flailing & failing

I can't write your letter. My thoughts have been translated into full and well structured sentences in my head. But now, I can't write your letter. The uncertainty of it all is holding me back. Maybe it just means that I'm not ready. Not ready, that should be the title of the book I'll write about us one day. Not ready to let go in every sense.
Why can't I just write to you like I used to - why are things so different now?

I feel like my heart is in a vise-grip and the more I try and put the pen to paper the tighter my heart is squeezed.

I know what it must seem like, probably even more so now after reading this mess. The truth is, my struggle lies more in who your letter is from - as in which part of us (part of me) wins and gets to hold the pen.

thoughts over laundry

I woke up at 6 this morning as the lingering smell of someones Eggo Waffle wafted into my bedroom. It was a pleasant way to wake up but I had to override the urge to get up and tucked myself back into bed with the promise of a later morning trip to Cartola. Cartola, the pretty little gem of a coffee shop that is tucked around the corner from my house, is a new favorite of mine. The coffee is respectfully crafted and the space begs for you to sit down and create.*

* I didn't finish this blog and now two days have passed

So here I sit at the E-mat. It certainly does not possess the same allure that Cartola has, but I guess when your purpose is laundry its really not all that important. Why do things take 5 million hours to download? Are free movies, songs, shows, etc. really worth the cost of time they take to procure? I find myself growing impatient and opting to throw money at iTunes so I can indulge in my escapism that much sooner.
I've noticed that when it comes to taking care of the things I need to do for myself my sense of urgency is becoming increasingly depleted. There really is no good explanation for why, I just think I have a lackadaisical state of mind.

I'm off to go fold clothes.

one girls heartache is anothers mend

I'd like to think of myself as a giving person. The kind of girl who is there for you whether you're in need or not, just someone you can count on to do the right thing socially and morally - and often times its to my own detriment. There are certain things however, that I have difficulties with and yesterday I had to jump the hurdle of one of those things.
The plan to move my cat Max to Arizona with my mother and his other kitty buds has been set now for a couple of months. Max is the kind of (man) cat who will love you with all 22lbs of his being - when he feels you have earned it. He's not a mean cat, but if you are a stranger, don't expect him to greet you with loving meows or his ever famous love nibbles.
Though I was sad that Max was now going to be my long distance lover, a circumstance that I have grown a kin to, my heart was eased knowing that he was going to be with my mom and there anytime I made the jaunt down. All of that changed however when my mom told me that Max had captured the heart of someone in need.
A long time friend in my mothers circle, whom I have actually never met, has recently found the strength to save herself and her son from an abusive marriage. This friend, who's privacy I will respect, fell in love with Max upon meeting him and he uncharacteristically jumped in her lap and bestowed upon her lavish kisses and conversations. According to my mother, Max continued to express his love for this woman for her entire visit. Coincidentally, she had been thinking that her small family would benefit from having something to love to help them move on from their painful past.
I believe that Max must of seen that this lady needed to be loved as much as she needed to love something and that is why I agreed to her taking Max home.
In case I didn't make it clear in the beginning, Max is one of those things that I am completely selfish about - and anyone who knows me can confirm. I've made nighttime guests scoot out of the way for him so he has a spot on the bed, I'm very particular about the way he is talked to - I don't take kindly to constant comments on his weight and so on. Max is my little man, the one who could and literally would spoon me at night. He was more than just a cat to me, he was my family, and now he will be more than just a cat to a woman and her son, he will help them heal.

Tuesdays with Whories

Its becoming an unfortunate norm when I sit down to write a blog to want to start off with an acknowledgment to the amount of time that has gone by since the last one was written. Partly do to the fact I have yet to get Internet at the new place, but mostly because I've been writing in my journal more. It feels better to wake up in the morning make coffee and then go sit on the back patio and put pen to paper. Anyway.
So the new place is wonderful. Things are coming together and my first non-boyfriend roommate situation feels like the right fit. This is the first time that I have lived somewhere and not been in school, and its as if I have discovered a whole new way of living.
Things I have learned:
1. the dining room table is not actually a desk
2. doing laundry once a week is not only feasible, but a must
3. when you make dinner and have left overs, you should eat them
4. composting smells
5. if you make your bed in the morning, you feel better during the day
6. and most importantly thanks to a few good people I've learned how to make french pressed coffee... i know, i know, a small but life changing lesson.
The girls and I are doing laundry and the E-mat and its quite the experience. There is a small group of trannies in laundry day attire, some sans panties, draping their clothes over one another exchanging "no girl you look fierce in this one." I've seen and heard too much for a Tuesday morning.
Oh life, how quickly you can turn from melancholic to sweet - just don't turn back on me anytime soon.