Way to go out with a bang!

I found out yesterday that:
1) I got into both schools that I applied to and I have to decide by tomorrow which one I want to go to.
2) I'm being recommended for early promotion.

It would happen that way, wouldn't it.

On top of all the mental churn going on in my head, the entire week so far has been bad. I had the worst day at work today - although I held up surprisingly well. I even managed to be a real bitch at a couple different points in the day. But as I headed out, I ran into my consultant. She said hi and ran over to give me a hug. She was being so nice (and no one had been nice to me all day) that I started to crack. As I was tearing up a little, the partner on my project suddenly shows up, right in time to catch me bawling. Perfect. We all sat down to "discuss" this matter and I had to recount my day. Now that was a mistake. Not only did it make me more upset to have to talk about it, but recounting your bad day always makes you feel like such a wimp because everything you say that seemed so terrible at the time suddenly seems so stupid. What I should've done was tell the partner that it was personal and kept walking. Analysts, however, are so pre-programmed to do whatever the partner says that I automatically began spouting. Not so smart.

He proposed a couple of solutions for me, consultant-style, none of which particularly helped. I hate it when people state the obvious to me. Does he really think I haven't already thought of that and tried it? Eventually, I just stopped objecting. Even partners boil down to being regular guys when it comes down to things. He kept looking at his fingernails everytime I teared up a little more, so I tried very hard to squash things out of consideration for him. And, like all regular guys, he kept trying to fix it for me. Offered to talk to this person or that person, and really - nothing he could do would've fixed it. In fact, all the things he suggested would've made things worse. Eventually, I realized that he wasn't going to let things go until he had a solution that he felt would work. So I just nodded and stopped talking. Why is it that guys always have to fix things? I wasn't upset due to a lack of solution. I was simply... upset.

This would happen to me, wouldn't it. I have minimal interaction with the partner on the firm, and he has to catch me crying. Way to make first impressions! When I give notice next week that I'm quitting, I know what they're going to think. "Yeah. She just couldn't hack it. She's not tough enough to handle this." It shouldn't bother me what my ex-coworkers will think, but it does. I don't want to leave as the loser. I want them to think "Man, I can't believe we're losing such a good analyst. Let's beg her to reconsider", to which I will respond "HELLLLLLLLL NO!!!"

It really irks me that I still cry due to being angry and frustrated. When I was little, I used to get so mad at my brother that I'd cry and yell at him at the same time. Obviously, I haven't progressed much since the age of 6. It was pure immaturity back then. It's PMS now. It irks me even more that it takes someone being nice to draw it out of me. People should be mean to me all the time when I'm having a bad day. I hate especially crying at work because I can't think of anything more stereotypically female.

Hormones are a bitch.

Goodnight sweetheart, it's time to go.

So it's over. My last weekend in New York with a mailing address. I moved out of my year in the city to the tune of $365 dollars and the foreman mover's digits (very Vin Diesel). How typical New York. I spent Saturday and Sunday night camping out in the floor of my empty room with only cyberspace and a brand new sleeping bag to comfort me. I was so excited about the sleeping bag when I first bought it that I crawled into it right when I got home and zippered up. I even pulled tight the bungee cord around the mummy hood and shuffled and hopped my way across the living room to show my roommate. I love sleeping bags. They make me happy =).

But even the sleeping bag wasn't enough to break the surrealness of the last few nights - the echoey barrenness of a room that used to be filled with things I loved, the darkness lit only by the occasional flashes of lightning outside and the glow of my laptop, the air conditioner humming noisily, and me - encased in my bright blue sleeping bag, propped on my elbows, face lit by the light of of the laptop screen, wondering what tomorrow is going to bring and yet knowing that it can only be the same as always - a flight to NC and the beginning of another work week.

This morning, I packed up the remains of my worldly possessions, took one last look around the room that held a year of my life, and left. The door slammed behind me, and although I could not hear it, I knew the sound would echo through the emptiness. I'm somehow leaving it exactly as it was when I came. Apartments and dormrooms have that feeling about them - that of transience, that of hardly restrained disbelief that so much change occurred in this room, and yet no mark is left behind of all the wonderful and terrible things that happened. It is but a silent bystander, a stoic unaffected witness to the trials and tribulations of the human lives lived within it. If rooms could talk, I bet they'd hold more widsom than the oldest sage.

I'm going to miss this place - with its half-packed boxes in the dim early morning light. Goodbye apartment. I loved you the 2 days a week I saw you.

I wonder if this is what homeless people feel like.

Part of me mocks myself even as I compare myself to New York's homeless. I have the homeless person's equivalent to a shopping cart in the form of my two duffel bags. But it's downright pathetic that I'm even comparing myself to the real homeless considering that I am spending a few weekends without my usual things but WITH a roof over my head, running water, a bed, and good friends. Despite this, it's bizarre the effect the rest of it has on your psyche. I can't help but wonder if the depression rates that exist within the homeless population can somehow be traced back to this lack or of material things to create even a makeshift home with. They are forever unwelcome guests in the outdoors living room of New York city, sleeping on couches of sidewalks.

I slept last night on the couch and woke up 4 hours later, wide awake. I washed up in the bathroom and looked at myself. I could feel it - the unmistakable feeling of sinking spirits and I couldn't understand why. I have places to crash for the next few weekends, but a few minutes later, I realized it was the lack of a root. Human beings are like plants. All the leaves in the world don't have any meaning if you have no root or dirt to call home. Somewhere to return to. Sleeping on the couch made me feel like a guest in my own apartment. And somewhere along the way, I had underestimated the value of material objects - these things that so easily decay and are lost. Without these material objects is when someone is homeless. I miss my books. The blanket my mom made me. The picture of my parents ballroom-dancing. The snapshot of my little brother leaning in to give me a smooch as I try to drink an oversized can of coke. I love that photo, especially as my little brother wouldn't be caught dead giving me a hug now - much less a smooch. I walked back through my empty bedroom on my way out of the bathroom, kicked around the dust and listened to my footsteps echo.

There's a feeling of being lost even as I tell myself sternly that I'm being silly - this is good for you, Nine, it will build character and toughen you up. There is absolutely no reason to indulge this urge of leaking a few tears - after all, it's not like my stuff isn't going to be there waiting for me in storage, one month from now.

Empty rooms.

I am spending my last Saturday night with a home sitting in that home, with National Geographic Ultimate Explorer: Jumbo Squid, banana creme pie, and a slice of pumpkin cheesecake. I'm surrounded by boxes and our living room is cluttered, but none of these boxes are mine.

I moved earlier this afternoon with the help of Joshua Moving, whose 25 year old foreman left his number on my receipt. It was odd having someone pack for me. It felt like my innards were being rifled through as they placed the components of my life into boxes. It almost felt violating. As they put my clothes in, and my photographs, and my books, it occurred to me that no one had ever touched these items really, except me. After all, these items were as representative of my personality as meeting me in person would be. If anything, these items were more indicative of my private life than meeting me would hint at as these are the things I like to do when I'm alone and no one is watching, these are the things I pick out to surround my home with, these are the things that are important to me. How many of my friends can really tell me what my hobbies are, what I do when I'm alone in my room, or who I have in my photographs? What I've kept for sentimental value and what I haven't? It was odd to realize that these movers had a somewhat passing, but more deeply penetrating look into my person than my friends had.

My life boiled down to eight unmarked boxes. I looked at those boxes and realized that my worldly possessions were in there and I was the only person who really valued these. Not even my dad could guess at what was in there, what I had held close to my heart and what I hadn't. My twenty years of existence, packaged into overpriced flimsy cardboard boxes. And all of a sudden I felt vulnerable. I realized how inconsequential I was, how fleeting my life is, how lightly I've skated over my time in the world. If I was to disappear tomorrow, these 8 boxes would be all that was left of my existence on earth. These 8 boxes would be all that would mark my presence, all that I would leave behind. And suddenly, these 8 boxes seemed trivial and cheap and simultaneously immensely important.

The State of America.

"You can't buy a baby in the United States," said Caplan. "... But you can buy the sperm, you can buy the egg and you can rent the uterus." -article

Terra Lycos said Thursday that the Bryant case is one of the most popular online search topics in its history. Only the September 11 attacks, the Iraq war and the 2000 presidential election have drawn more interest, the Internet network said. -article

"A late-night brawl last autumn between the three off-duty police officers and two citizens over a bag of fajitas led to a grand jury indictment of the officers, as well as of the police chief and top officials in his department on cover-up charges. District Attorney Terence Hallinan eventually dropped the charges against the top brass, and did the same Wednesday against the three officers, including Alex Fagan Jr., whose father is acting chief of the department." -article

"Prosecutors said the nuns, all closely aligned with the late peace activist Philip Berrigan, showed a blatant disregard for the law and that previous arrests had not deterred them. The nuns claim the Minuteman is a first-strike weapon prohibited by international law. A demonstration was planned Saturday at missile sites in Colorado, said Cynda Collins-Arsenault, a community organizer and member of Code Pink, a national women's organization that is active in the peace movement. 'Bush has said weapons of mass destruction are horrible and I agree,' she said. 'We haven't found any in Iraq, but we sure have lot of them here.'" -article

There's no one like you.

There are days when I don't know what I would do without music to help me get through it. Today was one of those days. I thanked my lucky stars that the woman I was dealing with was down in St. Petersburg, FL, because otherwise, I would've ripped her head off. As it was, I feared merely for those around me as I gnashed my teeth and tried very hard to be patient. She'd broken the data importer and I turned to my client lead to help me fix it. That led directly to a string of jokes that quite frankly, I wasn't in the mood for.

Him: "Nine! You broke the data importer!"
Me: "No I didn't."
Him: "Yes you did. This is all your fault!"
[heard from the next cube over: Mngr. Big Dawg]: "Nine, did you break the data importer?"
Me: Yes. Fire me.

I was serious. They laughed. I think Big Dawg knew though. He made a comment the other day at our morning meeting: "And Nine has been with the firm long enough to be jaded." It makes me worry about how clear my thoughts are to everyone. I've always had a hard time faking it. It's hard to be enthusiastic about something I don't believe in, but I like to think that I can at least hide my unhappiness if I can't express the RAH RAH! attitude. If I get into post-bacc programs, I will be giving notice in a week or two. I wonder how surprised people will be and how many saw it coming. I wonder how perceptive people have been or how poorly I've been able to hide my steadily decreasing opinion of the firm. I wonder how Big Dawg is going to take it. I'm willing to bet that he'll try and make me stay.

I talked to my HR rep the other week about how damaging it would be to my career if I asked to get rolled off this project in case I don't get into post-bacc programs. She spoke to Big Dawg and relayed back that it would be a serious "career limiting move" - aka a CLM. Despite Big Dawg's general torment of me, he seems to be awfully unwilling to replace me. It makes me want to laugh. There are hundreds of analysts out there, don't give me that crap about how I'm irreplaceable. The firm has this rule that no more than one partner can be on a flight at a time - in case the flight crashes. Meanwhile, about 20 other analysts and I are on the same flight weekly from New York to North Carolina. How's that for irreplaceable?

All in the Family.

Cousin Influx.

I never knew. Sometimes I wonder if the harsh constraints of math/science are what drive members of my family to spontaneous bursts of neo-creativity, like a pressure cooker that finally has to let off steam.

I'm going to miss my apartment. I realized today that though I only spend 2 days per week in it, I've grown to like this place. And last night was the next-to-last night I would ever sleep in it. Next saturday, I move out completely and start being a nomadic bum, sleeping on friend's couches for the weekends. I bought a salad at Hadleigh's yesterday for lunch, as I always do, and I felt a pang of nostalgia - even though I hadn't really left yet. I walked to the park and ate and felt another pang of nostalgia, even though I haven't really left yet. Within the next few weeks, I'll find out whether I'm leaving New York or not. Odds are, I'll be leaving. Every moment I spend in the city makes me hurt because I'm going to miss it so much. Every moment I spend in the city makes me bitter because my damn firm cheated me of living here. Every moment I spend in the city makes me resentful that life is so fucking inconvenient. That nothing -ever- works out the way I want it to. Why can't there be premed post-bacc programs in New York? Why does Columbia have to be so elitist? Why does NYU not have any advanced science courses offered in their evening classes?

I've decided.

No more of this wishy washy-ness. I'm applying to post-bacc programs for this fall so that I can improve my chances for getting into medical school. Yes, you heard right. Medical school. What is this, a new flavor of the week? I thought so too. Until I realized that I didn't have to make a "Why I Should Go to [fill in the blank] School" list to convince myself of what a good idea it was. Until I realized that I woke up everyday thinking about it and wondering how the hell I'm going to get there from here. Until I realized that more than anything else, this felt... right.

I worried vaguely about getting married. Med school girls have a tough time I heard. But then I thought, I don't have a boyfriend. I'm not even dating anyone. And I can't keep on making life-choices based on someone who doesn't even exist. And with that, I made up my mind.

My timing could not have been any more terrible. Most of the deadlines for post-bacc programs have passed. I also found (surprise surprise!) that I've been banned from the majority of the most prestigious premed programs. Why? Because I was lucky enough to be premed as an undergrad. The best premed programs in the country are reserved for liberal arts majors who've never taken a premed course ever. My question is, who's going to help the premed dropouts? I feel like the Little Match Girl who's standing outside in the cold looking in at the roaring fire. I'm not allowed in because hey! I have matches. Never mind that they're all wet and soggy. I tried to explain my situation to the woman at Columbia's Pre-Med program today.

"Yes, I've already done all the premed requirements. But that doesn't necessarily mean that I've done them -well-."

She wouldn't listen.

I've been banned from COlumbia effectively as I cannot get past the secretary anymore. In my righteousness, I wrote an email to the directory, explaining my situation, again. What's the recourse for the premed dropout? How is our ambition to go to med school any cheaper or less genuine than that of the liberal arts student? What are we to do? I don't want to actually -be- in the program if I can't be in it, but if I'm willing to pay for the credits, can I take some of the advanced science courses that are offered as an outside student?

The response:
Columbia's program is not a remedial program.

I'm remedial!!!!!

There are a few programs that I found for the pre-med failure. UPenn in Philadelphia, CUNY in New York, and Boston U. Oh the dilemma. I love New York. I love it to bits. But it hardly seems smart to jeopardize the chances of my future admission chances for the sake of having a social life. And let's face it, CUNY doesn't quite pack the same punch as UPenn. UPenn means I'd have to live at home again. UPenn means I'd give up New York for Philadelphia. UPenn means 5 essays due by this Friday. Good God.

Writing is literally like squeezing a poo out of your butt. I managed to squeeze out the sole good one today. The two from previous days are not so hot. I guess I'm getting better with practice. STRAIN NINE, STRAIN!! Luckily for me, the one good essay is the one explaining my grades. The other two are complete shit. I re-read them and I want to bang my head against the wall. What is this crap that is spewing from my mouth? The ideas aren't clear, the sentences don't flow, and the weave is all wrong. It's so far from what's right, there are so many things that are wrong with them that I can't even see clearly what needs to be fixed.

One of the questions I have remaining to answer is: what do you do in your free time?

What am I supposed to write for that? I drink? I party? I kiss random boys in bars sometimes if I'm bored? Or, perhaps more accurately, I should answer, "I do not have free time as I am always traveling for my fucking firm." No bitterness here, really. I'm tempted to answer with a simple bullet point list.

1. I read science fiction and fantasy.
2. I write neurotically about my life.
3. I compose 5 essays about my career path to medicine for fun.

I hate writing essays. I've never been very good at them, thus explaining my consistently terrible grades in English classes. I'm forced to write in complete sentences and avoid the passive voice. It makes my writing all warped and twisted and gross. I hate it. Besides, I can never write a good "Why do you want to attend this program/school/college" essay. Those especially always come out warped and twisted. Largely because I can't help but feel like a huge cliche no matter what I write for that topic. Humanitarian blah blah, and community service blah blah, and science research blah blah.

Blah blah.

Maybe this is why guys and girls don't understand each other. We speak entirely different languages.

Last New Year's when both Alien and Nine are wasted.
"I don't think this is a good idea Nine. I'm really wasted, and you're really wasted, and I take these things pretty seriously. I don't think we should do this."
I must be the only drunk girl on the face of this planet who has to practically lay out a court case as to -why- a drunk guy should kiss me. It's a New Year's Kiss!!!

Heard from Alien yesterday during moving:
"Wow. I can't believe we've known each other what... 5 years now?"
"I think you're cuter now than you were in college."
"I really prefer tall girls."
Promising...
"I like tall girls because I want my son to be taller than me. I can't have him be short."
Wait a second, what is this, a breeding program?
"I think I understand girls. You have to keep them guessing."
Good God, he could not be more wrong.

Heard from Alien last night while he was wasted:
"Let's toast Nine. To the girls who everyone thinks I'm dating but I'm not."
Way to scream platonic.
"What do you think of that guy who was hitting on you? Do you want me to kick his ass? Would you hook up with him?"
"You're the perfect height for me."
Wow. I'm scoring without even having to try.
"So... I've been regularly hooking up with your friend W. For some reason, I hook up with her a lot when I'm drunk."
... WONDERFUL. W. gets kisses but I get lectures on the inappropriateness of casual kissing.

He then proceeded to walk me back to my place and spend the night puking in my bathroom. I give up. I refuse to play this stupid game any longer.

The unexpected is usually crushing, but sometimes, just sometimes - it lifts you up.

Alien and I have quite a history. He had a terrible crush on me during sophomore year of college, and I promptly crushed his heart terribly and somewhat inadvertently. At the tender respective ages of 19 and 17, he was the not-so-smooth boy who tried to pet the cat with a sledgehammer, and I was the skittish cat who went ROWR! in response. In hindsight, if he'd played his cards right and waited a little longer, things may have worked out between us. But as it was, he didn't speak to me for the rest of either of our college careers and I carried the burden of guilt.

Things between us haven't ever quite been the same since. Polite, but distant.

This week, I'm moving. Partially, at least. I'd been stressed out all week between making life-changing choices and trying to get my lease straightened out. I packed up the stuff I wouldn't need and called up rental car agencies to drive my stuff to storage. Would you believe that there was no car available in all of Manhattan? I instant messaged Alien to tell him I wouldn't be able to meet up for coffee anymore since I had to move and I couldn't find a car. He sounded surprised. "I have a car, Nine." I sat there stunned. And then he asked if I needed help moving. I couldn't believe it. I'd been begging co-worker and male friends all week to help me move, and couldn't find anyone. And in one fell swoop, suddenly I had a car AND a boy to help me move. And of all people, I would've never guessed him. I hadn't even bothered to ask Alien because I thought I knew what his answer would be. We spent the afternoon moving and shopping in North Jersey. On the way home, I thought - wow, life -is- good. You never know which people are going to pop up as the ones to help you out in times of need. And suddenly, I was intensely grateful to him for doing what he did, considering I broke his heart to smithereens when we were young.

I gave him a kiss on the cheek when he dropped me off. I wish I didn't do that. I can't ever seem to be one of those girls who airily kisses someone on the cheek and comes off as casual and chic. No, mine are always awkward and bumbling. Mental note: don't do it ever again.

The generosity of those you've wronged sometimes comes back and stuns you.

Bits of you found everywhere, in doodles and dawdles of smudged pencil.

The voice inside me has stilled. I am no longer a human being, but merely a chemical reaction, a bundle of nerves and carbon based molecules. I react to stimuli like bacteria. I will cry in response to pain like an animal. I go through my every day like a robot, and I'm strangely not unhappy, but yet not happy either. I operate in a cloud of nothingness - no more bitterness or struggling or angst. To the outside eye, there is no difference - the girl still laughs, still jokes, still calls her friends, still does her work. But It's like my brain has been unplugged, and all that is me has escaped out the hole in my pocket, leaving only an empty shell on autopilot, whirring and clicking - unaware of its suddenly missing inhabitant.
[from margin of training manual]

I HATE THE DRY CLEANERS. Not only was I completely overcharged (10 bucks per pair of pants!) but it took them two weeks to get my pants hemmed! TWO WEEKS!!!! I just tried them on after I brought them back, AND THEY'RE ALL WRONG. I didn't even have to put my shoes on for them to be too short already!! And considering that they told Sugar to go to small claims court when they ruined her shirt, I know they'll charge me again if I ask them to fix it. AND they'll probably take another two weeks!! By the time I eventually get these right, I might as well have bought another pair of pants!!!!! I am ABSOLUTELY LIVID!! Why can't people do their job right?!! I've been waiting FOREVER to wear these pants!! They were brand new!!!! And now by the time they're finally right, it will be ruined, UTTERLY RUINED! I will forever associate annoyance with them now!!! THE JOY OF WEARING MY NEW SUPER-CUTE PANTS HAS BEEN TAKEN AWAY FROM ME.

And no I'm not shallow. Not at all. How the hell am I supposed to get to sleep in this state of mind?

Mars.

This made me laugh all night.

Sometimes I give myself the creeps. Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me.

I took a nap yesterday at 4 pm in my living room, and woke up to daylight this morning in my bedroom at 7 am! 15 hours straight! I've lost practically an entire day!

Besides that, how did I end up in my bedroom? Why did I wake up in my pajamas instead of my street clothes? How come my earrings were taken out as if I was perfectly conscious when I went to my bedroom? I'm convinced there was a spell cast over my living on that sleepy sunny afternoon yesterday. There can be no other explanation!

I am a master at the closed-mouth yawn.

What is this vile brown liquid I keep pumping into my body? This bitter liquid that coasts smoothly down my throat, leaving behind a sour aftertaste in my mouth. How is it that I pay a premium in order to have the privilege  to sip on this at a meeting. How did such a thing become a symbol of the civilized creature? Of the mature adult? Of the tired lackey?

My cup of iced coffee sits on the conference table, sweating, leaving a ring of wet. A ring of my glistening boredom. A ring of my vague discontent. I sip calmly on my coffee and study my fingernails. Everytime I look up, Boobs' chair is a few inches closer to Rabbits. It perks my interest, if only to relieve the long drone. I sip calmly on the the bitterness, a reflection of my bitterness at my job and my bitterness at girls with big boobs. I am a reflection of the perfectly poised business analyst, sitting upright on my chair like there's a pole up my backside, taking my neat notes in my fashionable notebook, with the perfectly appropriate professional (slightly bored) look on my face that hides the resentful stagnation underneath the surface.

My lunches with Brin and Pint are straight from Office Space. We gather, the very picture of the well-dressed multi-ethnic group that belongs in the brochures, and then proceed to bash and complain about our jobs. We think of ways to escape. I can tell Brin's getting to the edge. He's started coming up with some wild ideas. "Hey nine, do you think I could get a job at the FBI?"

Boobs forgot her printouts. Again. They're sharing, her and Rabbit. Again. She's wearing one of those currently fashionable low-cut tunics, as am I. But we couldn't look more different. She's leaning in, Cleavage Galore. I look down secretly at myself. No cleavage here. Just Padded Bra.

Wait... Cleavage Galore just got the heel of her shoe caught in the plug and disconnected the conference call that Rabbit is leading. Cleavage Galore fumbles, Padded Bra pulls ahead, the score is even!!!!!

And -that- is the highlight of my day.

Top Five.

Pint: "So yeah. We made a Top 5 list of the hottest female analysts on our project."
Nine: "Really? Who's on it?"
"Jessica. Vonnie. Lauren. Laura. Amy."
"How come Sugar and I aren't on this Top 5 List?"
"Because. We respect you guys."

Monday, Mondays.

You know it's a bad day when you eat the salami sandwich you made for lunch, for breakfast instead. And then after you've finished that, you head to the snack machine for chocolate at 9 am.

Somewhere between the salami and the chocolate, I decided that I'm ready for a relationship and that I'm sick of struggling against my job. I'm resigning from struggling.

A lot of this was largely based on the Sex and the City premiere a few weeks ago. It left me with strange wistful feelings that lingered. Either the episode was sending out subliminal messages, or the abysmal dating scene in New York is finally getting to me. I'm opting for the subliminal message. My friend Dot got the same relationship pangs on Sunday night. And what are the chances that both of us are tamed in one evening?

What is the purpose of a relationship anyways? When you were younger, it served a dual purpose. To provide some company during those lonely insecure teen years, and to provide an outlet for those raging hormones. But as you get older, what truly is the purpose of a relationship? How many of us settle for less for the sake of having companionship through our lonely quarter-life crises or for the sake of getting out of this dating hell-hole called New York? How many of us settle for less for the sake of settling down? Becuase we're approaching 30 and we feel like we "should" be married so we tie the knot with whoever we happen to be dating at the time?

Can you even trust yourself? I look around sometimes at all the semi-dysfunctional relationships my friends are partaking in. There's Dot, who's been in love for years with a guy who will never be a man. Who the hell makes up an accident with a semi truck in order to gain space? Whatever happened to the usual "I need some time off"? Lux, who's indulging in her singlehood and dating a variety of sub-par guys. BABAE J. who's been pseudo-dating this guy from across the country for months, but still won't admit that he's her boyfriend. And H2, who's been searching for that perfect BAM! - love at first sight - for years and has yet to find it. Are we just doomed to forever be dysfunctionally single or twistedly in a relationship? Is this just a symptom of being in our young 20's? A twisted romance to match our twisted lives? If I can't even figure out what I want to do with my own life, how am I supposed to know what I want in a guy?

My dad says "Sometimes it's not a grocery list. Sometimes it's nothing more than a hunch, a feeling, that with this person, you can be lost but find the way together. Having a companion on the path is always good, however temporarily. At worst, you learn from them."

Right... I learned a whole lot from the -last- time I shared my path. The past came to revisit me this weekend at 1 AM on Saturday night in the guise of a phone call from my ex. He was in the neighborhood and wanted to stop by and "chat". Suuuure. Funny how quickly subliminal messages from tv shows about how wonderful relationships are can be wiped out by reality.

I wonder why it is that career satisfaction is never explored in Sex and the City. The focus of the show is on relationships. Besides the obvious tabloid appeal of peering into people's relationships (after all, what voyeuristic pleasure is there in peering into people's careers?), why is it that Miranda never complains about her job and Samantha never talks about the politics involved in PR? They don't even -pretend- to like their jobs. Their jobs aren't even mentioned. It's like the job is a footnote to the person and his/her daily life. I've decided to take a page from Sex and the City. From now on, my job is going to be a footnote to my life.

Music.

I used to listen to music while coasting down the freeway. It gave me a sense of freedom. The open road before me. Power humming beneath my hands. Being in a car is wonderful. It gives you a sense of not being so small, of being just as equal, of being strong. And the music. The music was the best part of all. I didn't always have a good knowledge of which song belonged to which band, or what genre certain artists fell into, but I knew which music I liked and that was enough. What spoke to me about music was the words. I've never liked poetry before, but when set to music, it comes to life and flows around you in a way that the printed word can't quite do. I'd sing along with all my heart because I -meant- those words as they came out of my lungs off-key. They spoke to me. They put what I was feeling into succinct words. I was always guilty of that - of using too many words to express what I'm trying to say. And certain phrases always stuck in my mind. I'd think "Wow. I could've never put it so well." Simple pages on my mind. You're a song, written by the hands of God. The way you want to wrap me up inside your smile. Always felt I was outside, looking in on you. Finding my way back to sanity again. With the birds I'll share this lonely view. And other songs always spoke to me in their entirety. Regardless of what the song was -really- meant to be about, something about it spoke to me and endeared themselves to my heart forever. Verve - The Freshman. Kansas - Dust in the Wind. Matchbox20 - Unwell. Incubus - Drive. Hoobastank - Crawling in the Dark. RHCP - Under the Bridge.

It's been a long time since I've really found a song that spoke to me. I continue to buy CD's and download music in the hopes that I will eventually find again that band that somehow summarizes the entirety of my current life in 3 minutes or less. I'm finding a lot of bands whose sound I like, but sound, like fashion trends, die off in my memory. It's the words that capture me and hold me. What's happened to music that the very soul of it has degraded to simple lyrics repeated over and over again?

Nice Guy. Interesting meeting.

He leads the workgroup meetings. He's an analyst. He's not very tall, or very striking, or very spectacular in any way. He picks his eyebrow when he's frustrated, puts one hand on his head when he's thinking hard, and tucks his pen behind his ear when he needs to talk with his hands. He was wearing blue today, which matched the blue of his eyes. His name is Rabbit, and he's ordinary. But I think I like him. I'm attracted to his patience when dealing with belligerent team members, to his dry sense of humor during the conference calls. He's your classic Nice Guy. The new girl beside him writes him notes, and I'm vaguely irritated. This is a -meeting-. Let's be professional here. Meanwhile, I'm sitting here wondering what he's like in bed. Obviously, I'm not a very nice girl.

I check his left hand. No ring. That means he's open game, but I can tell the New Girl has her eye on him. Since when did nice guys start finishing first? Either we women are becoming more mature and more intelligent, or we've fallen onto desperate times down here in NC. New Girl and I are the only two girls in the meeting room. She's an analyst, like me. She's from New York, like me. I'm taller, but she has bigger boobs. We all know who has the real advantage here. Boobs.

For a second, I'm struck by how bizarre this entire scene is. Eleven business people in a conference room, all under the age of 30, and all in charge of a substantial portion of what seems to be a gazillion dollar project. What kind of idiot assigns this to a bunch of kids like us?

I eye Boobs again and catch her eyeing me. She smirks a bit. Wonderful. One of those girls. She forgot her printouts so leans over to share his with him. Her breast is obviously pressing against his arm. Good grief, can he not notice? I can feel one eyebrow inadvertently start to rise but I force it back down. I calmly take notes in my notebook as if I didn't notice. I look up again and catch her giggling at him. I can feel my eyes narrowing.

The meeting ends. And as she breezes by me without even a hello despite the fake sunny smile I'd pasted onto my face - I recognize it for what it is and can feel my hackles rising. It's the same feeling I get before standardized exams. That of tense readiness. That of running a finger along my newly sharpened competitive edge. And on some level, I'm relieved. Maybe this will break up the monotony of NC.

::email nine::