Feeling: momentous
Listening to: --
Reading/Watching: The Mighty

Life rambles on. Sandman is frustrating, but still a friend. I'm tired of opening the door to my weak spots and being surprised when he bumps into them. It's fairly ridiculous, and I should know better. I think that door has to stay padlocked until I can learn not to let it fly open unbidden. At least I've stopped dreaming about him.

I am intentionally frantically busy. It works for me. Fewer dinners of frozen pizza and Facebook. Fewer nights with the weight on my chest. There are too many tinfoil thoughts to chew on.

So there's work, and friends, and family, and dogs, and the oasis of rehearsals for Rent, where I am not Katie anymore. I get to be Maureen. Not fragile in the least. I twist, sashay, smile, beckon, tease, and sing. And every ounce of it fits. She can hop, scream, howl, and moo, and it's hilarious instead of dorky. And if I cry, that's okay- it's Angel's funeral. It's for the show.

Work feels like an old shoe, stretched out and worn out and devoid of comfort. Every day I walk in it, it gives me more blisters. I hate it, I love it, I hate it again. My tire was slashed yesterday in the school parking lot. There is literally NO point in attempting to hunt down who did it; I just had to pay for a new tire and let it go. Every step I take in this shoe, I want to kick it off. But the kids are under my skin now, and it's so hard to walk away from them. Not all of them are monsters, and not all of them are staple-dropping, graffiti-happy, tire-slashing punkasses. Some of them are little sets of shining eyes and hopeful smiles, reaching so far and following me with such trust. Their voices are barely even budding. They're learning so much. I'm teaching them so much. But everything else about the job is breaking me down- the principals, the location, the co-workers, the money. It's not enough.

Someone recently gave me the nickname St. Jude. You know, obsessed with lost causes. It seems to fit, considering my past history.

This new guy... he's going to need a nickname, and I'm leaning toward Will, as in Good Will Hunting. I think he's going to be noteworthy. But the armor on him is so thick, I'll need a blowtorch to get through. (See? Lost cause. Mrph.)

Imagine someone so accustomed to self-sufficiency that the concept of asking, even allowing someone to help you, is just baffling. Now make him tall, intelligent, sarcastic, attractive, and three feet in front of you. What to do?

The first time we spoke (mutual acquaintance unintentionally introduced us), it resulted in an insult war that raged for a solid fifteen minutes. I lost. It was fricking hot. But armor that thick makes me stand back. Even poking at the chinks could cost me dearly. (St. Jude was martyred, after all.)

Not sure why I keep doing this. Whatever happened to eyes forward, keep walking, not looking left or right? The only way to keep my heart my own is to keep the blinders on. I pretty much suck at that. It's like I'm an ivy, addicted to sending out little vines every which way, seeing who they can hook onto. And every time a strand is ripped off, a chunk of me goes along with it.

Not sure whether to keep reaching, openly and hopefully (which has worked so very well in the past), or start lying my face off and pretend it means nothing, to be so stretched and reaching. Maybe that way he won't yank on the vines.

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