The truth is,

You're not something I need.
You're not something I want.
You're not something I miss.

One of these statements is a lie.


I'm working on it...

In the meantime, there's something powerfully therapeutic about ripping apart once beautiful dresses that never fit you right and sewing them back together until you would think it was only ever created with you in mind.

I'd like to take credit and say I'm a masterful seamstress but that would probably be a load of crap.

I can only attribute my successes to the fact that I know what all the rules are and I know exactly how to bend and break them to my good favor.

I used to work in television but being beautiful professionally was too hard.
I wait until no one is looking. Until there are no witnesses, no photos, no documented proof that I could be every bit as graceful as Audrey Hepburn, and then I let go.

I dance like no one's watching, sing like I'm the opening act for the Superbowl half-time, cook like I'm better than the perfect integration of wholesome Donna Reed and powerful Martha Stewart.
I spend all day speaking simple language, trying to mask my thoughts, my daydreams, my aspirations.

I go to work, spend the day pushing my glasses up my nose and coming up with ridiculous analogies as to why you CAN'T just shove a knife into the cd drive slot of your laptop (seriously???) and all my customers laugh and ask me how long it took me to memorize the training manual's many informative analogies because I had it perfected. I always feel slightly ashamed and a tiny bit proud when I tell them I came up with all those silly stories on my own.

Someone asked me on the phone yesterday how I even thought to come up with these stories and I told him simply "In high school, there were some tough guys who didn't understand poetry. My English teacher asked me to help them and somehow I was able to relate John Donne to an intake manifold and they all passed the class." I'm sure my English teacher had no idea what kind of impact he would come to have on my life.

It seems of all my teachers, the ones I had for English have left the deepest impacts in my daily life. Larry was probably by far, my favorite. He was my English 102 professor. I used to bring my poetry and song lyrics to him after class and he would always ask me "what do you plan to do with this?"

Writing for the sake of writing leaves no goal to accomplish and therefore gives you nothing to focus on or rate your level of success.
My purpose for this blog is to see if anyone hears me without my having to make noise.
But more than that, I have a blog for my personal bullshit. I have a blog for my silly anecdotes to entertain my friends. I have a blog that I can visit when I just need to escape.
But at the end of the day, there's still sometimes a bit leftover that doesn't fit into any of the rest.

A jaded dreamer, too stubborn to give up but too weak to keep caring. I am tied to my dreams as much as I am to my faith in people. I want to give up. I want to walk away. Lately, I've even wanted to walk away from God. I've come to understand all too well what some of my friends consider "those Christian people" to be. I've had enough of the condescending "I'm praying for you" form strangers who don't know me or anything about me, I'm done with the "It's all in God's time" cookie fortune and I'm done believing in things that I will likely never see.

Which is not to say I am unappreciative of love or happiness. Heaven knows I'm just about the most hopeless romantic that ever existed. But in the midst of it all, I've surrendered the fantasy that someone will fall madly in love with me, tell me they can't live without me in their life, get down on one knee and ask me to give them a chance to love me for the rest of my life.
I will probably come to own a lot of cats in my life.
And maybe I was only ever meant to write about love, not dwell in it myself.

I suppose I could handle that.... with some degree of annoyance. lol

I'm incapable of surviving on little girl dreams anymore.
I want something real and something lasting or I want nothing at all.
And who knows, maybe I'll meet someone in six months and have to eat crow on this post. But if happiness is punishment that's quite alright with me.

In the meantime, I sew beautiful dresses to dance in while I cook dinner for one and hope that someday it will matter.

My heart is a garden of beauty and secrets.
The problem lies in convincing you a dandelion is not a weed.