It gives me great pause to say this, but I will:
Things are just falling into place. Or seeming to be so, at least.
The figurative honeymoon is over at my job - while I've been welcomed into the fold and all with wedding invitations and being taken up on catsitting offers, I'm also catching the other side of the family lash - no one is hiding their ugly. The drunk cousin everyone works around, the misdirected anger, the taking of emotional temperatures, the misunderstandings... everything is on all of our sleeves. I love it, and am momentarily frightened (and then empowered) by the learning curve. Curve. Curveballs. I want to go to another Mariners game.
The ADD has been completely unnerving today. To the point of having to give up on work-work and focusing on a getting a bunch of personal stuff off my list instead, because I can't be trusted with the details. So much happens every five minutes - work is a hundred and ten m.p.h., I'm getting back into a round of shows (Lemonheads this Friday!), I found the perfect apartment at my fingertips without even trying, I'm running budgets and fulfilling photo orders and running into people at my job in bands and keeping up with my hair dye and now I'm packing and giving my cat as much love as my schedule will allow - and eating too much sugar - and perpetually running fifteen minutes late. But it's because everything is good, not because I'm bonkers. Well, I am bonkers. But in the good way.
Things I have been offered thus far since I started querying around for free/cheap stuff: a leopard print footstool, a huge new television set, and an upright piano. OKAY! I'll take it. And I think someone just emailed me to clean the apartment for half of what all the other people were going to charge. (FTW!) It's... it's fun, this trying to keep up with it all. I kept getting all scared. But really, it's rad. It's not that shit is happening, it's that rad is happening. Rad happens, I suppose.
Rad happens.
Am I ever going to stop worshiping Glen Hansard? I don't think I will.
So, lumberjack mansions and Jesus Christ parking lots and and roomfuls of heroes who can't come clean. Unstretching, bumping into walls, onward upward and crawling out from the underneath of things. So funny, all domestic, all everywhere all the time, all the girl people want to stop by and say hello to, the girl with all the plans and all the happy. I think they're (you know, Them) putting one of my pictures of Pearly Gate Music in Mojo. No fucking shit. Painted windowsills, plants and animals, square black-and-white prints of Audrey Hepburn and forlorn souls heading down black hallways on black stairs, huge sheets of children's writing paper, other people's lyrics... pictures of the corners of things. Poster frames. The irony of twin-sized beds, the keys to the city, the soft sidewalks of our town, bird on a wire. And me. And like, destiny and stuff.
And Pearly Gate Motherfucking Music. For reals.
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