So, I finished Breaking Dawn which was pretty awesome, although the plot was completely unexpected. I wish the series could keep going just so I could read about their lives some more.
School starts back next week and I am not looking forward to it at all! I am so ready to just have a regular job. Go to work everyday, come home, clean a little, read, and then go to bed. I always thought it was weird that adults liked their routine schedule everyday, it seemed so boring, but right now I can totally see the positives.
Speaking of jobs, I started a new job at the Comfort Cafe and quit Downtown. FIL was totally cool with it when I gave him my two weeks notice, which was really nice. I like my new job but I am sick of training. I am too used to being able to just do my own thing at work, but it is different at the cafe. Everyone has to work together and it’s aggravating sometimes.
KC got a new car. It’s a 1981 Camaro and is white with purple stripes. When I first saw it I laughed because it reminded me of something a pimp would drive.
Anyways, I have been writing a little. I am inspired to write a complete story but I usually never follow through with stuff like that. Here’s a little taste…
It seems as if I only caught a tiny drop of the stories I created. I never wrote them down. They bloomed within my daydreaming, and I hoped and begged that I would remember them when I had a chance to write them down. But I never remembered. I could never catch them. I guess I spent my whole life catching.
I like to blame that on her. She was always touching me inappropriately with power. I recognize it now, differently than I did then. Her gestered influence would fill me with jealousy, though I believed the feeling was that of admiration. My admiration for her walk and her talk. Her ability to drive anyone to their knees by her mere words. These were the results of making it on her own, without her parents. She wanted me to be able to do the same.
Never once did I ask about Richard’s death. It was that power that kept backing me away. Jason, my mother’s closest friend and our neighbor throughout my childhood, told me about it. About Mom disappearing after it happened, taking me with her to the coasts of Florida. For three months she stowed herself away in a one bedroom apartment working days at a souvenir shop. Her dresser is laden with old sea shells from The Bridge’s Bottom. On nights when time seems long and lonely, I feel their smoothness and examine the intricate patterns that decorate them; patterns like the jewelery Mom never wears. The old baby blue linen sheets at my back as I sat on the floor with my feet rested up against the bedroom wall. I would rub them up and down, up and down my bare legs. I imagine myself wading through the currents and the salty breeze that always seems to come with a description of the ocean. But then I am under the bridge and I want desperately to cross over.
