The last thing I remember, I was running for the door. I had to find the passage back to the place I was before. . .

I'm going to start this entry before I go to Carrie's for dinner, and I'll finish it later, because, according to the little thing at the top of this page, there is a "scheduled outage at 4 p.m. PDT" today. I think that means Pacific time, and if that's the case, that's 7 p.m. Here Time. Which means in 20 minutes.

According to my Dashboard, March 15 was the last time I updated, and I'd mentioned a job interview. That interview went well, and I'm now a writer/ad rep for a homeowner's magazine here in town. Unfortunately, the economy being the way it is, they don't want to hire me full time, just to have to turn around and say, "Yeah, Sarah, we're tanking. We need to renegotiate." So as it stands, I get paid by the article, I get a commission for sales made, and I get paid by the hour for any other work I do there. It's not stable, but it's something, and it's not only in publishing, but in magazines. It's definitely a first step toward. . .something. I also have other little side projects that hopefully pan out for me (MK snagged me a freelancing job writing an article for a magazine, which is awesome. Get my work out of the papers and into the rags. Again, a good start.)

I've also had several long and treacherous interviews with Best Buy, which I won't get into, but it's, at this point, pretty much a 50/50 shot I'll get a job.

For those of you that have heard me complain about this already, I apologize, but since the event is tonight (as we speak, actually), this will be the last you'll hear of it. At least until next year. but maybe by next year, I'll be able to afford to attend on my own accord.

There's this event that's held here yearly that is basically a restaurant competition. All these restaurants get together and compete for prizes, and attendees basically walk around, eating all this incredible food and drinking to their heart's content. I went last year because I was reporting on the story. I didn't actually realize what a big deal the thing was until I ran into Dennis (who was photographing the event) on my way out that night and he said something to the effect of, "You're not wearing that, are you?" So I ran home and got all gussied up. The place it was held last year was yards nicer than the place they're having it this year, and it was one of my favorite nights ever (minus a minor tift I found myself having that night). I've been looking forward to this thing since I left the event last year. I even had a dress for it. It was a dress that I bought, having nowhere to wear it, and when I pointed this fact out to MK, he said, "You can wear it to this year's event!"

This was, of course, before my involuntary termination. And now I still have this gorgeous dress hanging in my closet and I will, most likely, never have anywhere to wear it.

So, literally. Looking forward to it all year. And then, a month and a half before it happens, I'm canned. I've been really, really bitter about it for the last few weeks, and when I walked by the place this afternoon (I was going for a walk because I feel utterly lethargic these days) it smelled so fucking good, and all these people were going in, all dressed up, and I got. . .sad. Not angry, but sad. It was a combination of still being sore about the firing, and having looked forward to it for so long and then having it taken away, but it was also. . .the Chamber of Commerce puts this event on, and it's one of those things all the People You Want To Know attend. When I was working at the paper, I could go to these events, no questions asked, and feel like I was important. Like I belonged around these people. But clearly, I don't. And I'm not too proud to admit how shallow I am in that respect. I like to feel like I belong around important people. I've learned in the last few weeks that I can pretty much have a conversation with anyone, and I think, at least last year, I mingled well with these people. And now? If I turned up at the door of the venue right now, they'd summarily show my the door. Me in my black sweater and jeans and one pink lacey glove. With my black nail polish and my Converse sneakers.

That's what it is, you know? When I was working there, I felt like I belonged in this town. And now I don't. Now I'm, really, no one. I went from, in Vi's words, being a minor celebrity to being. . .that girl in the dirty Converses and tattered jeans. And I really hate myself for caring, but I do. Because I'd gotten used to it.

Back after dinner.

OK, lies. Back the next day. I don't even remember what else I was going to talk about. I've got a meeting today with a guy I'm writing an article for and, hopefully, next week some of these people I'm trying to sell to will get back to me.

I killed the lights (pure satisfaction) I killed the lights (lights, camera, action)

I'm updating so people don't think I've jumped out a window.

I think I'm going to take a blogging break because I am so entirely messed up right now, mentally, emotionally, every kind of -ally, and I don't feel like writing and having to pretend I don't feel like I do.

I need to find a new job and get away from this place.  If anyone knows of anything, I'd be more than happy to look into it.  I can't, in good conscience, work for people like this.

They have, unnecessarily and stupidly, laid off my best friend in the office.  I now officially have no one I can talk to, no one I can trust, and no one to look forward to seeing on a daily basis.  I get the impression NJ thinks he's going to step up and fill that space, but I've got some news:  That space can not be filled.  Period.

I can't stop thinking about what this is going to mean for his family.  For his work in general.  The upper management where I work are incompetent, and I don't care that I'm saying it.  Fire me.  Go ahead.  I have a feeling you already know how I feel about you, so it's not like it's a secret.

I did everything humanly possible and in my power to help the job-losing not to take place, and it didn't work.  I feel like I failed so completely and utterly, even though he told me it's better that he doesn't have to work here anymore, because something better is on the horizon.  Or something.  I can't help but think that something better on the horizon doesn't help buy food.  Or pay rent.  Or pay the heat bill.  I can't help, and it makes me so devastatingly sad.  I have cried more in the last 5 days that I have in a lot of my life.  This in concordance with PMSing has effectively depleted my tear ducts.  And yet, somehow, they're still functioning.  Right now.

"But you tried," people say.  "You did everything you could have done.  It wasn't your fault.  It's the economy/bad management practices/the end of the road/etc.  At least you didn't lose YOUR job."

That doesn't make me feel any better.  Especially the last one.  Why the hell would it make me feel better that I have a job when one of my top 3 favorite people in the entire world no longer has one?  WHY should that make me FEEL BETTER?  I don't understand that mentality.  I don't.  And I wish people would stop saying that to me.  STOP SAYING THAT.

I'm going to share something here that is probably entirely too much information and something that a lot of people don't know about me, but that I'm writing about because it's my fucking blog and if makes you uncomfortable, you can stop reading.  It will also maybe help explain where my head is right now.

There was a period of time, during high school and college, where I was a. . .let me look up the term on Wikipedia so I can give it a generic name.  A self-injurer.  That's it.  I won't share my particular form of "self-injuring" here (I had two, actually, and one I still struggle with, but it's more of a compulsive thing than the other one, so I don't really consider it "injuring."  I'm being intentionally vague.)

Anyway, the last time I had a problem with it (an episode, if you will), was my junior year of college.  It became noticeable to this girl I had a date with (a date I, incidentally, ended up never going on.  Long story I'll share if you want, but I don't feel the need to write about it here).  She called me on it, and I thought I hid it better than I apparently did, and that's why I stopped.  Because I didn't want to have to answer questions. 

So last night, I hit a really low point.  I mean low.  I was talking to Nick, and I have a feeling I may have given him reason to believe I'd need someone to come up and stay with me so I didn't. . .do whatever it was I sounded like I was going to do.  I was in the depths, emotionally, mentally, even physically.  I felt ill.  And I wanted to revert back to my old habit.

I'm going to explain here, as clinically as I can, as to not sound like I've lost it.  Because I haven't.  Not yet, at least.  I'm just explaining.  I'm fine right now, as far as all this stuff goes.

For people who are on the outside of "self-injury," it's easy to say, "Man, that's crazy.  You must be crazy.  Why would you do such a thing?"  Because they don't get it.  Through all the different ways people cause harm to themselves, whether it be drinking too much, drug use, eating disorders, cutting, burning, compulsive skin picking, hair pulling, whatever, there is a very easy explanation for it.  I mean, obviously, you get your people who do it for attention.  But for everyone else, it's because, at least in my experience, physical experiences are tangible.

People can't control their heart hurting because of a breakup.  But they can control picking off a scabbed over injury.  People can't control how their head feels when they're depressed.  But they can control whether or not the keep down food they've eaten or the amount they eat. Sometimes, the depression in your head is so much, you feel like there's nowhere else for the intensity of the feelings to go.  But if you were to intentionally cut your skin, it's another outlet and the pain can be diverted somewhere else, from emotional to physical.

Obviously, I don't have experience with all of these.  But I'm guessing that they're all very similar, interconnected, and they all have the same basic end result.

What I'm incredibly proud of at this point is that I didn't give in.  I thought, "Sarah, no.  That?  Will get you nowhere.  It will do absolutely no good.  You're still going to feel just as crappy in the head.  Don't go down that road again."

And I didn't.  I thought a good diversion would be alcohol.  But I didn't go down that road, either.  All in all, I'm thinking maybe I'm stronger than I thought I was.  But that doesn't change the fact that I'm in a place right now when I even considered it.

I don't know why, exactly, I'm in the place I'm in right now.  I know bits and pieces of it, but there's more to it.  But what I do know is that while I'm going through this, wherever it takes me, I've got at least one person who I know beyond a shadow of a doubt will be there for me if I need it.  Everyone's got their stuff, and I know that he's got stuff in his own life that's hard on him, maybe even stuff that feels impossible, but every time I've had moments in my life like this, whenever I've begun to seriously question my own sanity, it seems like my friends always. . .well, in my experience, they either avoid me or later, they bring it up again and use it against me.  And I know he won't do that.

I love you.  I love you so much, you don't even know.  Maybe because I don't tell you.  Maybe I should.

Please don't comment on this entry.  This one doesn't need them.

Maybe I'll be back soon.  Maybe I won't.  We'll see.

But I do love you.

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.

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.

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'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 take my pills. The babies cry. All I hear is what's playing through the in-flight radio.

So I'm not going to be able to put "Sarah - award-winning writer" on my resume anytime soon. The results from the NC Press Association came in today and I didn't win anything.

However, Dennis won two different awards, and as the person that was after him saying, "You're entering, right? What are you entering? Have you picked what you're entering yet?," I'm really, really excited that he won. I knew he would, because he's really good at what he does. I really and truly can not put into words how happy I am he won, because I don't think he gets enough credit, at least around here, for all the hard work he puts in and how amazing his stuff really is.

Because of this, I'm in a weird situation at the moment. I'm so happy that he won. . .but I am, in fact, devastated that I didn't. It might sound stupid, but this was. . .I needed this. I needed something to prove to my boss that I am, in fact, not worthless in this job. I get the feeling every now and then that she doesn't think I can do anything right, and winning something, ANYTHING, would have shown that, yes, I am good at what I do. Other people think I'm good at what I do. I could have brought the letter home at Christmas and said, "Look! I'm awesome!" I had all but convinced myself I'd already won, because I thought my stuff was really good. I entered my gay article, my Make-A-Wish article and. . .something else I don't remember. And I thought they were good!

One might argue that some people around here thought they were good, too, but honestly? Some of the stuff people around this town think is "good" is. . .pretty bad. So now I'm really concerned that I'm one of those writers that is good. . .to people in Western North Carolina. That I'm right on par with the people that I don't think are very good at all.

I have this one writer (had, I guess, this one writer) that is incredibly popular with people around here. I don't think she's funny at all. I'm afraid I'm that kind of writer. That people without. . .I don't want to be insulting to people around here, because not everyone is unintelligent by any stretch of the imagination, but. . .a lot of the people around here have been here their entire lives. Small town living is all they know and sometimes, that means they haven't. . .ever experienced anything outside of their own bubble.

I'm unable to relay what I'm trying to mean. All I'm saying is that I wish I were good enough that people outside of this area thought I was, too.

I really needed this, is all I'm saying. I have been, effectively, knocked down a few pegs. Maybe I deserved that.

However, I get the feeling that Dennis needed it more, so that's good. I feel I'm growing as a person because I'm honestly, really and truly not jealous that he won. I'm not angry he won. I wish I were, actually, because I would rather be angry than incredibly sad. But he deserves it. Both of them. And I don't want to take away from that.

There's the update. I'm going to go back to work. Just regular work, though. Not award-winning work.

How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat. Some dance to remember; some dance to forget.

It is currently. . .4:22 a.m. I've been lying in bed for the last hour, trying to talk myself into falling asleep, and, clearly, I did not accomplish that particular goal. I decided that getting up, turning on infomercials, blogging and finishing my freelancing projects would be more effective and time-effective than lying in bed, being really pissed off that I couldn't sleep.

Luckily, one of my absolute favorite infomercials is on: For Jack Lalanne's Power Juicer. I. . .really want this juicer. For only four payments of $49.95! It's backed by the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval! It comes with more than 60 recipes (a $25 deal for free). If you call right now, they'll make one of the payments FOR you! That's only three payments of $49.95. But wait! Fitness phenomenon Jack Lalanne wants to celebrate his birthday by taking AN AMAZING $50 dollars off! That's like paying only TWO PAYMENTS of $49.95. Hell to the yeah. I've wanted this thing, seriously, since I first saw the infomercials about a month or so ago when Carrie and I had a sleepover of sorts, where we talked about things girls talk about, ate Doritoes, drank wine, and saw the commercial for this fabulous juicer.

Really, the only infomercial that's even remotely as good is the one for those knives. I don't know the specifics of them, but you get, like 5,000 kinds of knives that can all cut through an aluminum can (and really? I know I often get the urge to cut aluminum cans in half. So these knives are pretty much essential to my everyday life.)

So the reason I'm not sleeping is because I've been trying to not take Tylenol PM. I was afraid I was going to get addicted to it or something. As it turns out, the only thing I'm really addicted to is sleep, and now I'm not getting that. Oh yeah, and crack cocaine.

No, I'm kidding. About the crack cocaine. Not the sleep.

But I really can't sleep without something to help me along. If I drink wine before I go to bed, I can GET to sleep, but I can't STAY asleep. If I just bring myself to the absolute brink of exhaustion, I can sometimes fall asleep, but, again, I can't stay asleep. And with the Tylenol PM, 9 out of 10 nights, I can fall and stay asleep.

So what's been going on with Sarah? I've been working all the time, which is nothing new, but I've also been. . .really, really happy. Like, almost ridiculously so. It's something that you can't really exhibit at work, because then you have to contend with really annoying questions, but I'm smiling a lot more. Yesterday (Monday, my production day), I was a little stressed out when I went into work (I'll get into why in a second), but it was OK. Like. . .I didn't cry, which is my usual fallback, and I just kept plugging along. And I finished by 5! One of these days, I'll finish by 4. And maybe one day, I'll meet my 2 o'clock deadline. (Oh, don't look at me like that. The guy in prepress who does the pages doesn't come in until at LEAST 3.)

So the reason I was stressed out. Friday, Vi says to me, "Sarah, can you come into my office? We need to talk about the freelancing."

At this point, I freaked out because, as I mentioned, I've been writing freelance articles, and the first thing I thought was that she'd found out, and I wasn't allowed to do that, and I was in trouble.

(I mean, I know that pretty much everyone does it. Freelances, that is. But that's where my mind immediately went.)

As it turns out, they have cut. . .all of my funding for my publication, meaning I can't pay anyone to write for me anymore. I have a little network of freelancers, three of which were paid. The rest do it because they like to/to get their name out there/whatever. Some of them used to be paid, but stayed on after Carrie told them she couldn't pay them anymore. I was hoping that these three (The Big 3, if you will) would do the same. Or, at least one of them would do the same.

So I let the three of them know what was up. One of them wrote a "humor" column twice a month and got paid $50 a pop for them. I. . .think she was entirely overpaid, but she was popular within the county and had been doing it pretty much since the beginning, so I guess they consider her worth it. I was told to tell her that she could either do one a month for the usual $50 or, if she still wanted to do two, it would have to be cut back to $25 a month. Yes, that kind of sucks, but if you really like doing something. . .well, I'll come back to that.

One of them got paid $25 for 250 word columns and $35 for 350 word columns. Again, I felt she was overpaid, because honestly? I could write the same thing in a short amount of time. (And now, I probably will have to.)

The last one, I'm not actually sure what she got paid, because she sometimes would write things just because she wanted to and only charged for the bigger ones. She was my favorite. Not just because she's the nicest of the three, but because her work. . .ethic?. . .makes more sense to me. Charge for the bigger articles (which were always really good) and write smaller ones because you want to.

The first person I heard back from was the column-writer. Literally, I cringed when I saw the e-mail from her, because, from what I remember from Carrie talking about dealing with her, I just didn't feel like it would end well.

It didn't, really.

She was kind of bitchy about the "buy-one-get-one-free" deal and said she "couldn't deal with this right now" because she was flying. . .somewhere to do some kid's show or something. She said she'd deal with it when she got back. I'm. . .guessing that's going to be a no. She said she probably wouldn't be writing for me at all anymore.

The second one wrote me back and said she wouldn't be contributing anymore. She also told me that she would cancel the two interviews she already had lined up (which is what put me in a lurch yesterday) and for me to let her know when I could pay her again. That. . .kind of pissed me off. On the one hand, I get it, kind of. On the other hand, that was a commitment she'd already made, and she ended up really screwing me.

When talking about this situation, I've told people that, in college, I worked for my college paper, and I have no idea how much I got paid to do it. I did get paid, and it wasn't a lot, but I didn't really care. I would have done it for free, because I loved doing it. Especially senior year, when I was writing my columns. I LOVED it. So I don't entirely understand why people aren't willing to at least work with me. Maybe not write articles that are as long. Maybe not write them as often. If the guy I freelance for found himself in the same situation and he said he couldn't pay me for what I was doing (which is X-number of 500-word articles), I'd say, well, if you cut the word number down, I'll still do them sometimes.

It's a little different, because he has several writers working for him, but you get the gist.

The last woman said if she had ideas or stories every now and then, she'd still send them to me. And this is why she's my favorite. She gets what I tried to explain above. She likes doing it.

So that's where I am right now. Hopefully, one of these days, the economy will turn around and people will have jobs again and will pay for their advertising (why they don't collect money BEFORE running the ad, I'll never understand) and I can pay the freelancers for their word. And I can tell you one thing: if I'm still in charge when that happens, I will first pay the people who have been writing for me for free. Because they're going to be the ones that help me through.

Oh, speaking of. Those of you who remember my past conundrum, of needing to interview the person who hates me more than probably anyone else in the county in order to write a center story? Carrie offered to write that story for me. So win-win-win, because I get the person that I feel would be the most instrumental to my story without actually having to speak to her, Carrie gets to write a center story (which. . .I'm assuming she wants to do, since she volunteered to do it), and the woman that hates me gets recognized for her work. Also, I get to be the bigger person (kind of) for including her. So, really, win-win-win-win. Wins all around.

I'm getting a vacation next week! I'll have the entire week off! Of course, that means I'm going to be working my ass off next week to get the publication finished early (early as in. . .Friday), but then I'm going to be not at work for an entire week. I'm not sure I'll really know what to do with myself. But it's not going to be work. I will absolutely NOT be answering any calls that come from the office. None. And if Vi calls me and leaves a message, I will listen to it Friday, when I come back.

Nick's coming home this week! He will be flying in Saturday. I was originally planning to go to the airport when he came in, when I thought he was coming Sunday, but as it turns out, his flight isn't expected until 10:45 p.m. Saturday, and planes are usually late, aren't they? Then he's probably going to sleep through Sunday. So. . .I don't actually know when I'll see him. But he'll be home.

So it's after 5 now. I'm going to go finish an article and maybe get like an hour of sleep.

UPDATE: It is currently 7:42 a.m., the sun is up, and I have written my final two articles so I don't have to worry about them mid-day like I'd intended to. I never went back to sleep. I also had a minor nervous breakdown because I couldn't find one of the articles I'd written, and I thought I was going to have to rewrite it. Damn you, Montpellier, France, for saving to the "My Templates" part of the computer. I'm thinking, while I'm up, I'm going to go get a biscuit for breakfast. I also anticipate being really loopy all day.

Another one bites the dust.

When I get especially bored with my life, I usually end up doing something to my hair. It usually entails cutting off a great deal of hair, changing it to a different color, whatever.

So yesterday, I had an appointment in Asheville to get this haircut that I loved that I found, actually, on the salon's Web site. It was a great deal shorter, with punky, choppy bangs, and I thought, "That's it. That's exactly what my life needs right now. I need a badass haircut."

I went to get said badass haircut and ended up with. . .imagine, if you will, Catherine Zeta-Jones in Chicago, mixed with a guy (any guy), mixed with Suri Cruise. I have literal Suri Cruise bangs. People keep telling me that I shouldn't hate it but, you know what? I do. I hate it severely.

I'm. . .not pretty anymore. I've never been, you know, the girl that walks into the room and every head turns, but I have never been offensive-looking (save those years between 12 and 14, but everyone has awkward phases.) Now? I look in the mirror and just want to cry. There is nothing feminine about me anymore. I'm not pretty, I'm not cute, I'm just. . .really, really unfortunate-looking.

So much for a happy blog post, because I feel the need to mention that I'm ridiculously lonely, too. In this office at the end of the hall, I never see anyone. People used to stop at my dek to talk to me when I was at the top of the stairs, because I was right there, and now that I'm in this office, I see a lot less of people I'd like to see more of. It's just more out of the way to come talk to me now.

I'm just unhappy today. I guess that's all I really have to say.

Without your love, I'd be nowhere at all, oh, what would I do? (If not for you.)

I'm loving that this laptop is picking up a random wireless signal from. . .somewhere, so I don't have to plug it up at the moment.

I'm debating on whether or not to go into work today. I'll probably just go in tomorrow and get a lot finished. I have two columns to definitely write (the food column and the Last Word) and there are a couple of other ideas I have that I might get started on. But I don't know.

I was reading my news feed from the N&O, and I came across this story:

As store worker died, shoppers kept on

By Colleen Long, The Associated Press

NEW YORK - A Wal-Mart worker was killed Friday when "out-of-control" shoppers desperate for bargains broke down the doors at a 5 a.m. sale.

Other workers were trampled as they tried to rescue the man, and customers shouted angrily and kept shopping when store officials said they were closing because of the death, police and witnesses said.

At least four other people, including a woman who was eight months pregnant, were taken to hospitals for observation or minor injuries, and the store in Valley Stream on Long Island closed for several hours before reopening.

Nassau County police said about 2,000 people were gathered outside the store's doors at a mall about 20 miles east of Manhattan. The impatient crowd knocked the man, identified by police as Jdimytai Damour of Queens, to the ground as he opened the doors, leaving a metal portion of the frame crumpled like an accordion.

"This crowd was out of control," said Nassau police spokesman Lt. Michael Fleming. He described the scene as "utter chaos."

Dozens of store employees trying to fight their way out to help Damour were also trampled by the crowd, Fleming said.

Items on sale at the store included a Samsung 50-inch Plasma HDTV for $798, a Bissel Compact Upright Vacuum for $28, a Samsung 10.2 megapixel digital camera for $69, and DVDs such as "The Incredible Hulk" for $9.

Damour, 34, was taken to a hospital, where he was pronounced dead about 6 a.m., police said. The exact cause of death has not been determined.

A 28-year-old pregnant woman was taken to a hospital, where she and the baby were reported to be OK, said police Sgt. Anthony Repalone.

Police said criminal charges were possible in the case, but Fleming said it would be difficult to identify individual shoppers. Authorities were reviewing surveillance video.

Wal-Mart Stores Inc., based in Bentonville, Ark., called the incident a "tragic situation" and said the employee came from a temporary agency and was doing maintenance work. It said it tried to prepare for the crowd by adding staffers and outside security workers, putting up barricades and consulting police.

"Despite all of our precautions, this unfortunate event occurred," senior Vice President Hank Mullany said in a statement.

Kimberly Cribbs, who witnessed the stampede, said shoppers were acting like "savages."

"When they were saying they had to leave, that an employee got killed, people were yelling 'I've been on line since yesterday morning,' " she said. "They kept shopping."

That? Is ridiculous. I mean, I like getting good deals as much as the next person, but I've never really understood the whole thing with day after Thanksgiving shopping. Maybe stores shouldn't have things be so ridiculously overpriced throughout the year, and then it wouldn't be such a big deal when prices are where they put them that Friday. I mean. . .starting a sale at 5 a.m.? Really? Why? When I was having lunch with Jan yesterday, we were talking about that, and I said, "You know, there are precious few things in life that would get me out of bed at 5 a.m. Actually. . .you'd have to get out of bed long before 5. The sale actually starts at 5. No thanks.

I did go to Wal-Mart yesterday, but it wasn't until, like, 7 at night. I had a sweater to return and I bought picture frames. I got all that done, and no one died.

People have weird priorities. Especially now when we're in a recession, or whatever it is we're in at the moment. Instead of buying TVs, how about paying off your credit cards? Or making sure you can make rent this month? Just a thought.

A weekly publication I love (and I think they very loosely call it a "magazine." I suppose it's as much a magazine as mine is.) is Skirt! Magazine. I picked up a copy in Greensboro Thursday, and I've been looking through it, looking for ideas to borrow and/or steal. This little box that always on the front cover says, "Skirt! is all about women. . .their work, play, families, creativity, style, health and wealth, bodies and souls. Skirt! is an attitude. . .spirited, independent, outspoken, serious, playful and irreverent, sometimes controversial, always passionate."

That? Is the kind of publication I want to work for. I mean, I love that I'm the editor of my own publication, but honestly? My hands are tied on a lot of subjects. I'm not allowed to put in reviews of restaurants if there's anything negative said in them. Nothing controversial. Kind of. . .mountain white bread, truth be told. I want something else. I'll do this until I learn everything about it, and add my own touches to it, but I need something bigger, you know? I'm aware that if I want anything bigger, I won't be able to live in this town forever, which. . .sucks in a way. I really do like it here. But there's more out there I need to get to eventually, and there are a lot of things here I need to get away from.

Speaking of things to get away from, I had to go downstairs to Angie and Kristina and make sure that my name was taken off the template for the Obits and the Life sections, because Vi did those for Wednesday's paper, and one headline said something about how an author was going to 'ahare' their book and another said that a couple was going to hold an anniversary 'recpetion.' Now. . .I know people make mistakes, but spell check would have caught that. Ahare and recpetion are not words, and spell check knows that. It's frustrating to have an editor that would clearly rather be a reporter, that doesn't care enough to run spell check. I run spell check over EVERYTHING I do. I mean, I understand if you accidentally type "their" instead of "there," and a proofreader would catch that, if my company would stop being so cheap and hire one, but misspelling things in HEADLINES is why people make fun of us. And it's, 9 times out of 10, because of Vi.

We ran a story a few months ago that said something about 'duel farmer's markets.' Perhaps if the veggie-growers were out there with swords screaming, "En garde!," that would make sense. However, what Vi was going for was that there were two farmer's markets. Dual farmer's markets.

Basically, we all look like a bunch of idiots a bunch of the time.

But I made sure my name was taken off that template, because it looked like I was the one that made those egregious errors. False. I would not misspell "reception." And if I mistyped it? It would be caught when I ran spell check. I'm just sayin'.

I need to ask Dennis to take a new mug shot of me. NewJeff said the one I have in the system made me 'look like I weighed 300 pounds,' and while I know that I shouldn't let what people say bother me, when someone tells me I look fat, I take that particular insult very, very personally. See, one side of my family is all incredibly obese, and I'm terrifie that I'm going to end up like that. I'm not a small girl by any means (it's hard to even pretend to be petite when you tower over most girls), but I'm not going to let myself get to the point where that side of the family is. I will not. So a new mug shot it is, since NewJeff has given me a gigantic complex about the entire thing.

So while I'm aware I shouldn't let what people say bother me, I am, in fact, overly sensitive. I can just ignore it better about some things than others.

Was it something I said to make you turn away, to make you walk out and leave me cold?

I am sitting in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart writing this. Not the new Super Wal-Mart in my town, but the old super Wal-Mart a few towns over. I’ve been avoiding writing for the last few days, partially because I’ve been busy with baby sister in town, but also because my head has been in a really weird place, and I didn’t want to concern people. (After finishing this, I would recommend you not read the rest if you’re feeling a bit down, or even if you’re really happy. It kind of got depressing at the end.)

I’m debating on whether I want to start with the potentially concern-causing thing or with the things that are happier/don’t matter as much/are of no real consequence to my life as a general whole.

I guess we’ll start with the lighter things.

Today’s outfit? Fab. My mom’s friend, Susie, gets rid of clothes fairly frequently, and a lot of times, a lot of them go to me. Today’s combination was my brown heels, literally the most comfortable heels I own. I bought them on a whim a year or two ago when I went shopping in Chapel Hill with Nick and his mom. I didn’t wear them much when I first bought them, because I didn’t own much in the way of brown clothing, but since stocking up on my shades of brown, I’ve been able to wear them more frequently. They are ridiculously comfortable, though. I could walk around in these things all day and not even notice that I was wearing heels. Those were paired with my light blue, wide-legged jeans (thanks to Goody’s, a place I’ve finally found jeans that look good on me. They’re a bit long, because regulars are too short and longs are too long, but if I wear heels with them, they’re fine. A peach tank top, courtesy of Susie and this brown courdoroy jacket, also courtesy of Susie. When I pulled this thing out of the box, I was already thinking of all the outfits I could work around it. I initially had it paired with another Susie shirt, a sleeveless white shirt with crazy brown and yellow pattered. . .flowers, I believe, but I didn’t know if I wanted to go quite that crazy today, so peach it was. I felt really good in this outfit, and that’s what counts, I guess. And since I’ve devoted an entire paragraph to it, I think that should be about the end of it.

Thanksgiving was. . .the usual family affair. Depressing. I drove 6 hours round-trip yesterday, and you’d think that after that, I’d be sick of driving, but here I am, a few towns away, typing. Tonight’s driving jag had a purpose, though. I needed to get away.

Katie was here from Sunday until yesterday, and it was. . .awesome. I never get to see her, and it was really great having her stay for a few days. We went to Asheville Wednesday (since I’d worked all day Saturday, I took Wednesday off) and she came to work with me the other days. I felt guilty, dragging her into work, but she had her laptop, so she was plenty amused. She also liked the little coffee place near work, and went there for breakfast both days she was there. (Incidentally, that place makes a mean pancake. I had no idea they even made pancakes. Trust Katie to find pancakes where there appear to be none.)

It was sad at work today, because I was the only person on the second floor. The newsroom was deserted, it being the day after Thanksgiving and all, except when Chuck came in for an hour or so, and Dennis made a brief appearance. It’s starting to slowly sink in how on my own I am now that Carrie’s gone. It was hidden this week, because Katie was here, but today, I was all alone upstairs and it was just. . .kind of heartbreakingly sad.

I was rescued at 11 or so when this woman, Jan, who I write articles for occasionally, picked me up to take me to this place in the next town over to interview this artist about Christmas ornaments. She also bought me lunch, which was awesome. We went to this seafood place that I’d heard good things about. I. . .have never trusted seafood in the mountains, but I think my mind has been changed after this place. It was delicious. I tried not to think about how far away we are from the actual ocean. My sandwich was wonderful, though, and it was surprisingly inexpensive. Jan paid today, but I mean on the whole, it was surprisingly inexpensive.

After my family Thanksgiving gala, I went into downtown Greensboro and took photos for an hour or so. Remember how I was talking, a month or so ago, about the two great loves of my life, Raleigh and the town in which I currently reside? Greensboro is that hot, young thing that I had an illicit affair with when Raleigh and I were on the outs. I’d forgotten how much I loved taking pictures in downtown Greensboro. I was alone, but it was ok. Once I stop being lazy and get up and get my card reader, I'll put some of those pictures on here.

Downtown Greensboro made me forget how altogether sad I am these days. There’s the occasional bright spot, of course, like my new office, and the times I get to see MK and seeing Katie, but I’m just not feeling altogether whole, and I’m not sure why. But in Greensboro? I was thrilled. I was so happy to be there, photographing the place I lived for 4 years. The last time I photographed downtown, it was in black and white (and then Wal-Mart messed up my film, so it was also in sepia), but this is the first time I’d photographed it in color. It was amazing, really. All the light and the reflections. . .I miss that place sometimes. I actually printed out some of the pictures and I’m going to put them up in my office. I should go into downtown Raleigh next time I’m there, see if I feel the same things there as I do in Greensboro. I’ve lived here for so long that I forget that there places outside of here I can go and take photos. It helped that downtown was basically deserted, it being Thanksgiving, so I could just be alone with the city. I don’t know if you’ve ever felt what it’s like, being alone with a place you love, but it got me through the rest of that day, and I wasn’t sad on the way home, as I expected to be.

So here’s a question for you. I got the idea for a future issue of my mag to do a feature on scrapbooking. It’s the holidays, and people take a lot of photos, and I happen to know that there are several places that do classes and sell supplies. . .things like that. The problem I have is that the person that I’ve mentioned before that hates me? The one person that would probably have me “taken care of” if she could? That’s what she does. She’s actually quite good. . .I’ve seen her Web site and the stuff she does, and it’s good. Under other circumstances, I’d call her first to interview her about this stuff. My dilemma is this — I can’t snub her. For one, because, as I mentioned, she’s good. Also, because that would probably make the situation worse than it already is. On the other hand, I absolutely, staunchly refuse to ask her to come to my office so I can talk to her. I won’t do it. I know that business is business and personal issues are personal, but I think if you knew the depth of her hatred for me, you’d agree that her being in my office is not something that needs to happen. So I don’t know what to do from here. It won’t be for a couple weeks until I need this centerspread, but I need to figure out what to do now. I could give the assignment to one of my freelancers, but I’d really rather write it myself, for one, because it’s a relatively interesting subject matter, and also, the more I write, the less I have to pay the freelancers. And cheap is good. So I’m at a loss here. It may end up that I just don’t do the feature, since I don’t know how to go about this situation, but that seems kind of a shame.

At Thanksgiving dinner yesterday, my aunt got onto the subject of my love life (or lack thereof.) “Sarah,” she says, “what’s happening in the old love life these days?” I muttered something about not having time, there not really being anyone nearby, etc. She says, “Ah ha! There must be a new guy if she’s not willing to talk.” “No,” I say, “there is most definitively not a new guy.” “Then you must be involved with an old guy,” she says. “What happened to the one from last year?” I know who she’s talking about, but I say, “I wasn’t seeing anyone at this time last year,” True. It was Easter she was thinking of, but I wasn’t about to correct her. She turns to Katie, “How about it, Katie?” she says, “I’m certain you know everything.” Katie, who, in fact, knows nothing more than what she observes, gives a half-smile and shakes her head, saying nothing. (I knew there was a reason I love her.) My aunt finally gives up, but that got me to thinking, “My God. I have never brought anyone home for the holidays.” My step-cousin (or whatever) has brought his parade of girlfriends to the dinners, but I’ve never had anyone. And that makes me. . .incredibly sad. But I decide not to dwell on it.

I continued thinking about this today. I was sitting in my office, alone, and thinking that, really and truly, if I were to keel over at home, it would be a while before anyone noticed. Suppose I kicked it during lunch on a Friday. If I didn’t come back to work, they’d just assume I’d gone home for the day. I don’t normally see people on Saturday, and if it wasn’t my Sunday to work, it would be Monday before anyone even thought anything weird was going on. Maybe someone would notice when I didn’t show up for the 8:30 meeting that starts at 9:15, but they’d try to call me and go on with the meeting. Maybe around lunch, someone would get vaguely concerned.

This particular timeline I’m gleaning from what happened when McHotpants didn’t show up for a staff meeting. We just had the meeting, and then at around 11:30 or 12, Vi sent me out to his house, since he wasn’t answering his phone. I ended up getting a hold of him on the way to his house (he slept through his alarm and, apparently, the 5,000 phone calls that morning) and nothing was wrong, but still. It was noon before we knew for sure what was going on. If I keeled over at noon on Friday, and it was noon Monday before anyone noticed anything was amiss. . .that’s like 3 days. It kind of puts things into perspective, and shows you where you stand in life. I need a roommate. Or a boyfriend.

As I was sitting my office, the lights out, after Karen had gotten offline and before I started talking to Nick, I was just thinking about my own mortality. A little morbid, sure, but I was alone in a cold, dark office. What else do you think about? I went through the whole scenario, the noon Friday to noon Monday scenario, and then I climbed up onto the roof.

That might sound weird, but actually, the last time I had a minor panic attack about something completely unrelated, I went up to the roof and it gave me clarity. Literally, I stood there for a while, and suddenly, everything was put into perspective for me, and I felt better.

It was oddly quiet today for being Black Friday, and I just stood there for a little while, looking down onto Main Street. I was far enough away from the edge that I wasn’t in any danger of falling off, but I found myself thinking, “What if?” That’s it. What if? What would happen? If I were to fall off that roof, what would happen? I’m not married, I don’t have any kids. . .what would happen to the things I owned? What would my obituary say? Having worked in the obituaries for over a year, I’ve seen a lot of variety in what those things say. But what would mine say? No one there knows me, really knows me, so a lot of the things that people say in their loved ones’ obituaries, “He loved hunting, fishing, crossword puzzles, church and his grandchildren,” wouldn’t be relevant. What would the people I spend the most time with really be able to say about me? “She was a decent writer, took decent photographs, loved Diet Coke and talked about her sister a lot”? I mean, Carrie’s family, she knows me, and I guess they call the parents in situations like that, but that had me really concerned. That no one would know what to put in my obituary. That I would just be another, “Oh, wow, 24. She died awfully young.”

And I’ve always wondered how people who don’t live where you died would find out. I have friends in South Carolina, Raleigh, Greensboro, Asheville, Chapel Hill, Fayetteville, Pennsylvania, Manchester (at the moment). How do they know? Do those left behind think to call these people? How would people know? Would they just start to wonder when you don’t answer your phone for a while? Are you supposed to leave a list of people you want notified? How does it WORK?

I think I’m too young to be thinking about things like this, and I know it sounds really, awfully morbid, but I don’t want people to worry about me. I’m not going to jump off the roof. I promise. These are just the things I think about when I’m alone. And I’m alone a lot. I think a lot of people think about stuff like this. . .it’s just that not many people talk about it. And I’m talking about it because I don’t want it just bouncing around in my head.

Sorry, y’all. I just have a lot on my mind these days. And I’m just unhappy. The holidays do that to me, especially over the last two years. The aunt I was closest to died Christmas Eve day, you know. My senior year of college. That was a rough year. My uncle, her brother, my father’s brother, had died three months prior. And the last time I talked to her, I was telling her that no, I couldn’t take her and my grandmother Christmas shopping. I really, really didn’t want to, and somehow, something came up so I honestly couldn’t. But that was the last time I talked to her. When I told her no, I couldn’t help them out. I’d done it the weekend before and I was going to be damned if I was going to do it again.

And that’s the last time I’ll ever talk to her. I was being a selfish bitch in the last conversation I had with her. The next time I saw her was at the wake.

I’m going to stop here. I’m sorry this was so depressing.

If I go crazy, then will you still call me Superman? If I'm alive and well, will you be there a-holding my hand?

So long since my last post (like a week). So much to tell (like a lot). I'm probably going to forget something or leave something out, but I'll do my very best.

First of all, I started my new job yesterday. I, admittedly, got off to a rocky start, but it had nothing to do with the job I'm going to be doing, but the job that I was doing before. I don't feel like going into the inane details, but suffice it to say that we need better management.

I LOVE having an office. I've only been in there for a day, but it's. . .kind of amazing. I like having a place to pace around (as I do when I'm thinking), I like having a whiteboard where I can make notes, I love my big desk and I love having a door I can close. I haven't closed it yet, but I could if I wanted to. I also took the microwave from my old desk, since it had been Allison that brought that in and Allison is no longer there. Come Sunday, I'll have a fridge in there as well (random fact about me. Whenever I write out "fridge," it's because I truly have no idea how to spell the entire, spelled-out word, and I don't want to look dumb or take the effort to figure it out) because the one I had in college is at my grandparents' house, and I will, in fact, be in Greensboro Sunday for my mom's side of the family's Thanksgiving soiree. (I can spell things like soiree properly, but I can't spell the entirety of fridge.)

I have written my first Last Word. The Last Word is a column at the end of the publication that is normally humor-based or whatever. Carrie wrote her last Last Word last week with her Thanksgiving issue of the mag (in keeping with my "anonymity," I'm just going to refer to it as the mag. I'm aware it's not a real magazine, but I think I'm allowed.) which, in my opinion, was one of her best issues to date. It's right up there with Folkmoot and last year's gift guide.

Anyway, I'm going to put the Last Word here, to give you a preview, since it won't actually come out until Tuesday. Karen's already seen it, but the rest of you can be surprised:

I was having a conversation with some of my colleagues the other day and we started talking about what you don’t know about people. One reporter, Kim, said that when you fill out a survey on one of those social networking sites, like Facebook or MySpace, one question typically asked is, “What’s one thing people don’t know about you?” Kim said this was a dumb question, because, “There’s probably a reason you haven’t told people some things.”
I thought about that for a second and said, “Well, things people don’t know about you aren’t necessarily secrets. They’re just things you don’t think to mention.” The example I gave was that I don’t really like Oreos without peanut butter on them. It’s not something I’m ashamed of; it’s just something that doesn’t come up often. Incidentally, a couple weeks ago, one of my favorite people, not actually knowing my preference, presented me with an Oreo that had peanut butter cream in the middle instead of regular cream. The question here is, how had I gone this long without knowing such a thing existed?
Anyway, I decided that, as the new mag editor, I would share with all of you, the readers, some things you probably don’t know about me. It’s a bonding experience. We’re going to be, in one form or another, in each other’s lives at least once a week, pretty much indefinitely. After this, if you see me walking down Main Street, you can turn to whomever you’re with and say, “Hey, did you know she [enter name of fact here]?” If they read the mag (and hopefully, they do), they’ll tell you they already knew. If they don’t, you will have given them a completely useless nugget of knowledge they will most likely remember, even though they’re not sure why. Some of these, those closest to me would know, but I feel, again, that we’re bonding here, so I’ll share them with you as well.
Let’s begin.
There are two movies that will cause me to tear up every time I see them: Armageddon and Sesame Street’s “Follow That Bird.” I think Armageddon is understandable. It’s at that one part where Bruce Willis and his excess of testosterone are about to save the day and he’s saying goodbye to Liv Tyler? I tear up every time. It just happens. Follow That Bird, on the other hand, is an interesting story. Apparently, when I was 2 or so, I would watch the movie over and over, paying most attention to the part of the movie where Big Bird, who has been kidnapped and painted blue, is forced to sing this incredibly sad song about why he’s so blue (figuratively). My mom worried about masochistic tendencies in her daughter because I seemed to watch it just so I could watch that part and cry. Cut to 17 years later. I’m 19 and home after my first year of college. I’d recently discovered Netflix and had rented Follow That Bird, just for kicks, and to laugh at 2-year-old Sarah and how overly sensitive she was. Imagine my horror when, at that part of the film, I felt my eyes well up. I definitely cried through the entire song. Thinking it was a fluke, I went to the part of the DVD that just showed the songs and watched it again. I swear it was some kind of Pavlovian thing, because the tears started up. I have, in fact, not watched it since.
The sound that I almost literally cannot stand to be around is the sound of packing tape or duct tape being either ripped off the roll or off a box. Before I moved here, I worked for Pepsi in Raleigh. I sat in a cubicle in the middle of the room and the IT shared a cube wall with me. I never knew this guy’s name, but apparently a big part of his job was to put packing tape onto or rip packing tape off of boxes. He would begin at approximately 11:30 a.m. and rip tape until 3:30 or 4 in the afternoon. The sound almost drove me out of my mind. I had to start bringing in my iPod and put it up to an ear-shattering volume to cover the sound that made me want to jump out of my skin. Have you ever gotten so intensely agitated about something that it made you feel itchy? That was me at Pepsi. More recently, it was when my work friend Aron was making his Halloween costume that he learned about my tape aversion. His costume this year was “Duct Tape Man,” which, obviously, required the use of duct tape. Lots and lots of duct tape. After about half an hour into the construction of the costume, I said to Aron in what I hoped was a conversational tone of voice, “Did you know that the sound of duct tape being ripped off the roll is one thing that kind of makes me a little crazy?” Apparently, the tone wasn’t as conversational as I might have hoped, because Aron looked at me with something resembling fear on his face. Since Halloween was the following evening, he had to finish the costume, so I ignored it the best I could. Incidentally, we are still friends and I managed to not tear out all my hair.
I really, really wish I could speak French fluently. This might not seem like such a weird thing. There are plenty of people who wish they could speak a foreign language. I guess the weird part about it is that I‘m unable to do it, seeing as to how I took three years of French in high school and, collectively, four semesters of French in college. The four semesters in college were a requirement, although to this day I’m not certain why you need two years of a foreign language to get a degree in English. But despite five years of French classes and three half-semesters where I dropped midway through because I realized at the rate I was going, I would kill my GPA if I continued, I still have the most rudimentary grasp of conversational French. I can read it sometimes and I have a few choice phrases I can understand and speak, but in general, it’s an epic failure. As a result, I sound like someone really pretentious when I randomly drop the French words I do know into conversation (i.e. “Would tu aimer to go to déjeuner at Nick and Nate’s avec moi?”) I would, however, love to be able to bust out entire, correct, sentences in French. It’s a dream of mine, really. But despite my best efforts and my GPA, ultimately, being knocked down to just below 3.0, I can’t do it and so, for now, people will have to deal with hearing things like, “J’adore what you’ve done with your cheveux.”
So there you go. Three things about me that you most likely didn’t know, and might not have even cared to know. But now that I’ve shared, I’d like to ask you to share, too. I want to know what you want to read in the mag. I’d love to hear your ideas for things you’d like to see more of, things you’d like to see less of and what I can do to make your reading experience as enjoyable as it could possibly be. You can e-mail me at [my work e-mail] with anything you’d like to say. You can even come by my office to chat. If you do this, though, I’d like to ask that you bring Oreos. Also, peanut butter.

So there it is. My first offering as BigShot Editor. I'm rather proud of it. I miss writing columns. I got to do it weekly in college.

What else? I know there's more.

Oh! I've discovered a clothing brand that J'adore. At Target, they have this brand called Converse One Star. Since it's the Converse brand, it's ridiculously expensive. However, if you wait for things to go on sale and clearance, it's palpable. The only thing is, their sizes are kind of weird. I got a white shirt there a few weeks ago that was a medium, the long-sleeved polo I've got on today is a large, and a tank top I bought there is a small. So. . .I'm not sure about that. I think they tend to run big, because the shirt I've got on today could probably stand to be a size smaller. But even though I don't like everything in the collection, the basis of it is exactly my casual style. (My casual style and my "professional" style are kind of two different things.)

You know those weird, random things that you remember that you really have to reason to remember ever? Rod Stewart's "Forever Young" just came on my Pandora radio, and I was reminded of a time in. . .it was either 8th or 9th grade, because I was in Latin class and those were the only two years I took Latin (due to having been forced by the school, not due to any kind of burning desire to learn dead languages), but we were, for some reason, playing charades, and my teacher, Mr. Walker (who also taught English one year, I believe), was up and was trying to act out a song title, and couldn't het anyone to guess it and finally began frntically pointing at this one girl, Stephanie Young, and as soon as he pointed to her, I KNEW what he was trying to get at but, for whatever reason, decided not to say anything. No one ever figured it out. And if I would have been like, "I figured it out," either people wouldn't have believed me, or they would have wondered why, if I knew it, I didn't say anything. That, in fact, is an excellent question. I really don't know.

I'm wicked excited that Katie is coming to stay with me tomorrow. It took us forEVER to convince our mother to let her come up, but we did prevail. It didn't help when my town was all over the news because of a flasher who decided to flash people ON MY STREET. Like, literally. On my street. I told my mother that he was only flashing men (true), but she still was hesitant. I'm saying, it's ok for me to live near Flashy McJunkerstein, but not Katie? I don't know. (Also, I think it's mildly funny that my spellcheck didn't pick up "McJunkerstein.") So when I go to Greensboro tomorrow for "Thanksgiving," I'll bring her back with me, and she'll stay here until Thursday, when we go BACK to Greensboro for Actual!Thanksgiving, and I'll drop her off with my father.

Another reason my mother gave for her trepidation for letting Katie come up was that Katie, "Isn't used to living the same lifestyle I do." . . .Really? I can tell you with absolute certainty that Katie goes out more often than I do. If I come home past 8 or 9, it's either because I'm at Carrie's, I'm still at work, or I'm out randomly driving around. I kind of wish I were living the life my mother seems to think I am.

Nick'll be back in. . .29 days. One more month. His family is going to see him this week and they're spending Thanksgiving in Paris. My question is, why am I not spending Thanksgiving in Paris? I think that's a valid question. It would make sense, really. As in, "I am THANKFUL that I'm in Paris!" Whatever. I'm sure he's aware that he needs to being me presents. If any of you are wondering, and I know you are, I have, in fact, picked the outfit that I'm going to wear when I see Nick again. I have to look fabulous, obviously, and I have just the thing.

And finally, ANTM. My poor Analeigh made it to the Top 3 and then lost out in being in the Top 2 by being beaten by weird, manly McKey and always-looks-like-she's-going-to-cry Samantha. Ultimately, as I predicted, McKey won. Homegirl is. . .not cute. Not pretty. She looks like a mannish duck. Maybe that's what the modeling industry is into these days, but if I were a designer, I wouldn't want my dresses worn by a man. But at least the cycle is over. Hopefully, I won't get sucked into the next cycle. My nerves can't take it.

Off to work and errands.