My job = tiring.

Like I told my mom yesterday: "Why did no one warn me that corporate life is hard?!" "I did." "Why didn't you make me listen?!" XD

Basically what I'm doing is taking people and putting them with events. Which is time-consuming and brain-deadening, and really annoying when you can't find people and you're not even sure they're in the system. Because then I have to go talk to my supervisor and she'll try to find them and if she can't I have the joyous task of putting them in. Which means I can easily spend my entire eight-hour shift doing one project.

I don't think my supervisor has ever had someone do pure data entry for her before; she's always amazed at how fast I get things done. Which is great. It's nice when you easily impress your boss XD. I spent most of my shift doing one project, and it's about halfway done, and she was really amazed at that. Normally she has to do both the data entry and the scheduling, so now she just has to do the scheduling and I'm working on the data entry. Woohoo! Hopefully I keep impressing her. Typically at temp jobs if you do that, they'll find somewhere to keep you.

I have, like, no time to myself. I leave the house at 6:30 every morning, get home at 6 in the evening, and have to go to bed around 10 if I want to get enough sleep to function the next day. It's bad enough I have to go without nicotine/food until my 15-minute breaks.


So, basically, besides work, I have no life LOLz.
But this is my update.
Yay?

Headed out with Jackie and the Tucson Girl today. Remember the Tucson Girl? I was obsessed with her between December (when I met her) and April. I was working on mending my heart after Krishel and latched onto her for a new crush to focus on.

( Cut because it's a little on the long side )

I should be sleeping, since I have to wake up at 10 AM, which is an ungodly hour of the morning on a Sunday. But, considering I get to see an attractive female I haven't seen in awhile and my lesbian older sister/mentor who I haven't seen in two months, I'm willing to make the sacrifice.

( Onto le meme! )

I'm getting really sick of being a female.
This PMS mood thing is horrible. It's like me before they gave me pretty-colored pills. I really don't like it. One little thing and my mood either drops down to very low depths or goes so high I'm afraid of bursting.
It's tiring.




Also, will someone explain to me what the hell "corporate casual" is?

I have a job!!!




OK, it's a temp job, and it may only go for three weeks (if I'm quick, ha!). It's with the Girl Scouts...I applied there for that data entry job, but they hired someone else, but they thought of me for this temp job. Woohoo!
Is it terrible of me to hope that they'll hate the person they hired for the new data entry job and will hire me instead? Or is that just naked human ambition?
Whatever. I'm going to hell anyways.


Buuuuuuut I have a job, and it gives me experience, which is so fabu, because then I can apply for other data entry jobs and be like "Hey bitchez, they liked me, hire me!"


Woah, I am like so hyped up.
I hope I can keep this energy, I have to figure out the buses to Rebecca's today. Which I did fine with last time, but now I have to figure them out coming back.
GAWD I hate figuring out a new bus route. I need a car. And a license.


I'm shutting up now.
Off to make Kool-Aid!
Woooooo.

Hi, you.

Yes, you. I know you read this. Tiff told me, back when you and I were speaking, almost two months ago.

Has the amount of time really been that small - and that big? It seems like yesterday I was on my back porch, freezing my ass off, listening to you drunkenly sob, wishing I was there so I could hold you in a way that would have soothed you. I would have been whatever you needed to make you stop crying - it hurt me that much.

You always said we were like twins, and it's true, it's completely freaky how alike we are. We act the same way, we think the same things, and we each know that under the teflon cover, there's a scared little heart beating away. That's why I can't stand to see you cry, to see you hurt, to see you anything other than tired and/or angry - your two main modes (don't lie, you know it's true =]). When I see you that way, drunk and vulerable and tired and feeling so weak you can't bear to do anything but light another cigarette - when I see you that way, I feel a physical ache inside, a tug pulling me to do whatever I can to help you.

Is this healthy? God, no. Does it mean I'm still in love with you? Well, I think it's true what they say - a part of you is always in love with your first love, so of course there's that bit of my heart where you reside. But a bigger part of my heart just recognizes you as what you are. You're a friend, a good friend, a best friend. Someone who knows me better than I know myself. Someone who sees me completely for what I am, who I am - and accepts it, even though it means accepting herself and her flaws in the process.

I don't know how much you believe about fate, or destinies, but when people talk about threads of our lives, cords, that's when I understand what happened with you and me. We're two cords, wrapped around each other. We don't get to escape one another, not in this lifetime. Does it mean we must always be in the same place? No. Does it mean we must be lovers? No. Does it mean that I care for you as much as Kaylee, as much as my family, as much as I would my own sister, perhaps more? Absolutely. And that will not change, no matter what you do or how many times you refuse to speak with me.

I'm afraid I know what happened, why you no longer speak to me. Not only because you feel strange because of the romantic history we shared - that was enough to be overcome on its own - but because you felt vulnerable, naked, open to attack. You confessed your sins and I told you the fears you would not acknowledge - and then I showed how both were baseless, sin and fear. I have never once in my life lied to you, and you are probably the only human I know on the face of the planet I can say that to. I do believe that you will find someone, that you will be happy in a relationship, that you will have an amazing life that is nothing like your mother's. Absolutely nothing like hers, because despite what idiotic and vengeful people say, I know you. I know you will never be like that. I know you will be more than your own person, you will be your own family. You're already family to yourself, as much as it hurts me to say so. 

Please don't shut me away and out of your life because you're afraid that I will take who you are, what you are, and use it against you. I'm not her. I'm me, Katie, Katherine, the girl whose hair you dyed and cut, the girl you almost loved, the girl you talked about so much with and got drunk with. The girl whose nightmares you calmed in the middle of the night, the girl you reassured over and over, the girl who saw you in the middle of a million people and felt her cord coincide with yours in a way that can't be undone, ever. The girl who loves you as a friend should, the girl who cares about you more than anyone in her life would want her to. But she doesn't care - you're not a villan. You're just confused and scared, and your life doesn't seem to be on track anymore. And I want to tell you that it will get there - you must practice patience, which I know you have very little of.

Do you remember everything that I do? Do you remember simply driving in your Jeep, windows down, cigarettes in our hands, Pink blasting from the stereo? Do you remember stopping at gift shop and buying a trinket that you definitely didn't need? Do you remember that I tried to make coffee, twice, and made it too weak or too strong, but never just right - though lord knows I tried? Do you remember making dinner, pasta sauce with too much garlic, just the way we liked it? You burned the bread, but I reassured you it didn't matter. It didn't - I wasn't there for the food. I was there with you, and that is what mattered - that I was there with someone who knew me, who understood me, and didn't run in the opposite direction.

It doesn't matter if you remember - I do. And it's part of the reason I'm not letting you go. I'm not letting you slip into obscurity again. I care about you too much, I worry about you too much, to let that happen. You're one of my favorite people in the world (definitely in the top 3), and I'm not letting your fear win. I'm certainly not letting my fear win, and trust me, it's trying extremely hard.

So send me an email. Call me. Write me a letter. Have Tiff contact me. I don't much care.

Just please, mon ami. Querida. Darling.

Please don't shut me out.




Always yours,
Katherine

I am not dead.
In a ditch somewhere.
Or something.


I have been busy.

Interview today. Went fairly well, but don't think I'm getting the job, as I missed the first interview they set up for me.

Got a call for an interview Wednesday at the UW Childcare Center. Yay, small children. But this is their infant and toddler room position, so at least the majority of these kids won't be old enough to talk back to me - thus, less of a risk of smacking them.
You think I'm kidding.



As you can tell, my mood = not the best. I'm going to wait until I get a job. Or something drastic and dramatic happens, whichever comes first. Then I'll post again.

    Sometimes, there's this place that she goes. It's not in her head, no, it's completely real. It's this place where nothing can touch her and no one is asking her questions and no one knows where she is. They've learned not to be scared when they can't find her unless she's not back by midnight.
     She sits on this ledge, and it overlooks the fields she tends by day, the random flashes of light among the road as neighbours return from the feed store, barns, elsewhere in this godforsaken piece of dusty land. If she looks hard enough, and cranes her neck just at the right angle, she sees it - there. Past those trees. Can you imagine? Her heart feels like it's trying to escape from her chest, it hurts so much. Tears fill her eyes. The lights of the city blur before her.
     She spends nights like this. Every night when she's sure she can take no more, she spends nights like this. As soon as dinner is over and the cleaning is done, she finds her ledge, and she watches the cars flash by on the far-away highway. She tries to imagine what it's like to live in that apartment, there; or work at that office, in the upper left corner.
     There's an ache inside her that is nothing less than pure and unadulterated love. She loves steel and cement and glass more than she could ever love any flesh and blood and skin. There are so many offers that she turns down, though she knows her father would prefer her to marry the Smith's oldest son, be like her mother, an old woman by 35.
     She counts the coins and bills she's saved; not enough yet. She's heard them talk about the cost of living where her heart lies, how they're so lucky to be out here where it's not only cheap, but free and open, with fresh air. She could never stay here.
     And nights, she stays out on that ledge, getting a crick in her neck from holding it at an unnatural angle for too long. She cries and cries, silent tears streaming down her face. She grips the sides of the ledge to keep herself from leaning forward, towards her city, like she wants to. She feels a magnetic pull. She never wants to leave.
     But there is no escaping the house behind her. Her brothers, sunburned and deeply asleep. Her mother mending clothes in the living room, ruining her eyes focusing on such tiny stitching without glasses. The old wood floors, the sounds of the ghosts walking across the attic, the noise of the antiquated plumbing system.
     She can't escape being a farmer's daughter.

So, on Tuesday, I wandered around (in REALLY bad walking shoes that made my feet swell up to about twice their size once I finally took them off) looking for the place I was to interview at. Never found it, ended up having my dad pick me up and hang at the U with him until he left work. For SOME STRANGE REASON they called me - twice - and asked for another interview with me. Of course, when I agreed to it, I was told about three times to try to make it, since "we do have back-to-back interviews." What-ever. I'm headed into work with mi padre on Monday and probably going to take the bus to and from there. I'm wearing sensible shoes this time. I'm also printing Google directions, Google map, and the directions I was e-mailed.

But I will not dwell on that, because worrying about what they think of me is going to make me act like the person I think they believe me to be. I think that sentence makes sense.

Which brings me to...
DBT GROUP!
Dialectical Behavior Therapy, for those of you who haven't had a run-in with it before (look it up on Wikipedia, it's fairly well-explained there). Basically, it teaches you how to a) be mindful of yourself and the world around you; b) get the change you want (or resist the change you want) by saying "no" and asking for things; c) handle distress (anything from losing your cigarettes to losing your job) without overreacting or using "target behaviors" (i.e. cutting, drugs, alcohol); and d) handling your emotions in a way so that they're productive or at least controllable.
Anyways, basically, I go sit in a class for two and a half hours every Wednesday. We do exercises, listen to things, look at handouts, and learn skills. We use those skills weekly, report back on how we're doing, and at the end of the year, when we've gone through everything twice, hopefully we've used them to the extent that they're helping us.
So yes, today was "mindfulness," and part of that is being in the NOW. Not worrying about the past or future, obviously, but also not worrying about what other people are thinking, not letting your mind drift to worries or problems, etc. Which I'm trying to do, and I think I've accomplished it very well. So far.

Tomorrow is therapy, which means another trip into Seattle. Blegh. I want a car so badly.
Friday is a meeting with my psychiatrist, to get prescriptions (and probably poked with a needle to check my Lithium levels).
Saturday is heading to the DMV to stand in line for two hours just to get my damn permit renewed.
Sunday is my grandmother's birthday party. Wooo.
Monday is the interview. I'm going to try not to worry about it, or things that could go wrong, and certainly NOT what they think of me.

I'm going to go do something fun now and not think about any of the coming days. I don't even have to be at therapy tomorrow until 6 PM, which means I don't have to catch a bus until like 4 or 4:30. Yay!

My date went well (she has a motorcycle, you guys. A big blue beautiful beast! That I got to ride on! A lot! And it gave me an excuse to be very very close to a gorgeous girl! =D).

I have an interview on Tuesday. I made it through the first round of elimination, the phone screenings, so hopefully I'll make it through this interview process.

Group Wednesday, for the first time. Eeek.

Therapy Thursday, since she'll be out of town Friday.




I am going to go rest. Get into sweatpants, put my feet up, eat unhealthy food, and REST.
I'm tired.

     There are times memories creep up on me. It's interesting, how memories do that. They're subtle and stealthy, taking you by surprise, and you remember things before you realize what you're doing.
     Usually at night, when it's dark - that's when they come. Because that's when we used to sit on my porch. This was before we smoked, so we would just sit and huddle up against each other under an electric blanket we plugged into an extension cord inside. We'd giggle, then shush each other, listening for the sound of a bullfrog trying to attract a mate. Then, depending on how tired we were (which we often weren't), we'd try to imitate it. You always won, your sound low and deep. That is, if you didn't laugh in the middle of it because I was making faces at you.
     One of those nights we brought a bottle of vodka, our favorite, to keep us warm. It made us trade the blanket in favor of a warm bed. It was drunk, and fast, and sloppy, and loud. In the morning I had a bite mark on my shoulder, bruising the skin, and nothing else.
     You would not speak to me, nor I to you. We passed each other as strangers. The electric blanket was unplugged and put onto the top shelf of my closet, where it still sits. There are still hints of your perfume on it.
     I try to forget about that night, and about you. Your laughter and your voice. Your imitation of a frog that should have been incredibly unattractive, but was endearing. I try so hard to forget that you ever meant anything to me, that you were ever in my heart or my bed or my life.
     But the thing I try, and fail, to forget most -
     I loved you.

 Shonda Rhimes (the creator of Grey’s Anatomy) confirmed that there will indeed be a romantic relationship between Dr. Callie Torres (Sara Ramirez) and Dr. Erica Hahn (Brooke Smith) this coming season.

...it was reported on AfterEllen.com that both actresses really welcomed the idea.

GAH.
THEY TOTALLY WELCOMED IT BECAUSE IT IS HOT GAY WOMEN LOVING.
WHICH IS AWESOME.

I'm going to go jump around my room and dance some more happy dances.
SQUEEEEEEE.




(Source: http://grrlplanet.com/page/3/)

     There was nothing I used to love more than a sleeping bag, completely unzipped, spread out in the grass. Because when I saw that, I knew I would spend the night beneath the stars and in your arms, cuddling closer when the wind moved around us, smelling the perfume on your neck mix with the summer night air. There was one spot behind your ear where you smelled so perfect on those nights. I wanted to bottle the scent and keep it forever.
     When the weather turned cold and white flakes started falling, we took the sleeping bag inside and lit a fire in our ineffective fireplace. There was a window in your living room that looked right over to another building, but when it snowed we could huddle together under the sleeping bag and watch the world slow, and then stop. The city that was always full of noise would finally be quiet, the only sound the occasional slow passing of a car. When the snow stopped we would read, or make love, or sleep. Nothing to break the silence that had fallen.
     Earlier than the snow, when leaves started turning different colors and dropping from trees, you wore your favorite boots and would go out of your way to hear the crunch underfoot. If we returned to your home upstate, visited your brother still in high school and your weary mother, I would volunteer to rake leaf piles and you would jump into them, throw handfuls of it at me until I retaliated by tickling you until you cried with laughter. We would go inside to a turkey too big for four people, a bowl of mashed potatoes too heavy for one person to carry, a pile of stuffing that you made you full just looking at it. Our cheeks would be red with cold and we would hold hands under the table, no matter how difficult it made eating, and your mother would send us adoring and knowing looks.
     The last part of the year I still will not speak of. How your favorite color of flower was red and you would come home with seas of tulips that you put all over your apartment, finding spots for seven different vases. How your hair got lighter and lighter until you were completely blonde, and how I would make the same blonde jokes over and over just to see you roll your eyes and try to not laugh.
     I don't like to speak of that time. That time when the red tulips blurred before my eyes. When your blonde hair came towards me and I pushed you away, in pain, unknowing. When you told me that I was not the only one who knew that you liked your coffee with lots of sugar but no cream, I was not the only one who knew that verses could be written on the skin of your back about your beauty and our love.
     Try as I might, I have still not found a way to leave you and your seasons. Your rituals and traditions. And the things that did not change: the way you spoke as if every minute could be wasted, the way you walked as though you held the world in your back pocket and could take it out when you liked. There is no remedy for the memories of these things.
     Upon my lips you laid a blessing.
     Upon my heart you left a curse.

I am sick, and I am jobless.
Which means I am in bed, watching The Devil Wears Prada and eating reheated spaghetti.
In my sweatpants.
On a beautiful 70-degree day.



When my cold decides to stop being so...cold-ish, I'll post the photos I took yesterday, as well as the photos I'm going to take another day. My week isn't going very continuously, but whatevs.

I get an email from Janet this morning that says, basically, "Hey, I know I offered you the job, but I'm just going to stick with a small group of kids and keep the money for myself."

Fuck you, Janet. Fuck you.


Off I go job-hunting again.
Goody.

My camera is dying.
And hanging out my ex is both enlightening ("Wow, why did I date her?") and a really bad idea ("If I choke her, would anyone notice...?").
I have my second trial day at the daycare center tomorrow. Then I should find out soon after that if I got the job.
I also have a date tomorrow.

I need to stop scheduling so many things.

( CLICKY. USE TEH CLICKY POWAH )

I know, not too witty or fun or whatevs today. Hopefully tomorrow? I'm going to try really hard to get pictures of the kids without seeming negligent, probs while we're at the park, and maybe I'll get some of my lovely date if it goes well =]. Wish me luck with both!

     What is wrong with me?
     OK, that's too easy. That's a question that, when left open, invites jests of Where should I start...?
     I've let go of you, but somehow the affection for you clings to my heart and won't leave. My hands do not ache for your body, but my lips cry out for your kiss. My fingers, when I am walking down a sunny street, feel empty without yours between them.
     If I close my eyes at night, I can remember what I felt, my head on your chest, your heartbeat close to me, the warmth of you beside me. But it hurts, love. It hurts when I open my eyes and you aren't there, not your eyes, nor your gorgeous neck that I marred once, accidentally, nor your body that wasn't perfect but was completely yours and utterly gorgeous.
     Acid churns my stomach and my eyes turn a glowing green when there is speak of you with someone else. I know we're not good together. I know we'd never have been good together. I know that someone out there is better for you than me. But why can my head accept that, but my body and heart cannot? I'm tired of them ruling me.
     I was never in love with you, but I loved you, and love you still, deeply and truly, as a friend loves her confidante or lover her treasured token. You were proof that while I don't date the sort of people who are good to me, I can at least find one who doesn't treat me as if I'm her latest lapdog. I think of the times when I ruled my power over you, when I made you cry, and it hurts me more deeply than anything else since. When you forgave me and I was redeemed with one of your famous kisses, I felt as if I could fly. I did fly. For a month, my feet never touched the ground.
     Find someone who you love; please love me. Be happy with what you have; do not be happy without me. Live your life with all the beauty you can find; please do not have beauty unless I am by your side. My mind, my heart, my body, we are all warring for things. My body wishes for your lips. Only your lips. And perhaps your arms as well. My heart wishes for your mind and your own heart. My mind wishes you happiness wherever you find it, and with whomever it is.
     Can you please let me go? I promise I won't run far, just to where you'll have to call me back in order to keep me by you. I don't know what it will take for another woman's face to fill my dreams. There have been women since you; I know you know this. But none of them could I forgive for their blameless act of not becoming you.
     I don't know what's wrong with me.
     I might not want to find out.