how could i ask for more

I love my job. I complain about it a fair amount because no one really wants to go to work, but I really don't dislike it. I dislike working in general (I guess?) but I don't hate the job. The women I work with are great, and so is the one guy that's there. Maybe I love it so much because I've kind of always been a girls' girl. I feel safe around other women.

I mean, I sell handbags, so it's at least more glamorous when I used to come home smelling like butter every night. No matter how many times I washed my hair, I always felt like I could scrape a film of grease off my skin with my fingernail (I wasn't allowed to bite my nails either when I worked in food. As soon as I stopped working there I picked up the habit again.).

I'm sort of an apathetic person, so I'm pretty happy to have anything that makes me a little happy. Work doesn't make me happy, but the people I work with do most of the time.

under a pale blue sky

I love mermaids. I love everything about mermaids, although today mermaids are often called sirens. Nowadays, we don't much care about the difference, and I'm not one to argue semantics. Other creatures similar include undines and nereids, but nowadays I'm inclined to think them all synonyms, for the most part.

There's something romantic and dangerous about belonging to the sea, and the first story of a mermaid reflects that. A goddess fell in love with a mortal, and killed him without intent. Ashamed and heartbroken, she threw herself into the sea, but her beauty was so divine that the water could not hold it, and thereafter she was woman from the waist up and fish from the waist down.

Mermaids belong to no one but the sea. Ariel didn't know how good she had it.

the fear in your eyes

I spent too much money on these boots. Their retail price was almost $600. I got them for $168, including tax. People say things can't make you happy, but where do they get off pretending that they understand what brings me joy? It's not like I only enjoy things, but even if I did, what gives them the right to criticize a person they know nothing about?

People only know what I want them to know about me, and maybe little tics and quirks that I can't quite hide. Most people wear masks, and I am no exception. Maybe my boots won't make me happy, but they're part of a mask, and the mask isn't completely false. The mask is something I created of myself, a caricature of something I already am, exaggerated to give myself a sense of security. I'm told boots and handbags and earrings and dresses can't make me happy and maybe they're right, but maybe they're not.

Maybe I get to choose what makes me happy and they can remove their noses from my business. I don't wear the mask all the time, and even when I take the mask off it isn't all the way gone. My masks are all parts of me, expanded and glued into place, and they never really leave, they just shrink away until I have to play the character again.

I love these boots.

don't feed the flame

When I woke up this morning, I was even more exhausted than usual. Wanting to sleep is a remnant of depression that I've never quite shaken; as horrible as it was, there was still something immensely satisfying about doing nothing, about having no motivation and feeling no guilt about being able to find no obligations whatsoever. Eight hours of sleep seems like so little to me as I stare up at the ceiling while the cat paws at the door, begging to be let in because he knows it's time for me to move even though rising is the last thing on my mind.

On the days I feel tired, tired is more than just what my body is. It is an emotion, a state of mind, an inescapable sinkhole with no solid edges for me to grab on to. Exhaustion is a monster that creeps out from underneath my bed, slithering up onto the sheets and drowning out the cat that wants nothing more than to rub his face on mine until I give him the attention he wants. Fatigue is a nagging thought in the back of my head that whatever needs accomplished that day can wait; after all, haven't I earned a day to slip away from all the anxiety, to give in to the monster that wants to keep away the people that love me?

When I look at the clock, it is seven in the morning, and I don't know how I'll make it to eight without losing my mind.

darkest before the dawn

When I came home today, I stood in the yard for a moment, schoolbag on my back. I live in the middle of the woods, and there's always something special about when the snow is hanging off the branches. It is cold and quiet and white and my cat always takes great pleasure in rubbing against my legs for a moment until I bend down far enough for her to hop up on my schoolbag or shoulder. The winter is hard on her; she curls up and sleeps for hours, even more than usual, and although she is always happy to see me she is especially glad for me in these cold months. She snuggles into my neck like a scarf and when I look out at the yard, I am excited for spring and then summer and then fall. I do not profess to love winter. In fact, I feel quite the opposite. However, if winter is what I have to live through to get to the times I love most, I am glad I can find at least passing beauty in its chill.

The cat whines when I put her down, flopping over in a display that I know is meant to attract a bit more attention, and, like always, it works. I laugh and scratch her stomach and then the top of her head, though she doesn't get the same enjoyment out of it that she would were I not wearing gloves, and with a shiver, I walk into the warmth and away from winter, almost wishing I could hibernate the season away.