a thing called luck

Let me dust these keys off for a second... ::dust dust:: ... okay, good to go.  I actually wrote a blog last week while I was on vacation.  I was laying out in the BRILLIANT March sunlight, soaking up some cancer rays, and had this somewhat deep blog written about the trees and reminiscing on things and "oh, wouldn't it be lovely" thoughts.  Then I forgot to post it.  Aaaaaand then I just re-read it... only to say "ew, fuck it."  So I'll write another one instead.  This one showing that I am still moving forward with my 26 Golden Things and not letting them fall by the wayside.  Two of the events even come with fancy pictures!

So... luck.  We define it as a force that seems to operate for good or ill in a person's life, as in shaping circumstances, events, or opportunities.  Certain religions may refer to it as karma.  Smart-ass business men refer to it as the intersection of preparedness and opportunity.  Pfft.  I'll stick with the original.  I think luck comes down to right attitude+right place+right time = amazing new options in life.  Here are three more action items from my list of 26 Golden Things for my golden year.

#4 - Relive Childhood; sledding at night.
#5 - Take a Chance; giving your number to a complete stranger.

#6 - Model; get paid for it.

What's that saying about March... in like a lion, out like a lamb?  Usually that is one of those "oh, not in Wisconsin" things but this year it rings true.  March started with a poop-show of a snowstorm that dumped a fair amount of inches on us, and by the middle of the month it was 80 degrees and sunny.  The weather is kind of leveling out as I write this but the sentiment still rings true.  The night of March 2nd, @caitcd posted a status on Facebook wondering if anyone would like to partake in a sledding adventure.  Being the year of new experiences (and an unwillingness to say "no" to many many things,) I decided to join her.

It actually wasn't cold at all outside, come to think of it.  I was sweating my ass off by the time we started our jaunt down the hills of Reid Golf Course.  Since I am making a special little video that I will showcase at the end of the year, it is my sole duty to record my life and the day-to-day events that occupy it.  For the most part they aren't very good video clips but this was a rare exception.  When Reid ended up kinda sucking (the snow was so wet that it was just mush (too mushy in fact to gain any speed in our tubes)) we headed over to the Banta Bowl.  After a couple grueling hikes up a hill, sledding down and frolicking in the snow, I decided to record my final trip for the night.

Well it didn't go exactly as... planned.  I recorded @caitcd going down first, then plopped my fat (pre-shakeweight) ass down and started scooching (technical term) forward.  If anyone ever wants to come to my house to watch the video, you are more than welcome.



At first you can hear me saying "ohhhh god, ohhhh god," and then you can tell I am rocketing down the hill.  Then my joyful shout turns into a blood curdling scream as I hit a JUMP at the bottom of the hill.  The camera, having been very steady up to the point, happened to aim itself at the streets lights; it is at that point the world goes careening and spinning wildly around as I jack-knife in a tumble across the snowy landscape.  The video ends with @caitcd screaming in laughter.  Still, it was a good night!




Okay, got that one out of the way so now we move on to the more exciting of the Golden Things, that being giving my number out to a total stranger.  I'd like to preface this with a very quick history: I had seen him a year earlier at a restaurant and thought of him often.

Told you it'd be quick.

We flash forward a couple days to March 3rd, a whole day later!  I am out on the town with @klreynol and @caitcd for the latter's brother's birthday, when the latter's brother's girlfriend's friend's (following me?) from work show up.  One happens to be said cute guy from the restaurant a year earlier.  So we start making flirty-eyes (coined phrase, natch) through the night and eventually the group moves on to another bar (sans cute guy.)  At the end of the evening I was walking back to the car with @klreynol and decided to see if said cute guy was still in the original bar, and indeed, he was.

With the prodding of my bestie I went inside and we ordered drinks.  I wrote my name and number on receipt tape.  Plan firmly in place, things are feeling good; I'm also terrified, having never given my number out to anyone EVER.  Well... save for a waiter at The Olive Garden when I was 17 but that so totally does NOT count.  That dude never called, by the way.  So... whatever.  Anyway, feeling good, looking good, and then @klreynol points out that cute guy is getting ready to leave.

I don't know how to explain the surge of adrenaline that rushes through you when you decide to let go of the past and barrel forward into the future.  To release a childish inhibition and throw caution to the wind, knowing that the action you are about to take is solely for your own peace of mind and no one else's.  It was the one year anniversary of breaking up with the dreaded ex; time to make a change.  I marched right up to him, looked him in the eye (he was surprised,) grabbed his wrist and placed my number in the palm of his hand.  And then I bolted... and he didn't let go of my hand so I kind of tore it away and shot for the exit.  I never said I had a good follow-through.

Needless to say he texted me, and we went out.  And have gone out a couple times since.  And that's where I end that bit, and it is for two reasons; Reason 1.) I don't want to jinx it.  Reason 2.) Maybe some things are better left unsaid... doing so leaves them in a special place and provides a sense of privacy I tend to abandon in these blogs.  Mooooooving on.

St. Patrick's Day.  I'm Irish, I love being Irish, and I suppose it is the... shall we say luck of the Irish... that I found myself at a photo shoot for the green holiday this year.  @MarkStyleMe and I were going to be spending the holiday weekend together this year, as I had it off from work and he did as well.  We have a rather colored history with this specific day of the year, one of which involved running up and down College Avenue, holding fairly mean conversations with overly-drunk women that didn't realize it and me getting dollar bills stuffed down my green polo shirt.  True story.

@MarkStyleMe works with David E. Jackson, a photographer from the area, as a stylist for some of his photo shoots and was in contact with him in regards to a lighting seminar he was holding.  The purpose of the seminar was to teach photographers from all over the country some tips and tricks in regards to lighting your pictures with light boxes, light umbrellas, natural light, etc., and he needed a few models for it.  Enter my 6'4" frame and smiling face (which David said looked like Matt Damon's (#winning.)  There were four models all together (@MarkStyleMe and myself included) and we quickly broke off into groups of photographers.  Truth be told I was incredibly nervous.  I've been in plenty of pictures and I've taken plenty of pictures, so you'd think that the natural progression of that would be that I would know exactly what to do in this scenario.

I didn't.  Enter David E. Jackson.

He came to our group first and just grabbed the reigns, arranging the lights and arranging me.  Tilt your head; tilt a little more; squint a little; squint a little more; do something with your hands; keep them moving; lean forward; squint some more; give me a smirk.  With the easiest of directions it just... fell into place.  I guess I fell into place, and then fell into a pace as well.  What started as unease turned into extreme comfort and then it became sort of a defining moment.

I have never WANTED to be a model.  It's too easy for me to cast that aside in terms of "You know you're too tall, you know you don't have a six-pack, you know your jaw isn't that amazing."  But if it was only for a day to feel special, and to feel like I was important... it was worth it.  I doubt I'll ever forget how it felt to have cars slow down to watch what was happening.  And probably to wonder who the fuck I was.  I haven't gotten any pictures back from the other photographers save for one taken by the wonderful Sarah Laux from La Bella Vie Photography in Milwaukee.

Update: Here are two of the pictures taken by David E. Jackson.

Taking my new found "skills" in how to pose for pictures, I took a couple of my own this past weekend.  Technically they are just for my "Dicking with Photoshop" album on the good 'ol Facebook, but they were also to see if I could continue to elevate my self-portrait skills.  Maybe eventually I will move on to other living creatures... aside from my cats. Sad life, wa-waaa-waaaaaaa.

Well that's all of the self-promoting I've got in me for the evening.  And that rounds out three more new and exciting things I have done this year.  The first had to do with shaping circumstances (a crazy snow-storm.)  The second dealt with a shaping event (running into a guy I've thought of over the last year and in the least likely place.) The third had to do with a shaping opportunity (photo shoot run by a commercial photographer.)  Wait a minute, I just outline the definition of LUCK!  Look at me bringin' this bitch full cirlce, hey-o!  Let's recap what we have all learned tonight through my three latest Golden Things, shall we?

#4 - Relive Childhood; a wonderful night of sledding in the dark with @caitcd.

#5 - Take a Chance; gave my number for the first time ever to a really hot guy in what could only be described as a serendipitous encounter.

#6 - Model; for the first time, maybe the last time (NOT IF I CAN HELP IT!) and collect a happy 'lil check at the end.

I hope you all enjoyed this... at least more than I enjoyed writing it.  Sometimes I start these little fuckers and lose steam half way through.  It doesn't help that I've been awake since 5:15 this morning and it is now creeping past 10:44.  I know, boo-hoo, but whatever.  Have a great night (c:

the things we aren't

Well, here we are!  Nearly half way (by means of being only a third) into March and I'm still in the same spot I thought I'd be.  Which is to say... nothing.  I don't have anywhere to go with that sentence.  Clever me!  This is one of those instances where I am writing just to write, and not necessarily to promote some profound idea I've had or anything of the sort.  I've had a lot on my mind the past couple days and I am starting to drive myself a little bit crazy, so I think an outlet of words is a healthy option for now.

Lately I've been thinking about how fake people can be.  By people I obviously mean myself, but in this instance I do casually refer to the general populous at large.  I don't mean fake in the terms of "Hey, you phony bitch, why did you lie to me?"  I mean fake more along the lines of the facades we put up on a day to day basis in view of the general public and, in some cases, in view of those we hold closest to us.  I think our lives fill up with all of the things we aren't instead of the things we really are, and I don't know how to curb that.  If anyone does, please, come forward... but I don't think that will happen.  I don't think anyone can ever truly be themselves around anyone BUT themselves.  Could be wrong on that, but again, I don't believe I am.

So, the general public and those we hold closest to us.  Let's call them the GP and the HC from here on out.  I deal with the GP 40 hours a week because it is my job to do so.  As the assistant manager at a retail store that begins with an E and ends with ESS (left out that tell-tale syllable just in case I needed to.  It has an X.  Shit.) it is my job to deal with random people every day.  For the most part my customers are pleasant.  Sometimes they are downright fun.  A lot of other times they are the biggest group of dumb fucks I have ever encountered, but I digress.

Now, you might be able to find three of them that know my name.  You might be able to find one (one) of the regulars who would remember some tiny, insignificant detail about me.  Where I am going on vacation.  Where I live.  What my opinion on the slow mall traffic and construction on Oneida Street is.  The sad part of that is I could name a couple dozen of our customers, what they or their spouses do for a living.  Where they are taking/have taken vacation(s).  Kids names.  Pets names.  Thoughts on said construction and mall traffic.  Logic tells me that if a customer is always right and the customers pay my salary, then I am indeed employed by the GP and not a global corporation.

To me what is sad about that scenario is that I take time on a daily basis to get to know people and figure them out and they could really just give two flying fucks to the wind about what I think.  Who I am.  Because to them, I am merely the person who swipes a credit card or explains why you can't wear certain tops with certain bottoms or suede boots underneath dress pants.  To the GP I am a nameless face that doesn't really exist and I suppose that is alright because at the end of the day, none of them REALLY matter to me either.  They exist in their own worlds and I in mine and that is the natural order of things.  Maybe they don't get to see the real me because I can't say the things I would say to my family or closest friends.  Doing so would either get me fired or scare the conservatives away.

An Ideal Transaction That Will Never Happen At Work:

Sean stood at the cash-wrap, his head down as he pierced the fabric of the blue button down with a sensor pin and lined it up with the gator tag's hole.  With a firm push and a simple snap! the garment was secured and ready to be placed on the floor.  He looked up as a customer approached, one he knew from frequent visits to the store.

"Hey Jessica!" He called, pushing the garment away and reaching over the counter for the items she had brought up.

"Hey Sean!"

"Find everything alright today?" he asked, expertly removing the sensors on her clothing and starting a transaction.  She nodded enthusiastically.

"I did, yes.  Thank you."

"No problem.  How was your weekend?  Do anything exciting?"  She sort of shrugged her shoulders and leaned against the counter, absentmindedly rummaging through her purse for a coupon she had thought to bring.

"Not really, just stayed at home with Rick and the kids.  What about you?  Anything fantastic happen?"  Sean felt the blush on his cheeks for a brief instant as he scanned her merchandise and started sliding it into a bag.  He briefly looked at her and grinned before accepting her coupon.

"Well... I had a date Friday night."  Jessica reared back in surprise, giving him a double take.

"You did?"

"Yes, with the most amazing guy.  It was perfect."

"Did you get a goodnight kiss?"

"$47.98 is your total," he mumbled before adding, "and yes, I did.  That was perfect as well."

"Good for you!" Jessica exclaimed, swiping her credit card and finishing the transaction.  As she took her bag and turned to leave she glanced over her shoulder.  "Really, good for you," she said sincerely, "I hope it works out."

The truth of the matter behind my facade with the GP is that I am a very private person that hardly ever speaks about himself.  The answers I provide to their questions, when directed to me as a person and not me as a sales person, are generic.  They are dry.  "What do I think of the weather?  I think it's great and what a shame I'm stuck in here all day, haha!"  "Do I have any vacations of my own coming up?  Maybe something at the end of the year but who knows, I might not be able to get off work!  Haha!"  Never forget that the person helping you at a clothing store is 99% the fakest person you will encounter that day, mostly because they aren't there to share life stories.  They are there to sell a product and not give you clues as to how to find them outside of the store when they have punched out for the day.  A blank slate you project yourself upon.

Now in reality that conversation above would never, ever, in a million years happen.  Not to say Jessica is or is not real, because she very well could be.  And not to say Sean did or did not go on a date last Friday night... because he very well may have.  Ahem.  On to the HC's.

I think I have a multiple personality disorder.  And in the history of not deleting anything I type out (save for spelling corrections, natch) I would very much like to go back right now and delete that.  It's more fun to explain it though.  I don't have MPD in the sense of voices in my head telling me what to do, etc.  I mean it in regards to how I change myself to bend to the wills of the people around me.  We all do it, don't lie.  This isn't something that is limited to friends though, or even family alone.  It is everyone we hold (I hold) closest.  You can act a certain way around different people in order to make them happy and/or comfortable, right?  Same thing.

I like to categorize mine.  They are as follows:

The Writer:  Reserved most often for people I haven't seen since high school or others that mean just as little but whose opinions I would like to sway for fear they will bring me up to others.  The Writer emerges as a self-promoting genius who uses big words and often resorts to the "Oh, you didn't know that?" tactic.  As I said, reserved for people I could give a shit about.

The Comedian:  Most often in play, the comedian is who I try to be as a default.  Doesn't always work, but when it does, it really does.  Enjoys making people laugh, enjoys telling stories in a way that are enthralling even if the actual event was far from it.  Takes a cue from self-proclaimed gifts of "The Writer" (or the musings of a self-proclaimed author... bang.)

Mr. Incredible:  Dates only.  Usually Mr. Incredible only lasts a couple dates because of two reasons.  1.) It is very difficult to be continuously witty and cute at the same time while commanding attention and leading the conversation in a way that is both charming and influential all at once.  2.) It isn't who I REALLY am, and eventually everyone realizes that.  You can't be incredible 24/7.

The Whiner:  Most often emerges around friends who also work retail, as the job forms a bond across all companies and all stories can be sympathized with.  Most experiences are shared in one capacity or another and sometimes a good hour-long bitching session is just what the doctor ordered.  Does whine about anything and everything else, though.  Not to be exclusive.

The Achiever:  Rears his head in conversations that have to do with goals and ideas, often over drinks.  Talks about and imagines a life that is greater, with more purpose.  What he would do if he could, what he will do when he can, etc.  Thinks he's deep when really he probably sounds like a big boob.

I'm sure there are other facades that exist within the lexicon of Sean Parker, but right now they aren't coming to me.  The whole point I am trying to make in this is why can't we ever just be ourselves like we want to be?  I suppose that is what true love is reserved for, to find someone who loves your flaws as much as your finer qualities and accepts them all the same.  In regards to earlier in this long blog post... I did go on a date.  And surprisingly, I'm not going to talk about it.  Some of you will be privy to the finer details but I think that this time, as opposed to all others, I am going to play the cards a little closer to my chest.

That being said, it's amazing how much you fear you showed the wrong face to someone you just met.  Maybe "Mr. Incredible" should have been "The Comedian."  Maybe "The Comedian" should have had more of "The Achiever," and less of "The Writer."  Who knows.  Well, scratch that.  I know.  I should have just been me, myself, and I; the pieces that I wake up with in the morning and go to bed alone with every night.  The foundations of my personality and the pieces that make me a whole.  It's easier said than done... maybe some of you know that.  In the end, it's all we've got.

I'm going to go to bed now because I have rambled on for a VERY sufficient amount of time.  Thanks for spending your night/morning/afternoon/break/whatever with me.  This is "The Whiner," signing off.

a full year stronger

So today is March 3rd, 2012; the one year anniversary of moving forward.  I would say the one year anniversary of being single but that wouldn't be correct, as I did have a short relationship in the fall.  So... one year of moving forward.  I didn't think I would have to write any more about Ken, re: the dreaded ex, and if this date had already passed then I wouldn't be.  However, this day had not yet passed and this is where I find myself.  It is the last milestone to overcome, if it hadn't already been, and it is met with a feeling of duty rather than a feeling of sadness.

The sadness would come for obvious reasons.  One year without a fiance, without a house I myself had found and was a vagina's hair away from owning, and without the pain of living a lie.  But instead it is that feeling of duty; I owe it to myself to write this, to purge the final emotions and/or thoughts I have of the collective memories Ken embodied.  No better way to do it than a blog, right?  Right.

Now, we all know how I am a fan of analogies.  It's just who I am; someone who thinks he is deeper than he really is and doesn't have a problem shaking a finger at that fact.  I would like to take this opportunity to liken the end of the relationship to that of a bomb.  Nuclear, atomic, concussive... whatever.  Well not really concussive because that would entail there was no fire and to say there was no fire would be to imply that no one got burnt.  And I burnt some bitches.  Just the charm of me being me (c:  Off we go.


flash [flash]
    noun
    1. a brief, sudden burst of bright light.


I think the flash happened a while before the actual break up but to be certain in that logic would be a mistake.  Ken had been flashing (other people, haha (I had to)) for a while before March 3rd.  Brief glimpses of the atomic fusion that was occuring at the core of "us."  I remember driving home from signing the paperwork for the loan a year ago today when the initial fight started.  We were in his car, he was driving.  The tension had been building over night because I was giving him the silent treatment for talking to that man-whore.  He just SNAPPED in the car and... well, you snap at me and I'll snap back, bigger and louder.  Again, it's the charm of being me.

The "flash," if you will, continued to us getting home, duking it out, and me going to work to cry in the back room with @markstyleme.  I was 45 minutes late that day... and it was pretty awful.  It was awful driving away from Ken, it was awful enduring work that day, and it was awful driving home.  Upon arriving home, things had mostly settled.  I think by that point the damage had been done by telling him I was breaking up with him (and then saying we'd work things out.)  Later Ken would tell me that when I said that, "something died inside."  Whatever; it had been dead.

The next morning was when I found out about more of his lies and I decided to stay with my parents for a few days.  I was gone for a total of five, during which we talked on Google Chat frequently and discussed the terms of dissolving our lives together.  Escaped from buying the house unscathed, luckily.  By the time I went back, the flash had vanished.  But it was replaced by the next stage of an explosion.


fireball [fahy-uhr-bawl]
    noun
    1. the highly luminous central portion of a nuclear explosion.
        - can temporarily or permanently blind persons looking
           directly into fireball.


I remember finding the information on Ken's phone the night I came home that proved he had already moved on with the cheap whore that I assumed he had.  Nothing can describe how it felt to see that.  I went downstairs (he was in the bathroom taking a shower) and I paced the living room.  And then I screamed.  I'm not a very loud person, most of you already know that.  My voice hardly, if ever, gets raised out of anger.  But it was a scream of such rage and anger and hatred and sadness and desperation and jealousy that I could feel it emptying from my feet and my hands.  I could feel it in my teeth and my eyes, and most of all I could feel it in my heart. (Oof, writing this I still get worked up.  I'm going to use my new Shakeweight for a moment, excuse me (little product placement.  Make the check payable to "Sean 'Fierce-Bitch' Parker."))

Walking, nay, marching, up the stairs when he got out of the shower was probably one of the proudest moments of my life.  It involved me telling him "I'm glad I broke up with your lying ass," and then taking the picture frame he had engraved for me on our 6 month anniversary and smashing it on the corner of the bathroom counter.  I threw the frame down and said "take it with you when you go," picture still inside and destroyed.  That would be my "Waiting to Exhale" moment, in hindsight.  I'll be Angela Basset.


shock wave [shok-weyv]
    noun
    1. a region of abrupt change of pressure and density moving as 
        a wave front at or above the velocity of sound, caused by 
        an intense explosion or supersonic flow over a body.


Less than a week later he moved out, the full repercussions of it finally hitting me.  I drove home from working in Green Bay that day to an empty house.  I think he knew he was pushing his time limit before I got home, because the kitchen table and chairs were mostly heaved to the side of the kitchen, the floor was wet and muddy from moving his fishtank, and the heat, while turned off, was still at a palpable 72 degrees.  The garage was empty of his things, save (honestly) for small bits of rubble, some of his paperwork, and some pens and small nick knacks.  It was unequivocally the collateral damage that one would expect.

It was a hard night knowing that it was over.  Knowing that even if I could fix it and get him to come back, it would never be the same.  I talk big now but at the time, I was nothing short of heartbroken.  You know you're in an abusive relationship when even having all signs point to doom, you still keep coming back for more.  But that wanting eventually hits a crescendo and that's when you know the shockwave has passed the external boundaries and vanquished on the horizon.


firestorm [fahy-uhr-stawrm]
    noun
    1. an atmospheric phenomenon, caused by a large fire, in which 
        the rising column of air above the fire draws in strong 
        winds often accompanied by rain.
    2. burns up all available oxygen.


The next couple weeks were pretty quiet and tame.  Frequent visits from friends to keep me company, the feeling of being cold all the way down to my core, and the visual companion of shedding weight like a fat kid on diet pills in a sauna.  But then there was the special day that I received an "anonymous" e-mail (truth be told, it was never anonymous.  I know who sent it and we are pretty good friends now.) that outlined all of Ken's trysts.  Until that point, which was about a month after the breakup, I had been very civil.  I hadn't been vindictive or conniving in any way, save for the thoughts I had in my own mind and spoke to no one but my closest friends.

I think to say the time of my anger and retribution was reaching a fever pitch would be an understatement.  I was ready to use my strongest weapon, my words, in a form I had never done.  A post of facebook that would throw him and his deeds into the public eye, where his friends and his family would see it.  It wasn't done solely for my own sake, but for the exes that came before me.  The ones that didn't get to have their stories told, the ones that were forced to look like the sole bad person of each failed relationship with him.  That wouldn't be me.

I tricked him into coming over that day, said I had mail for him (which I did,) and then I showed him all of the proof of his deeds that had been sent to me.  He tried to run away and I chased after him, jumping on his car and leaning through the window to make sure he heard what I had to say.  (Still playing the diva card, admittedly.)  After he left he asked me to delete his friends and coworkers, especially his family, before posting the note.  I declined and posted it anyway.  It felt good, truth be told.  I thought for a moment that I'd feel like a real shit for doing it but... nope!  So with all visual effects of the explosion having taken place, there was only one way to go and that was onward.


fallout [fawl-out]
    noun
    1. the settling to the ground of airborne particles ejected 
        into the atmosphere from the earth by explosions or 
        eruptions.
    2. an unexpected or incidental effect, outcome, result, or 
        product.


It took a few months.  I had to move home and understand my role in all of this in order to see any sort of light at the end of the tunnel.  There were a lot of bad days.  A couple good ones sprinkled in, but a lot of bad ones.  A lot of tears shed in my old bedroom at my parents house.  A lot of tears shed at my friends houses, in the backroom at work, in the bathroom at work.  Mostly on the drives home at night.  Every tear falling though is one less in the reservoir.  I feel we have a set amount we are going to cry over someone, or something, and eventually they do run out.  I didn't want to be told by anyone that someday it'd be better and that time heals all wounds.  You can only look back on things and say that.  Living in it, in the moment, you don't want to think it.

Your grief is your own and it is something you need to come to terms with on your own.  A relationship ending really is like a death, and you need to mourn it for as long as it takes.  Forcing it to move along, even telling yourself you need to move along, isn't doing anyone any favors.  And eventually that day came, in January.  And yes, I blogged about it.  The funny thing about it is that I look at that January blog post as the biggest purge; it felt good to get it out and it still feels good to have it out.  That's when you turn to the recovery effort after the fallout.


growth [grohth]
    noun
    1. development from a simpler to a more complex stage.


Here is where I find myself now.  Not bitter, not angry.  Mildly complacent would be the best adjective I can muster.  I wouldn't have thought I'd be here a year ago, but no one ever thinks they will end up where they eventually do.  Well... some people do but they are probably assholes.  To be honest I thought I'd still be reeling from this.  Charlotte on Sex and the City once said it took half as long as you were in relationship to be able to get over said relationship.  With that logic, I'd still be dealing with the grief until September.  I think the fact that I'm not is telling of how long we had stopped being "us" before we actually stopped being... us.  It'd been over for a long time and I can see that now.

So we do what we do and we pay for our sins (thank Tim McGraw,) but in the end we do move on.  I moved on.  I'm happy now, I feel good about myself now.  I'm making great strides in changing my life and I'm loving every second of it.  I don't know what else to say about growth.  It happens when you are ready and it happens faster than you'd expect.  Remember planting a seed in a little dixie cup of dirt when you were little?  You watered it every other day or so and set it in the sunlight on your windowsill, waiting for it to sprout?  Then one day you came home from school and it was half an inch tall?  I think it's a lot like that.

You wait and you wait, you achieve the required steps and you do what is expected of you to resume a normal life, and then one day you realize you've been growing and changing the entire time.  It just took a few extra hours at the tail end to see the progress.  I didn't want to post a song by Kelly Clarkson to commemorate this occasion so I'll post one instead by my new favorite artist, Graffit6 (Jamie Scott, yum.)  My favorite line in this song, which is about post-breakup, is "I'm gonna run like I'm 17 forever."  Time to lace up those shoes!  Have a great day everybody; I'm off to celebrate with my besties (c: