HOLY-ISTIC COW

im thinking of being creative. being creative is pretty bogus though. im sitting on my bedroom floor looking at all the blank white walls and the pile of trash i swept up that has to-do lists, empty cider bottles, and old hi-lighters all raked into the same corner. i forgot to mention the box of cheerios. that pretty much sums up my semester. i took all of my tapestries and klimt photos down so now the room (no longer MY room) seems so... sterile. so boxy. i havent had the urge to be creative in a long time -- i sort of gave up that aspiration in high school because i figured it was a phase everyone goes through. i mean, c'mon everyone knows the best little token to get in LIFE is "you write a best-selling novl, $50,000." so cliche; it's in a board game i mean. nuff said, right? anyway, every five minutes of cleaning my room warrants forty-four minutes of breaking, since that's the length of an episode of the o.c. i swear i don't like it, but i stayed up the night before watching it until five in the morning. but hey, it's summertime and the livin's easy. what else do i have to do? maybe that's the wrong attitude though. there's only so much bad tv i can rip from the internet to prove my retaliation to all things educational (suck it willamette), but i also don't want to spend my entire summer holed-up in my room and embarrassed of what im doing. think holistic, think wholesome. re-reading favorite books, maybe journaling and maybe not, making new book lists, playing some ultimate or taking a hike by myself.

practically my only memory of finals week is walking outside from a library binge and seeing stina lounging in the sun on jackson plaza engrossed in the last hp book. god, that's the right attitude.

by the way, creative mission accomplished. i mean, did you read my title?

yeah, it's a dog's life

written on a Southwest Airlines napkin en route to New Orleans

What is this technology that so swiftly takes me between lives? Sandwiched in the atmosphere between space and the top layer of clouds, I sit in my chair, listening to my ipod and making faces at the baby in front of me who is looking desperately for entertainment. I feel you, baby. Sitting here, my mind phases between anticipation for that old familiar place and sadness for leaving a place which has recently become so familiar to me. I can't decide which one to follow and if by choosing I betray one or the other.
It's a balancing act that I no longer want to entertain. It's a life that is finally being left- no bridges burned. It's an independence that I will finally claim. I will take my car. What a symbolic act. I will cook for my family the rosemary chicken recipe that I have recently perfected in my own home. What a symbolic act. Who knows where I'll end up but what is important is where I want to be now. This trip home is a last hurrah in which I will finally tip the scale into my own hands and place the weights into my backpack to carry with me where I want to go. What a symbolic act.

*the 8 hour flight home always makes me a little nostalgic and a little dramatic. do i still feel all of these things? well see.*