Monday, September 19, 2011

I can't find my freaking journal.

I have this journal. My husband bought it for me. I'ts kind of khaki green plaid. Sounds very me, huh? I write in it.

I know. You're shocked.

I don't write in it every day, which is probably why I don't know where it is at the moment. Sometimes try to write in it everyday. Not like every single day, but it bursts when I get in a groove about it.You know, when I get excited about personal growth and finding myself and whatnot.

Is that normal? Do you suddenly get the urge to meditate and read inspirational books and write about your feelings to yourself when you feel off?

Anyway, the point is I want to write in this journal. I have stuff I want to write about to myself.

Trust me. It's not that interesting. You're not missing out. You don't want to read about most of it and what would be interesting is super top secret or just complaining about my job which really isn't all that professional. Neither is telling your boss you find some parts of your job soul crushing.

Did that this morning.

I probably wouldn't recommend it. Or maybe I would. Fight the power and conformity and doing what you're supposed to and all that. It is a little soul crushing if you have a hard time with any kind of dishonesty even if it is in your own best interest. *Pandora just played End of the Day by Lucy Kaplansky - it's about trading your life for your career. I think The Universe may be speaking to me*

I will find something interesting to write about eventually. I've actually been trying to think of some experience to witicize about on an almost daily basis since my last post. I'm too lazy to check on when that was, but if it was the one about the clown vomit PSA in the university bathrooms that came out at the beginning of August you have a temporal reference point.

Has my life gotten less ridiculous? I'm sure that's not possible. Maybe I'm just not noticing it. Or the stuff that is ridiculous is so absurd I can only share it with my sister.

She has stories from the last couple weeks. I call her with bursts of somewhat irrational and sensationalized responses to my circumstances. Let's hope she thinks of them as having the entertainment value of a mini soap opera she watches, but which lacks a regular schedule or consistent plot. Or maybe it just seems like short bursts of raving from a crazy lady who happens to be her little sister. Either way, she puts up with me and you should maybe thank her for that.

Anyway, I don't know where that journal could have run off to, but if you see it let me know, okay?

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