you make me sick.

Job-hunting required something of a blog hiatus. Of all things, frankly, I was sick of talking about my damn self. I am boring, really, and it's pretty hard to walk around in put-together outfits and try and tell everyone how WONDERFUL! YOU! ARE! When you are in the throws of job hunting, you can't see further than the interviewer in front of you. Sitting in front of a mirror. So you can see yourself, too.

And then realize that there's this thing on the internet where you used to brain dump anecdotes that fell from the 'tell your boyfriend' list, weren't exactly appropriate for the 'tell your mother list' and really, it's just better to not put them on the 'tell your friends' list because telling the same story leads to confusing who you told it to, so you tell everyone a few times until collective groans mark your exit.

And then you remember that you have a life. A life that fell by the wayside completely while you were trying to look around interviewer's office for conversation starters once your pre-memorized question reel was through.

And yeah, some real life things fell by the wayside. I forgot a dear friend's birthday who sort of lives for birthdays. I sent my own mother's birthday card late. I still have yet to send my newborn baby second cousin a card and a present. Or, perhaps, acknowledge that my cousin was ever, in fact, pregnant. I still have yet to write an important thank you note. I still have yet to make headway in the 45 craft projects I am dabbling in. I still have yet to clean my bathtub with baking soda and a grapefruit. I still have yet to donate half my wardrobe that is stuck in my inner-15-year-old, outer-25-year-old questionable taste.

And really, the only reason I have a blog is to have ONE, UNEDITED space in the world where I control the content, and that content is me. And for a while, that content was: whine, whine, whine, (sniffle, woe is me!), whine, whine, (CRUNCH, mmmmm cookie!) whine, whine.

And that gets old. Hell, I was sick of me.

I still am a little.

I hate to think that for a while I was an EVEN GREATER self-fulfilling prophecy of the urban twenty-something than I normally am. She who can't talk about anything but herself. Her troubles. Her relationship. Her pants. Her hair. Her bruise from just trying to give her damn blood away. I wasn't even talking about myself in my usual "dudes, I am a geek and here's why. Now LEARN before anyone else catches you acting a fool like me. I only get away with it because after this geeky thing happened, I tripped over someone's front stoop and skinned my knee and then mumbled something about 'finding ten dollars' and then everyone forgot.

Seriously. Being self-involved could not be more boring. From now on, it's only moderately self-involved for me. Now with more charity. For the children!

boring, boring, depressed, boring.

General glum-i-tude has taken over from crying and swearing repeatedly.

Since my poor mom heard me say the F-word while sobbing, she's had to have been held back to not drive down here, slap some people around, fetch me and bring me home to eat her Italian mama diet of comfort food to pad the ego and the ass.

I almost wanted her to. I almost wanted to give the world the finger and go be taken care of immediately, but I suppose that's adulthood. Adulthood minus the fact that you might have to borrow money from your parents if your sorry depressed ass can't (or won't) find a job.

In all seriousness, if I could sit on the couch in ill-fitting sweatpants until October, I would.

Which is pathetic and stupid, because I have a pretty good shot at getting a new job at my workplace I think, and I have heard people say nice things about me. I have people high and low sending me jobs, being encouraging, and generally helping me land on my feet. There are jobs for me I could find.

Everyone is hugging, emailing, texting, calling and preventing me from being a slug in ill-fitting sweat pants.

And I'm grateful for them.

But a small, nagging part of me just wants to see me fail.

Part of me wants to get hit by a bus, so I had an excuse to just lay in a bed somewhere. You know, I don't have a woe-is-me-death wish or anything, I just sort of morbidly daydream about some minor broken bones and my jaw wired shut so in 3 months I could emerge shiny and new. Skinny. Ready.

Not this.

So that small, nagging, bullshit part of me is fleeing to the beach to crash my parent's vacation for a few days. To clear my dramatic bullshit head and have it patted by my mom and dad because I can't handle things here myself.

And get a little tanner, since my OWN vacation lo these TWO WEEKS AGO.

I just need to get away from the drama that keeps us glued to coming to work and talking with each other like we were prisoners of war. So I stop beating down on my nice boyfriend because he won't give me enough pity (every hour on the hour, if you please, and louder, with more head patting). So I stop putting off working on my resume. So I stop ruining my own fun.

So my mother can fix me a plate and lie and say I look skinny and good. And my dad can just be adorably geeky and I'll feel like he needs me to survive a bit better because I am the oldest kid and he finally sees me as something of an adult so don't whine, and moan and be dramatic when you could be, you know, DOING SOMETHING?

Because if it were up to me, sitting here right now, I might not.