A New Me?

I've moved and have a new job within my company.

I'm still on the fence of being "happy".

I feel fulfilled and can do just about everything I can imagine within my company. I can access all the data need I for my job, and collect all necessary data needed for the company and provide support to those who need help accessing data. For some reason I feel like I'm missing something in my life.

I have tried the dating sites a few times; each time I'm met with a disappointing realization that anyone my age has no idea what I'm talking about, or they are significantly older. Both leaving me very unfulfilled and depressed.

Now I'm at a point when the only moment when I feel "I get it" is when I'm tight as a boiled owl. And I get it to a sense, I'm out of my gourd. I'll regret it tomorrow, but I get it now.

But for now all I can do is drink to the individual who I cared for, who has passed away as of this past Thursday, and all those who I cared for. I'm sorry I could have done more for you.

Five Stages

I found a dark spot the other day. A slight discoloration between the knuckles on my left hand, so delicately placed between my forefinger and the middle finger.

At first I thought Oh, my hands are dirty, but no matter how hard I scrubbed it didn't come off. Then I thought I might have dyed my skin with something. Nope. NOPE. A dark fleck that signifies nothing more than me getting old has appeared in the one place I can't hide.

I'm only 25 to crying out loud! This shouldn't be happening. Don't these things happen to middle aged women and those who have kids? I'm not old! I'm still young! This isn't fair, I haven't done anything with my life and why are my hands punishing me?!

I'll do anything, ANYTHING, to get my hands back to how they were. In high school I had dainty hands that could so anything and played the flute with precision. I'll go back to playing if that's what it would take. I'll find the fountain of youth and beg to have my hands back. Take my car, take my apartment, take my savings! Give me back my youthful hands!

I knew this would happen. I've already wasted a quarter of a century fooling around. I play games all day, drink beer like it's going out of style. I don't fit in any of my clothes from college. I'm fat, slow, non-flexible, and now this. I've lost a part of myself and my hands are telling me.

I look at my hands now and they start to resemble my mother's hands. At my age she was already married with a kid and had started a business with my father. They are working hands. I start to see that maybe this is okay. I'm not a child anymore and my hands, much like my face, is a reflection of my dedication to better myself. If I could look anything like my mom at her age I'll be happy. Maybe they make a cream for this, too.

to whom it may concern

dear wood on terracotta,
i know you're not to blame
it isn't like you gotta
but i appreciate it all the same

i sleep during the day
because i go to work at night
and there's no other way to say
that this has been a blight

when you make that music at two
and then once again at four
the only reasonable thing to do
is lie writhing on the floor

it shakes me from my dream
and i break out in a sweat
stifling back a saddened scream
as i add on to my sleep debt

so i beg of you to help me to,
and put in a little labor,
silence your seating before i do
love, your downstairs neighbor.

A Bologna Sandwich

Bologna. I never thought I even liked bologna, but here I am eating a bologna sandwich. Lots of things have changed, but I feel like bologna is a good place to start.

Ever since 2012, when I graduated High School and made the transition into "adulthood", I feel like not only my life has changed, but also me as a person. I've had a few heartbreaks (one of them I still regret), got a degree, had a few odd jobs, landed the dream job, moved out, crashed my car, got a new one (burnt that one out too) and grew a fervent love for beer and bologna.

As I sit here currently eating I can't help but reminisce my earlier years and start to think that I had made a few questionable decisions. Then I think if I had to choose one thing about my past that I would have changed I wouldn't. Why? I wouldn't be here where I am today and I wouldn't have found true peace over a slice of processed meat. I might be across the sea missing my family, or still at home hating my family. I could have stayed at my old job scrubbing dishes for less than minimum wage hating my job, or gone back to my seasonal job at the Institute (shout out to Ellen for being one of the best bosses out there.) I wouldn't be working as Direct Support for a non-profit organization just making ends meet eating this double-crust sandwich. I'm happy.

I haven't been this truly happy in a long while. One of the last times I was truly content with myself I was at the park during the summer with my feet in the creek. The wind was making the trees creak ever so slightly and I was just standing there staring as the water rush between my toes. I had not a care in the world. I had no where to be and no one to impress... no homework, no job pressures, no bills. I knew I had food waiting for me at home and a family that would greet me at the door. Now I return home after a ten hour shift at eight in the morning to no one. I'm always tired and I somehow never have food in my apartment except for bologna. Somehow today felt profound and I felt strangely nostalgic over a sandwich.

When did I grow up? Was it college? High School? Was it after my first job or after I moved out? Am I just thinking too much and this happens to everyone at one point in their lives? Do those people eat bologna, too?

So many questions, but now my sandwich is gone and the feeling is fading.
Maybe it was just the beer.