22,908 words

That number could be the amount of curse words I’ve uttered in the past 24 hours or it could also be the number of words contained in my wacky adventure of a novel that I am spending entirely too much time writing.

According to plan, however, I should really be at 25,005 words. So I’m not THAT far behind, but every day, I tell myself that this is the last day that I’m going to write. I have too many other things to do that involve survival. But the novel-writing has been so therapeutic that it keeps me from thinking about living under the National Christmas Tree this holiday season. I’ll think about that when it happens. 😉

I have this permanent lump in my throat, of late. I’d love to give more details, but there are too many people out there who love to read about me suffering (reason #216 to not use your real name online!). Suffice to say, I’ve decided for the time being that it is impossible to be both happy and financially secure. You get one or the other. I know a doctor who wishes he had my freedom from a spouse and kids (!). He envies ME? I want his fucking bank account! Screw the family — can’t he figure out a way to purchase some peace of mind?

I don’t know anybody with a combination of happiness and security, particularly in my age group — I know I’ve never experienced it. And if you are familiar with having both, well, what is it like? I watch “Maury Povich” and “Springer” and whatnot in the mornings, and I see us rewarding women who bring in 10 potential fathers for their kids, and they’re being handed trips to Disneyland and financial assistance … we’re essentially rewarding them for their erratic behavior and failure to use a condom. My business (yeah, that thing I spend all day working on!), however, is not going well at all, to the point of me thinking seriously about torching my shit and backpacking across the country.

I am at my wits’ end. I really am. I have always been one of those people who lands on her feet, but it always happens at the last possible minute. I’m thinking it’s the 11th hour and 59th minute and 40 seconds, at this point. Failure to me is losing my car/apartment and going back to Pittsburgh. Failing is something I’ve never done and don’t know how to handle. Failure is NOT an option.

The girls at my rental complex, unsympathetic to my rough patch, gave me a photocopy of a picture of St. Theresa (I am not religious and do not know her from Moses). They told me to believe in her and pray to her. So, the agnostic/pagan here at this domain had a photocopy of a saint taped to her fridge. I’d do witchcraft if it would give me one good night’s sleep, quite honestly. I haven’t seen any results, though. They told me a miracle would occur if I just believed in her. But I am reminded of a Bon Jovi lyric (of course) — “Luck ain’t even luck; you have to make your own breaks.” (“It’s My Life,” for the unfamiliar.)

*Oooh, shiny!*

OK, unrelated, how hot was Jon Bon Jovi last night on the American Music Awards? I was so totally wringing out my panties after seeing him. *swoon amd slurp*

Anyway, I still believe in miracles. I mean, I just heard that a man set himself on fire outside of the White House, and we can always hope that it was Dubya, right? 😉

On iTunes: Jane Siberry, “In the Bleak Midwinter”

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