Feeling: a predilection for chaos
Listening to: System of a Down - Roulette
Reading/Watching: True Blood, season 2

Due to a culmination of factors, I now have a shiny pretty divorce decree in my possession. I may have some more red tape before I retrieve my name, but oh well.

I have decided to continue being uncharacteristic this year. It's really been working for me.

Saying what I want, instead of keeping quiet out of fear? Good.

Believing I'm worthy of admiration, instead of suspecting that every guy who looks at me has some sort of brain disease? Good.

Staying out late to see live music instead of going to bed at ten like a geriatric spinster? Goood.

Saw two bands I liked last night: She Wants Revenge, which we all knew I'd love, and a new one, an opening act called Paper Route. Much love. Especially when blasting through a club at ten p.m. on a Wednesday.

I went with Bob Harris, who is still around, but solely as a friend. I could choose to be irritated by this, or I could embrace that we spent an hour at dinner talking about our dating prospects, joking and teasing and encouraging each other to stop being a wuss and just go for it. He really needs the guidance of a female friend. Seriously. And maybe, just maybe, I'll trust a guy's assessment of my chances if I know he was interested in me once, instead of thinking I'm nice in a sisterly way. He's pretty decent at decoding guy-speak, and since I sort of lost the Air Force Boys, I need some straight male perspective. (And for the record, I am not at all surprised or hurt about which side the AFBs chose. It was a given, really.)

In the meantime, I am having some extremely vivid dreams lately, involving hurricanes and wild goose chases and arguments and trying to whittle down work from an ever-growing stack of papers that is constantly trying to blow away. And the recurring cameo artist in these dreams? Why, it's Blue Eyes, of course. For some odd reason, he's always there, whether he's the one having the hideous argument with me or merely the voice on the phone telling me how to survive the hurricane. And I often wake up and dial him without thinking, so that I bug him at work (yes, he works nights) and babble sleep-drunkenly about my dream, then doze off again. Luckily he's amused.

Because of this, his official nickname will be Sandman. He's awake when I'm sleeping, he's in my dreams, and he's the only other person I know who's read the Neil Gaiman comics. Sandman has been informed of this, and he is in favor of the pseudonym.

And in light of the seven dates (which have been known to last eight hours) in three weeks, the fact that he thinks my dream-babble is adorable, and he keeps calling and being interesting and funny, we may have a Boyfriend situation on our hands. Look out.

Current project: balance work, class, high holidays, boy, and the deadly conviction that I haven't earned the right to be happy yet, and should therefore run away quick like a bunny to my safe, familiar misery.

If you're thinking things change awfully fast and it's kinda freaky... well, yes. Glad you agree with me.

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