He took me to work this morning. He answered his phone. He began to cry. "But he's going to be all right, right?"

He was talking about his dad. Four days before Christmas. About 24 hours before they were to leave, together, for Nashville at his sister's. But now there was just fear, worry, and shock. No plans.

His dad is going to be okay.

Cellularo phonic photographicals

In no particular order, apparently:

The "Jungle Room," at a blur.

First room on the right, with the 15 ft long white couch.

The gold plated sink on the Lisa Marie, Elvi's private jet.

The basement's blue and yellow television room.

Elvi.

Frabricy pool room.

The menacing young gentleman in the bed of a truck we were behind on the journey home. He had a very intense glare.

Outside the Lorraine Motel.

Elvi had a cute and tiny bahooky.

Just gettin' my soul on.

Rosa Parks, on the bus.

The famous, and very tasty Arcade.

Sparkles on the ceiling from my travelling companion's shirt.

Glorious dining room at Graceland.

Mappin' it out.

Beale.

I'm on a pilgrimage!

Tonight I have a date with myself. Gonna get all dressed up (ha) and take myself out to the theatre. It's opening night, so I'm going to treat m'self. Plus there's a really dreamy, wonderful man, gonna be wearing a red, sequinned vest who is in the show. So, mostly, I'm going to oogle him.

I've never taken myself to the movies, but this is not the first time I've taken myself to a theatrical performance. Thus, I'm not really nervous. Except that, well, I may be meeting handsome feller's mother tonight. Eep.


Addiitionally, girl in front of me has a greek letter sweater, a greek letter baseball hat, a greek letter purse, and a greek letter id case. Think she's in a sorority? I hope she's not, 'twould be funnier. She rude. And I hate rude bitches. Even though I love everything.

I am eeeeeasily amused let me just say.

Well all will be received in Graceland.

I've got two roadtrippies this month. That's good for me, that's good for my soul.

First up, this weekend. I said yes. After two nights of watching my studly feller perform in his show (largely directed by Steve Zahn, ahem), I will hit the open road and make a pilgrimage. My travelling companion is an "Old Friend," a dear friend, a wildly sober friend. I cannot wait. It will require the playing of hookie from work, so that I may roam the ghost-soaked streets of Memphis, Tennessee. I'm goin' to Graceland.

A trip to rekindle my dreaming heart. A trip to awaken the magic of my soul. I said yes. And now there's no turning back.

The second trip of the road, will be to Indianapolis, Indiana. There I will be throwing a bachelorette party for another of my very dear friends. Feller's coming with me to this and we'll stay an extra night and drive back home on New Years Eve to ring in the new year doing ... something. No plans yet, but I've decreed a rule that we CANNOT fight on this day, nor on New year's day.

Perhap I will photodocument these adventures for to post on this here thing right here. Perhap.

Decisions decisions decisions. I've forgotten to say yes. I say yes and then second guess. That's no good. That's not my style.

I'm the type of gal that, really, just needs adventure. I don't want to ever turn it down. But, at the same time, I just want it to happen. I don't want to have to be responsible for making it. I just want to surf it, sail it, whatever. I just want to catch it and ride it out. Soak it up. I want to enjoy it, not stress it.

I'm eager and hungry for it. And here I am turning it down.

In other news. There are other things I'm not turning down, but I want to. I'm already turning them down in my heart. I'm such a foolish bird.

Changing my way of thinking is harder than it sounds. If it were easier, it'd be done the first time I decided to do it. It's not even the pain in the ass of a daily decision -- waking up each morning deciding to hold a good mood for the day. Nope, not that easy. It's a moment to moment decision. A moment to moment choice to say, "Gonna be positive. Gonna be happy. Gonna be pleasant."

Today, already, I have decided-forgotten-remembered-given up-decided again-forgotten- - - - on repeat. Now I'm remembering again.

Of course, I got the visit from Aunt Flo as of yesterday so my task at hand (having a good attitude), has been made all the more arduous.

But what the hay.

It's Christmas.

I love Christmas!

And I spent a lovely, albeit unaccomplishing Saturday, with my handsome feller. It was goodness.

Today I am ignoring a drive to apply to (even) more jobs around town, because, quite frankly, I'm exhausted by the thought of it.

I'm going to quite writing this horseshiiii. I've been doing this same thing for the past three+ years, mostly to get myself to use some words, but I'm tired of it. I'm tired of waiting on inspiration to hit. Gonna just start brainraining and see what comes out. Lil' change o' pace.
NEXT'

There's very little better at 3:30am, than watching Paul Simon perform. Seriously. He blows my mind, every time.

I love that he is who he is, believes that music transcends all. He makes the music he wants to make, because it's music. And music belongs to all of us. Music transcends language, and geography, and age, and economic differences. Music is maybe the one thing with that much power.

It's 3:30am, the demihour of waxing bullshitically about things that really should be common knowledge, doggonit.

I don't write anymore. Ever. I never write. I have several mostly empty notebooks. I've bought them for the purpose of picking up writing again. But I haven't.

I'll think of things. I'll amuse myself, often, with stuff, thoughts. And then ... I'm bored with it.

I'm already bored with this.

But I'm tired of being angry. I'm tired of fussing about how my life isn't the way I think it ought to be. I'm tired of being some bump on a log and not doing anything worthwhile.

My life isn't bad. I'm blessed and I know it. But I'm not doing anything.

So. BAM. Here it is. A commitment:

I'm going to type in this here blog every day for one year. 365 days. Iknow it's trite. I know it has been done. I know I'm not doing anything groundbreaking and I don't even have a theme. But, well, my theme will be turning my shiz around. Making life. I'm going to do it.

I have nothing to say. That's the voice inside my head. That's what I hear everytime I pick up a pen. Some stupid, evil, gaslighting voice inside my head trying to prevent me from failing.

I'm freezing.

Like, actually. To my death.

It's so cold in this mind-numbing, soul-crushing, hellacious place that I could cry. And then my tears would turn to ice.

I want some other -- almost any other -- job. Well, I want something better. I want to step UP. But I'm reaching the conclusion that anything to remove myself from these feelings of stuckness and misery and undesired body temperature would, in fact, be a step up.

I feel all losty and angsty and I'm wondering why the hell, at age 25, I'm not over this mess that I've been making since I was 15.



On the bright side, I've things to be thankful for. Things for which I ought rejoice. And, really, what more could one ask for? My family is in good health and good spirit, I have my health, and I have a very groovy thing goin' with a lovely and wonderful man who is smart and sweet and patient with my angsty ass.

So, things is good.

But they could be gooder.