Have been feeling rather victorious these past couple of days, for reasons best left unexplained. But what I can share in public is that while I only lost a pound last week (yaar), my shirt is falling off of my shoulders today. Victory — can has!

I just find myself so exhausted these days. Maybe it’s only living on rabbit food, maybe it’s having no real resolution to much of anything going on, maybe it’s just trying to sidestep the aggravation landmines as best I can, but I’m whipped.

I’ve always said that if emotional endurance tests could translate into physical calories burned, I’d be back down to my birth weight. Shit, after the past month I’d be back down to zygote weight!

I’ve had the same dream for several nights in a row. Much as I welcome sleep, I’m coming to dread it as well.

But … and there’s always one of those … it’s all temporary. There’s hope on the horizon yet. Perhaps life isn’t one big cosmic joke after all. …

I had a real breakthrough in meditation class tonight. I was focused and happy and really did clear the toxins out of my heart when I was told to do so. I mean, I cried. I felt so good afterward — like, wow, this tree-hugging hippie shit really works!

Actually, it’s been a draining few weeks. But one that’s been punctuated by several blasts from the past. Their timing was strange at first, and impeccable in retrospect. A bittersweet distraction. But that’s the key word: distraction.

There are names I can drop and memories I can share — and many of you will say, “Here we go again. …” — but suffice it to say that stories are never really over.

And I’m glad about that.

I mean, there’s the one I will always wonder what if he’d married me instead, and then there’s the one who wonders why I was present one minute and gone the next. Go figure.

That’s OK. I’ve gotten better with age.

And I’m not the only one.

Anyway, I saw the Cirque du Soleil movie “Delirium” yesterday, and I have some songs from the soundtrack but I have yet to figure out which song had the lyric that damn near changed my worldview:

“Your fate is defined by the questions you never ask.”

So, I’m asking: “Why not?” And I’m not saying it with a pointed look at anyone (*innocent look*) but instead to remind myself to keep asking the tough questions and making damn sure to not walk away when there’s something too precious to leave behind and to definitely close the door (and throw a dresser behind it) if there isn’t.

Train’s leaving the station; last chance to ride. …

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You scored 93 percent! I’m not worthy! I’m not worthy!

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‘Me and these feet have some years to reclaim’, originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn.

Another banner day in Dawn-dom. I swear, this is one I’m going to take to a therapist someday and point to various parts on the doll to show where it abused me.

I’ve taken this same photo at this same desk, although with different shoes. But what no one else will realize that I do is that my legs are thinner. Well, minus the muscles — I could totally kick someone’s ass. (And have. …) Really, is there any other reason to re-take this same stupid picture?

I sort of rediscovered a favorite song, “Little Black Sandals,” and since I love my black-and-silver ones, I kicked them up to complement the earworm. (Another earworm this week was “Amanda.” Thank you to everyone who is making my brain bleed this week!)

So anyway, so much to say, so much reticence toward saying it. If you can’t say it to who’s supposed to hear it, well, it’s not much fun saying it to anyone else, y’know?

But alas, as an episode of “The Hills” was aptly titled last season, “Truth and Time Tells All.” (And don’t get me started on how “The Hills” is airing opposite “Paranormal State.” I watch the latter and catch the former in reruns. Because, really.

So anyway, have a shit-ton of work to do before taking a fast ‘ho bath in the ladies’ room and frolicking off to dinner at a great restaurant with someone who’s hopefully just as intriguing. It’s quite a process, once you’ve got an ideal in your head, to try to move past it.

But you have to, I guess. That is, unless you get the balls to go after what you thought was your ideal. And since I’m feeling slightly neutered (spayed?), well, let’s just say my ass hurts and leave it at that.

At least my shoes are cute, my skivvies are scandalous and my smiles will come easier, the more days that pass.

“Thank you feet, for guiding me
I’m glad somehow I got brains down there, at least.”

And the belt I chose to wear today — at the same hole I used to use to keep the thing secured at my waist — is now a hip belt.

Oh, and the shirt that would just never button over the ol’ muffin top? Stays buttoned even when I sit.

I used to assume that any boy troubles I had were inversely related to the size of my pudgy pork roast ass. Now I realize, as it’s a leaner pork roast these days, that size really only matters when it comes to THEIR pants. And also, they’re mostly just clueless anyway.

In any event, I can has progress? Can has!