No. Actually, I'm Not Done Yet.

when i am done ranting and raving about the UNGODLY amount/mass of frustration that's lodged in my chest, choking me, impeding my breathing, and making me hurt, when i am GOOD and DONE, i will tell you. i'll hit you up. the pager will beep. your cell phone will ring its special $2.99 "candyshop" ringtone. your computer will tell you "you've got mail." etc.

every time i want to continue my project, i suddenly am thrust into the middle of a big, big, big ass problem. this problem is so ass big, you would need an acre of panties to cover it.

the problem: i am so tired of picking up after other sloppy people. i am so sick of finding mistakes that other people make and politely reminding them, "hey, um, hey... that's not how you spell 'misogyny'." (of course, nothing i work on here is interesting enough to involve the word misogyny. this is harcourt, texas, where men are men, women are women, and everyone is STONE DUMB AND ASS UGLY!!!)

but yes. i am not perfect, i make my own mistakes. i'm trying to figure out my own life. and when i can't even manage to do that because i'm too busy killing myself at a job where people can make all the mistakes they want because "we'll send it to the proofing pool after you're done," well, its a little frustrating.

its really, motherfucking, frustrating.

i'm frustrated.

i want to sleep for a week. the only time i'm happy is from fifteen minutes before i go to the gym or yoga studio until i go to bed four hours later. daily physical activity is most of what's keeping me tethered.

i'm sure that all this too shall pass.

i want to go home.