I continuously say that I hardly blog anymore -- only when I have something monumental to say. I may have just given you the impression that I, right now, have something monumental to say. That would be false.
But sometimes you need more than 140 characters, and there are only so many cat photos I can post on Facebook. (Don't worry, I haven't reached that limit yet).
Today I have a bit of a bone to pick with the universe for continuing to make my dad's life a living hell for the entirety of 2013. Literally every single day since January 1. IT IS ALMOST JULY. Enough already. We may not have reached our cat limit on the internet, but we have reached our bad news limit where my father is concerned. He needs a job, so if one of you magical creatures on the other side of the computer screen has one for him, let's be best friends. You know where to find me. Hint: it's on the internet.
In better news, I move in exactly 37 days. I'm definitely not counting. I absolutely do not keep a calendar under my pillow so I can check off every single day that passes until I can move into a home with a dishwasher. I would never. I do have a car full of boxes, however, waiting to be filled with every single thing I own. I hate packing almost as much as I hate the physical act of moving, so this will all go over really well, undoubtedly.
I keep telling myself I won't miss my apartment or my neighborhood or everything about this place I've lived for the last incredibly interesting four years of my life, but it's a small lie. I totally will. That apartment is the closest I've come to a long-term commitment to anything ever, except cats. (Obviously). (Do you know me?)
The apartment may be small-ish and hot-ish and the neighborhood weird-ish, but it's still home. I almost feel guilty for moving to the other side of town. The "dark side." The place people go when they want amenities and luxury and a close proximity to Target. It's very much like my swap from newspaper reporting to public relations. Everyone wants to go to the other, shinier side, where there's money and flexibility and nobody makes you chase the police all over town for a headline. I don't necessarily think there will be money waiting for me on the west side of town, but there is air-conditioning, and that's the next best thing.
Speaking of life, it was recently brought to my attention that someone's first impression of me was, "She seems really... adult. Like she has her shit together." At first I thought, "YOU'RE DAMN RIGHT. Look at me being all adult and stuff. Yeah." The next thing I thought was, "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Me. Shit together. Hilarious." And I finally concluded with, "Holy shit you guys, am I the most boring person that ever walked the face of the earth? So much so that when I walk away from a stranger, they think, 'Boy. That is one hell of an adult right there'?"
There are so many things wrong with this, the largest of which is the fact that it bothers me. Really? I mean. What's the alternative? Childish and out of control? Don't get me wrong. I'm pleased that (people think) I have my shit together. But in my mind that scenario should really be more of, "Wow, she's amazing. And incredibly good-looking. Did you see her hair? I bet she's incredibly smart and talented and hilarious. And her shit is absolutely together. So hard."
I think the thing that's really missing from that first impression: delusional.
Happy Monday, internet.