm dreading it because, while it could, in fact, be a simple, innocuous phone call, I have the sneaking suspicion there's going to be more to it than that. Call me paranoid, but I'm just not up to exchanging pleasantries with someone I know would probably give me a good, swift roundhouse kick to the jaw if given the opportunity.

Nick's been here since Sunday evening, which has been nice. Occasionally, I'm reminded of life outside of work, and someone being here helps. I had yesterday (Tuesday) off (since I used my last 2008 vacation day to accomplish that) and we went to Asheville to hang out. After an IHOP run (the same IHOP I went to New Year's Day. Yes, I know. But he paid! So I didn't feel guilty!), and then we went to Target (which we don't have where I live) and the mall.

Let me tell you: The mall? Dangerous place to be right after the holidays. Everyone is having sales, and they're good sales, and sales tend to make me think I need things I really don't need. However, I only made purchases from two stores, two stores that are usually relatively on the pricey side (Bath and Body Works and Victoria's Secret) and since they were both having their semi-annual sales, I was able to spend much less on what I bought than I would have otherwise. And that will be the last of Sarah-purchases for a while, because I need to get my bank account back where it should be, rather than in the scary place in which it currently resides.

I have an incredibly busy day ahead of me, and that's partially why I'm so pissed I'm not getting any sleep. I have a phone interview sometime this morning, I have the phone call that could potentially not end well, and I have a lunch thing with two women who want me to write an article (two articles, actually, one for the actually paper and one for my publication) about their organization.

You know, I have to say. . . one of the hardest things about being in this business is realizing that sometimes, people don't actually like you, but they're really, really nice to you to get things they want. There have been instances where people have been super nice to me, and then once they've gotten what they've wanted, I don't ever hear from them. There are, of course, flip sides to that: people who are nice to me AFTER I've done something nice for them, and that's fine. One of the women from one of the animal shelters in town has never been anything but nice to me, and when she asks me to do something, if I can't do it right away, or if I can't fit it in, she doesn't get indignant or anything like that. And she still e-mails me to see how my holidays were, or to comment on something she saw I wrote in the paper.

But then there are the other people. The people who remind me why I need to keep personal and business as two entirely seperate entities. (Which, incidentally, I'm usually pretty good at doing. I'm friends with people at work, but if I need something that I'm not getting, I don't let the friendship aspect get in the way of, "Hey, dude. I need this." Like NewJeff, for instance. I went to see his band on New Year's Eve, but if I don't like something he's done on one of my covers, I'll say, "Well, actually, what I had in mind was more like this." I'm not worried about offending him on a "friends" level, because it's entirely business. Just because I don't like the color of the font he used doesn't mean I'm going to say no when he asks me if I want to walk down to the gas station for a Coke.)

The people I'm talking about were the people I worked with during the Make-A-Wish motorcycle rally thing. I know I wrote about that back in. . .September? It was a two-part entry, I remember that. But up until that point, these people were pretty much falling all over themselves to be nice to me, to get me to get-togethers (get-togethers which I later found out were kind of expected to have been part of some kind of article). I got a call from one of the people a couple of weeks ago from one of the people who told me about a Make-A-Wish event happening. . .I believe it was that evening. I was asked if I'd be able to attend because "they'd love to have me." And then it was added, as if as an afterthought, "Oh, and if you could write something up for Monday's paper, that'd be good, too."

Up until that point right there, I'd been planning to go. Not for work, but just to go. But after that? I did not attend. If you want me to go somewhere to write a story for you, then you need to say, "Hey, Sarah, there's this event, and I wondered if you could do a write up for us." Don't pretend you actually want me as a person there and then throw in an "Oh, by the way." That just makes me angry.

The women I mentioned I'm meeting later today? One of them (Jan) called me last week and said, "Sarah, I wondered if we would be able to have a lunch meeting next week so we can discuss an article about the Guild's upcoming membership meeting." Very straightforward. I knew what was being asked of me and, as a journalist, that's my job. Since I like her, I offered to do the two stories, one about the upcoming meeting for my publication, and one for the Lifestyles section after the meeting happened. (The Lifestyles section tends to be a more after-the-fact kind of thing.) And I don't mind doing that in the least, because she was straightforward with me about what she was asking.

Another person (and I'm sorry I'm ranting about this. . .I'm just kind of on a roll and I'm incredibly irritated that I'm awake.) that has done something similar was another person involved with the M-A-W thing. I've mentioned her before, the editor from California, who, after I'd mentioned our photographer covering the event, was saying, oh, yeah, I could get this for you to do, and that, and the other thing, and then once I introduced her to Dennis, guess how many times I've heard from her. Once. She e-mailed me to ask if Dennis had gotten her e-mail about the pictures she wanted to use for her magazine of the event. The free publicity. (No that's not entirely fair. I don't actually know if it was free publicity. I haven't asked him if she paid for the pictures or not, so I can't say that definitively.)

Point being, she's been in fairly constant contact with him (the person who had what she REALLY wanted) and I'm not too proud to say I'm irritated and. . .whatever, that after saying all this stuff, the only real use she had for me was to get a really good photographer for photos for her magazine.

Maybe I'm petty. All I'm saying is, if the only use for me you have is getting to someone else, just say, "Hey, thanks for his card. Can you introduce me to him tomorrow?" Period. I'll say sure (since it is, of course, a business transaction) and that'll be the end of it. If Dennis had been there the night I met the woman, I have a feeling we wouldn't have exchanged more than pleasantries.

I swear I'm not going around thinking about this all the time. It's just something that's there, and when I started talking about it, I felt the need to finish, and I won't mention it again. Probably.

I'm sure I'm going to be a joy and a pleasure to be around when I get into work. I'm going to try not to let me lack of sleep get in the way of me getting done what needs to get done. And then I'm going to take some serious sleep medication tonight, and maybe my sleep schedule will get back on track. Or. . .as close to being on track as it ever was.

I think I've already lost you. I think you're already gone. I think I'm finally scared now. You think I'm weak; I think you're wrong.

I feel like I've been very productive today, and I've only been out of bed for, like, 5 minutes when I went to get cereal. And a diet Mountain Dew. The breakfast of champions.

This is a Sunday that I'm actually not going into work, which is an abnormal occurrence to say the least. I did, however, get work done, as I sent e-mails to people about future issues I'm planning. (Girl Scout cookie season and the fact that I hear tell that MTV's Made will be filming at a local high school.) I think those would both be interesting, even though that doesn't really help me with next week's issue, for which I have. . .nothing, pretty much. One of the ad reps downstairs suggested getting with local gyms and exercise places for those people who made the inevitable "lose weight" New Year's resolution, so I may do that. Of course, I'm well aware that the only reason she suggested that was because she wants her gym, which also happens to be an advertiser, featured, but that's ok. Advertisers = Money and Money = Sarah having a job. So I'm OK with all that.

Oh, Girl Scout cookies. If anyone out there wants to completely secure their place on Sarah's List of People Who Rock, you could give me Girl Scout cookies. Samoas are my first choice (Oh, Samoas, how I love you) and Tagalongs are my second (because the combination of peanut butter and chocolate was invented by someone who knew what they were doing.) I feel like they've renamed the cookies for some reason (I wrote an article about them last year, and I feel like I remember that.) but, for the uninitiated among you, Samoas are the ones with the coconut and Tagalongs are the chocolate and peanut butter ones. (Duh.) I always have to keep my Girl Scout cookies in the freezer, because then I forget they're there, and I don't eat the entire box. Because I'm almost certain Girl Scout cookies are laced with crack.

So other than that, I've been working on MK's Christmas present (Yes. I'm still working on it. And yes, I'm OK with that.) which is going to be super cool, and I'm thinking about cleaning, because Nick's coming up later this evening. Not that I think I have to impress Nick, but it's nice to have a clean(ish) house when you have company.

There's really nothing else of interest happening in my life at the moment. I don't know. It's oddly calm. Honestly, I kind of hate when that happens, because that, almost inevitably, means something's brewing. That something's going to happen and turn everything upside down. I'm trying to remain optimistic, though, and just think that maybe I'll be allowed to be calm and happy for a while.

Athough, you know, I feel that I need a project. I need something outside of work to do. And if that something could raise me some extra funds, that would be fab. Because I'm. . .a little behind.

But I'm not going to think about that right now, because I can't actually do anything about it, seeing as to how no one will hire me part-time. You know that old saying about how, if you do what you love, the money will follow? That's crap. Do not believe that saying. You can be doing something you love and still be living barely above the poverty line. I'm just sayin'.

So there's a short update, I guess. I really am going to try to update more, but I'm not going to make it a "resolution" because I never keep those.

Superstar, where you from? How's it goin'? I know you got a clue what you doin'.

And we're back for part 2 of the story. After a day of reading "The Secret Diary of a Call Girl" (pretty good. Not Pulitzer-worthy, but I don't regret the amount of time I have an will continue to put into it), watching Iron Chef America, napping and talking to MK, I'm feeling good. Usually, when I spend a day doing nothing productive, I feel guilty about it, but not today. Today, the only negative is that my back kind of hurts from sitting in bed as long as I have. But hey, at least I got dressed!

OK, so back to last night. After the Convict said he felt like we were talking about him (We were.) and NewJeff said we weren't (He lied.) we got our complimentary (kind of gross) champagne, and went back out to the main area of the place to wait for midnight. While waiting for midnight to strike, I see, out of the corner of my eye, Convict just WATCHING me. Creepy. Severely creepy. Midnight strikes, there is general merriment (I didn't mention before, and it should be noted, that watching middle-aged people dance drunkenly and grope each other on the dance floor is. . .kind of fun. It would have been better if I'd had someone to watch them with me, but being someone who likes to people watch, I thoroughly enjoyed that part of the evening. But seriously? These people were basically getting it on on the dance floor.) I was toasted by Katia (which made me think maybe her disliking me was all in my head) and toasted from across the room by this woman who later came over and hit on me.

Everyone made the rounds, toasting everyone, saying happy new year, rocking out to the music, etc. The woman came over and hit on me, one of the guys in the band who remembered me from when I dropped NewJeff off at rehearsal once came over and said hi. . .I was a lot less awkward at that point, but I also know that I was about ready to go. I stayed for a couple songs, and then headed out, as I was picking Carrie up from a church function.

I head out the door, say goodnight to the guy at the door I'd talked to when I came in, and started to head to my car. I heard the door close behind me, and, as I was walking down the stairs, I heard the door open again and footsteps behind me. I keep walking, but not toward my own car. I had a feeling I knew who was behind me, and I didn't want him knowing which car was mine. So I stopped at this random car and pulled on my gloves (this is quasi-important later) as Convict walks up to me. "You leaving?" he asks. "Yep," I said, pulling my keys out of my purse and putting them in my pocket. At the same time I put the keys in my pocket, I pull my cell phone out and transfer it to my other, empty pocket. I flipped the phone open inside my coat pocket and, through the amazing power of texting all the time, managed to text "911" (I am, upon further consideration, really glad I knew how many presses of the "1" button it took to actually get a number one, rather than punctuation [13, if you're interested] because there was a distinct possibility that the message could have read "9]]" and I probably would have had people thinking I was just drunk texting.) to the last person I'd sent a message to. (So really, any of you that I was texting last night could have received that message, and I wonder if everything would have turned out the same way.)

He started asking me if he could have my phone number so he could take me out, and I told him, no, no, I'm actually married. (He wouldn't have been able to confirm whether or not I was wearing a ring when I talked to him the first time because I was holding a plate in my left hand and it obstructed the view of my fingers. This time, since I'd put on my gloves, he couldn't tell then, either.) I said my husband wouldn't appreciate it, but he seemed nice, etc. He started to say something else, stepping closer to me, making me painfully aware that there was absolutely no one outside, and the music was so loud inside that if I screamed, no one would even hear me, when my phone rang. My text message, it seems, served its purpose. I said, "Oh, there he is now," and answered with a chipper, "Hey, sweetie, I was just talking about you." Never mind that I've never in my life called someone I was involved with "sweetie," but it seemed like something you'd call a husband. I don't know. I've never had one. My savior on the other end asked me if I was OK, and I said, "Yeah, yeah, I'm leaving right now. I'm just having a conversation with a gentleman in the parking lot." She said, "Are you OK? Is everything alright?" and I said, "Yes. I was actually hoping you'd call, because I wanted to ask you if you wanted me to pick anything up on the way home." (Never mind it was like 1 a.m. and nowhere would be open.)

The conversation went on like that for another couple of minutes, and Convict was still standing there. I was beginning to wonder how long I was going to have to stand there in the cold, talking to my "husband," leaning against some random person's car, before he'd leave. Lucky for me, people started coming out of the bar, and Convict lost interest and wandered back inside. I hung up from my call, promising I'd tell her what happened later, and kind of sprinted to my car, locking the doors behind me and tearing out of the parking lot ASAP.

So that? Is how my evening ended.

And I have to make a note here: If you are someone who knows the story of what happened last night, and when you see me, you give me an uncomfortably firm handshake and an uncomfortable hug, imitating what Convict did, even though I don't realize it until after you do it, that? Is a dick move. And so incredibly immature and rude, I can't even really explain it. Period.

I am now going to venture out and go to Asheville right now. Because I'm craving IHOP, and it's going to be my last hurrah before I make good on my decision (not resolution. Decision.) to cook more.

Oh, but before I go. . .I am completely and utterly obsessed with this song right now:

Say what you will about Britney Spears, but not only is she hot, she performs a damn catchy song. It doesn't hurt that this has become the theme song for the very sexy Chuck Bass (On Gossip Girl) and that YouTube has several videos with clips from the show between him and Blair Waldorf (another hot one) that are awesome.

Yes, I'm lusting after characters on a TV show. What of it?

Incidentally, Nick sent me this video because he wanted me to see how attractive the main man is, but I spent the entire video watching Britney. Something about a girl who changes identities by changing her hair. It's hot.

But yes. Ever since I ripped this CD from Ashley, I've been playing this song pretty much non-stop on my iPod (for which I now have awesome, AWESOME headphones I'll have to talk about later.)

Pancake time!

And thunder so loud from a black thundercloud. A natural disaster I know nothing about; tell me why (why) haven't I heard from you?

Happy 2009, everyone.  Hope everyone had a great evening and that there are no raging hangovers.

I ended up having an OK time last night.  It wasn't the best New Year's Eve I've ever had, but it was better, honestly, than I expected.  For most of it, it was, I'm not going to lie, incredibly uncomfortable.  Mainly because I don't do well in crowds, and I especially don't do well in crowds where I don't know anyone (or, in this case, I know few people.  The only people I knew were NewJeff and his wife, Katia.)

I got there at about quarter 'til 10 and called Ashley to talk to her until I wasn't early.  (NewJeff had told me to be there at 10.)  I went in and sat at the table where NewJeff was sitting until the band started and where his wife was sitting.  I feel a little bit of. . .something from his wife.  I kind of get the impression she doesn't like me, but since I've never actually done anything to her, I just have to assume that either she's just not a person that is genial to people she doesn't know well, or I'm just paranoid.  Maybe it's a combination of the two.

Anyway, they started playing around 10:15, and over the next hour and a half, I listened to the music (awkwardly, I might add) and texted Ashley and MK.  Truly, I was so far out of my element, I was wondering if the entire evening was just going to be incredibly awkward for me.  At about 20 'til 12, the band stopped playing and there was a random buffet.  Score.  NewJeff came down and was talking to me, so I felt exponentially more comfortable (not that NewJeff makes me feel more comfortable in general, but the fact that I had someone to talk to that didn't involve small talk was good.)  He was fighting about something with his wife, so that was awkward, but I was so relieved to have someone to talk to, and that particular level of awkward was so much less than the level of awkward I was feeling prior, it was a welcome change.

So I'm standing there and this guy comes up to me.  He was looking rough.  Very, very rough.  He holds out his hand and says, "We haven't met.  I'm _______."  I don't remember his name.  He didn't look like he was mentally all there.  But he had an uncomfortably firm handshake. . .it was like, I was well aware of the fact that if he wanted to, this man could probably break my hand without thinking twice about it.  Then he kissed my hand, during which time I literally had to hold back a shiver of revulsion.  Like. . .it was SO UNCOMFORTABLE.  He finally lets go, and I take a step back.  It occurs to me now that I probably should have given him a fake name, but I am in situations like this so infrequently, it didn't even occur to me.  However, Sarah is a common enough name that I don't think it was a big deal.

He starts talking to me about how he's never seen me there before, and he hopes that 2009 is better than 2008 was.  I said something like, "Yeah, it was a rough year for me, too," you know, trying to make small talk with this man who made me so uncomfortable, I wanted to run away screaming and take a scalding shower to get the fact that he kissed my hand off of me.  But I also got the impression that if I were rude, or if I made it obvious he was making me uncomfortable, I would probably regret it somehow.

Then he says to me, "Yeah, well, I was in prison this year."

Yikes.

I said, "Oh.  Well, that WOULD make for a bad year."  This is a prime example of both me talking too much when I get uncomfortable and me saying probably the wrong thing at the wrong time.

He continues with, "It was a little thing.  I didn't kill nobody.  Didn't rape nobody."  And as he's saying this, he's stepping closer to me and I'm fighting the urge to run away.

During this time, I'd forgotten NewJeff was standing behind me.  But he was, watching the entire exchange.  The Convict gestured toward NewJeff and said, "Is this your boyfriend?"

Now, if I were smart, and if I were used to creepy guys hitting on me, I would have said yes.  However, I'm so used to denying involvement with NewJeff (I can't remember if I mentioned in here how everyone at work thinks he and I have something going on, but they do.  I have said, "No.  There is NOTHING GOING ON," so many times, it's really just become second nature.) that I immediately said, "No!  No, he's not my boyfriend."

Stupid, stupid Sarah.

He said something I don't remember, and said it was nice to meet me.  And then he hugged me.  I could feel my gag reflex acting up, but he was surprisingly strong for someone so short.  Again, I felt like if I legitimately tried to struggle to get away, I wouldn't be able to.  He tried to kiss my face but I twisted my head so he couldn't get to me, and he finally let go.  I (again, talking too much and talking nervously) said something to the effect of, "Oh, wow.  I'm not really a hugging person."  He walked away.

NewJeff (who, if you'll remember, was standing right behind me the entire time) comes up and says something like, "You know, if, in a situation like that, you need me to be your boyfriend, that's fine."

I didn't think about this until later, but when I did think about it, I. . .got mad.  Jeff just stood there and watched this entire exchange.  I mean, when the guy who we suspect may have been slightly stalking Carrie was in her office, I went into her office and stood there while he talked to her, because I could tell she was a little freaked out.  Jeff just stood there.  (When I told Carrie about this later, she said, "Well. . .he's Jeff."  Legit.  But that doesn't mean that I wasn't still angry about it.)

Anyway, Jeff then proceeds to tell me that the guy had gotten out of prison three months ago for "involuntary manslaughter."  He'd been in for like 6 years, apparently.  Now, I don't know a whole lot about the justice system, but I so know that sometimes, you can plead down.  So it's entirely possible that he killed someone on purpose but was sentenced to a lesser sentence or something.  I don't know how he got there, but the point was, he was there.  

The guy kept looking at me, and as Jeff is saying something to the effect of, yeah, you should stay away from that guy, the guy walks by again and says something to the effect of, "Seems like everyone's talking about me."  And Jeff says, no, man, we're not talking about you.  And he kept WATCHING me.

I am actually going to go take a nap right now (because sitting in bed all day and watching Iron Chef America is truly exhausting) and I'll finish the story later.  

One last thing I'll throw in that has nothing to do with anything:  I randomly found out today that the Reba McEntire song "She Thinks His Name Was John," is about a woman that got AIDS from a one-night stand.  I. . .had no idea.  I've been listening to that song, literally, since I was about 9, and I always thought it was just a song about a woman who slept with a guy the one time, and fell in love with him but never saw him again.  I could never figure out why she was making such a big deal out of it, and why she couldn't have a marriage or kids after that one night.  I really thought that it was because she became so attached to him after that one night, she became obsessed and went crazy.  I didn't realize how off-the-mark I was.  Wow.  It's weird when you find things out like that, that completely change your perception of something that you didn't realize you had a perception of in the first place.  Crazy.