I'm all over this Miley Cyrus apology bullshit, because it makes me laugh. I need to laugh a little.
I am going to come out and say my Big Plans for the future. This is top secret confidential, but...I am moving to Charlotte, North Carolina on September 1, 2008. This is for a multitude of reasons, many of which are familial in nature, but it is not an unhappy decision. It is just the circle coming to a close. (I've been reading too many horoscopes when I get to talking like this.) I still have to clear all this with work, and there may be some resistence because another person just moved and became "deployed", and there are lots of "deployed" staff, but I'm gonna do it anyway. Maybe I'm gassing myself up but if they say no, and I say "I resign", I think they'll change their tune. My job, sadly, is the one thing that I'm actually really good at. And I'll still have a residence of sorts in NY if I play my cards right.
Anyway, it was my first day back at work after a five day weekend, and this morning I got to thinking about all that goes into a relocation. I'm not moving down the block, I'm moving across hundreds of miles and state lines. I am beginning to formulate a plan, and have been since I made this decision a few months back. Still, last night and early this morning I was having something similar to a panic attack.
Funniest text message I sent today, in reply to someone stating that I get "all worked up over nothing": "It's not nothing! You think I don't have feelings because I'm beautiful?!"
As much as I've moved, I should be able to write the Complete Idiot's Gudie on the subject. It's a bit different this time because I've entered my thirties, have a somewhat adult level of posessions, and can't just go unemployed for a few weeks to figure out what I'm doing with myself anymore. The long distance should mean nothing, but it does add a level of intensity.
The abbreviated plan is as follows:
May -- take cats to their foster home, where they will become outdoor cats. Then go to Phoenix for work which should be fun.
June -- lay low, save money, and negotiate lease options with current landlord.
July -- Go to St. Thomas USVI for 8 days, after which suggest they change the name from "US Virgin Islands" to something more fitting.
August -- Go to NC for a few days, work from there, get a car, find a home, and sign a lease. Have Murphy Bed disassembled, start throwing shit either away or into boxes.
September -- Relocate.
November -- Go to Sofia, Bulgaria over Thanksgiving and chill with Vladimir and my Euro peeps.
I'm still unhealthily obsessed with this boy in Greensboro, but no, he's not the reason I'm moving as this decision was made long before I ever knew him.
I've been downloading pink noise to play when I go to bed, because it does do wonders for drowning out the incessent, loud gibberesh coming from the other room. I'm at such a loss for an answer to why I allow these situations to happen to me. I tried to do something nice for someone, and now I'm stuck in a miserable hellish roommate situation (which is also not the reason I'm moving, and I already told her I'm ending the lease and she'll have to find some new place to go at that point, hopefully sooner). As much as I've complained, and had "talks", and been fucking nice as hell about her and her boyfriend, and put up with their disrespectful abuse of me (what it boils down to), it's like it's in one ear and out the other. "Okay, yes, I understand," and then nothing changes, on top of really clinical DSMV style mood swings and bitchiness. Resentment breeds and brews. So at this point, what do you do? I wish I could explain why it's not as simple as "just throw them out!" which is everyone's advice, but neither you nor I have the time.
It's rainy and nasty out today and I'm just sitting here in front of my computer shoving my face full of potato chips and Reese's cups. My committment to physical fitness and holistic health and well-being resumes tomorrow.
For my belated birthday celebration on Saturday night, we went to Lips and I kissed a drag queen, in fact, on the lips. That place was a lot of fun. Then I drank like a fish and bounced around every bar in town, including the Cubby Hole where the lesbians loved my Fendi pants and encouraged me to become one of them, which I leave open as an option. "I'm lesbian identified," I told one. Hell, if there can be a "pregnant man", I can be a goddamned lesbian!