I hate how the acoustics of a room change when you take all the shit off of the walls.

Keep messing around instead of packing. Like right now. Watched two episodes of Battlestar Galactica this morning. Right around every 3 episodes, it makes me cry. Perhaps this is just fantastic storyline and great acting. Though I'm immersed in a world of change at the moment, I feel grounded and sure of myself. But it probably helps to be able to cry every now and then. Unrelated: I love that even female officers in this show are referred to as 'Sir.'

A monumental moment in my life's timeline: I got my driver's license today. Twenty three years old. A nontraditional age to join the ranks of the mobilized. My mother and I spent 4 hours at the DMV this morning. Got my permit reinstated, took my road test and just barely passed. Tapped a cone, forgot to check for oncoming traffic at a turn. 82/100 when 80 is the lowest acceptable score. Drove my mother home. Drove from Flowery Branch back to my apartment. I'm not trapped anymore. I can get where I need to be. I can just get in my car and go. How wonderful a feeling. Who needs a ride? I'm something like 23 years of rides in debt.

Excited to be moving again soon. This has been a good year off. Life lessons learned, full time working experienced, and a lime green bedroom like I always wanted. While living here, I was romantically entangled with three men. One of these entanglements was significant, and the others were fun. In a way, everything is significant. All the small moments you keep for yourself.

I will do my best to leave them here. The new place will be very different.

For a long time, I've held the saccharine-sweet disneyrific idea that perhaps somewhere out there in the big wide nowhere, someone is looking for me like I'm looking for them. The older I get, the harder this is to believe. Fairy tales and superhero stories made me believe in fate when common sense would seemingly point elsewhere. It seems less and less likely that there really is a perfect mate in the world for each and every person. Facts show us that shitloads of people die alone and miserable everyday. Probability tells me that the older and weirder I get, the harder it is to find anyone that matches me. This knowing is a nagging pain. It will only be a matter of time before that becomes a familiar pain that is folded simply into the daily routine. Perhaps this is what aging is.

I have had to jump over an eight foot chasm to get to my apartment for the last two days. Something with jackhammers deep under my street. They start as early as they can, I think.

And there they go again.

Since classes started, I haven't really been reading many books. I've normally at least two I'm working on at any given time, school or no. Right now I'm just on a reread of Breakfast of Champions, which would likely rank second in my favorites by KVJ.

Something about the sentiment from Cormac McCarthy's The Road about referring to people who still clung to a shuddering remain of their humanity as 'carrying the fire.' Those ideas are things I aspire to. To make my insides beautiful in spite of my circumstances, and to try to carry the fire.

But I spend so much of my time disliking things. Should really work on my outlook.

This sort of rampant, churning discontent has risen within me. Just on the left side of nauseous, I feel as though something is amiss. Probably the sight of a redheaded pixie specter from my past. Knowing she's around makes me miss a time that seemed so full of promise. I felt like she knew me fully, and still loved me for a time. Even though I'm certain she wants nothing to do with me anymore, she greatly impacted my life. I will carry her in my heart for the rest of my days, fondly. Waxing over sentimentalities such as this is not helpful. They further sharpen the lonely point I'm at. Shuffling my belongings into piles of like objects, taking personal inventory and throwing things away is what I should get to. Moving is always a cleansing experience. I can remember it feeling more exciting. Now the days merge together, and the great feeling of expectation and wonder has gone. There's no sense that the future holds anything more than what I know already. What is there left, but growing old and seeing everything I cared for die away?

As of late, I've been brainstorming short stories based on my dreams. For the last year or so, they've trended apocalyptic. I'd like to get out, in cohesive wording, the things in my dreams. This has proven tricky so far, as I dislike writing in the 1st person, and I almost always dream in the 1st person. I also want to avoid tired phraseology. Lot to work on. Summer semester is chugging along nicely. Never thought I'd have an A average in college math. It'll be over at the end of the month. Then the big move. Fun thing is that after the big move, I'm supposed to go on vacation to Disneyland with my family. Like, immediately afterwards. Also my final is on moving day. Fall semester has been registered for. Classes paid for, and the loan excess on its way to me. Huzzah. Discovering that foolishness is an inherently human thing, and you should never be mad at yourself for your follies.