Post One Hundred and Thirty Four: Speak of Moderns.

I'm in love with the ideas of things. Such things are all inclusive. People, pot plants, pianos, pie making and other words not necessarily starting with (P). The (p)roblem is; I don't have a particular proficiency with reality checking. My head is in the clouds and my reality is most often much grittier.

I flared into a career as a mortician thinking that I could just be the 'hair and makeup' girl. Cue incorrect answer sound effect. I thought that by studying Psychology I'd be able to lay rich people on couches, letting them talk about their shit kids while I snuck cheese into my mouth. Repeat said sound effect.

These misaligned ideas fly around like rats on acid. Quick, greedy, crazy and kind of ugly. I'm attracted to all opportunities, and that isn't necessarily a shit thing. I come into trouble though when I have too many of these ideas going on at once and I break a mental sweat like a whore in church. I run myself, physically overwhelmed, into a black hole of misery. Then all of the ideas doing their mousy wheel exercisin' in my mind flop dead into the same black hole, equally as spent as I.

Here's the specifics if you are so inclined. I'll warn you, this is some serious front of mind shit and as such probably won't make sense or be interesting in the slightest:

(Oh Dear Diary)

I can't commit to getting a stretchy yoga torso if the classes are ninety minutes long and you have to go more than three times a week. That expectation is morbidly unrealistic. Furthermore, I can't do that activity if I need to practise to play decently in a new band. This makes sense, because you don't need good genes to play guitar but no matter how hard I try I will not look like Jennifer Aniston. Ever. Lastly, it's probably not prudent to be in a band if I want to start studying again. (Then again, do I even want to do that?).

And then, the real humdinger, I have to work full time plus on call weekends to pay back the mountain of debt I incurred whilst moving houses and setting up shop in a badly-in-need-of-condemning shit hole. I moved into the shit hole due to another one of those head in the cloud, romantisizing moments of pragmatic supression.

The rose tinted window is just that.

Peace,
S.