Oh, my.

It's so annoying that you think you're some kind of god. You push around the "underlings" like they don't matter. You commit all varieties of malpractice every day. You are angry because life didn't turn out your way. Listen, sister, the dream didn't work out for me, but you don't see me running around acting like I own this place. Don't take it out on me ad don't take it out on the helpless new people, either.

...and I could solve some mysteries, too.

Do what you love?

That's funny. There are so many things that I love. If I had done what I loved, I would be some variety of journalist or writer right now. Maybe then it would be fashionable to live a bleak, impoverished existence of misery and isolation. I would have a way to channel all this energy and anger into something productive.

Of course, the backup careers are extensive. Translator; makeup artist; photographer; veterinary technician; fashion designer; chef. But these aren't the types of careers that get supported in my family. They never really felt like options. So now, while I stare at my staggering student debt and inability to escape the life that I resent, I wonder what I was thinking. I did something I hate and I'm terrible at it.

I'm playing it safe right now, of course. The rational part of me knows that I have options. The practical part of me says that to explore those options right now would be futile or foolish. But still, I feel the need for something else. I have this sense that it's just a matter of time before I go chasing after something completely ridiculous and love every minute of it.

the. end.

I hate to admit it, but the days are shorter. The air is crisper. Tomorrow will be the last cookout of the year for most people. Don't get me wrong; I'm all for the sales at the mall this weekend, and the excitement over Halloween and plans for the holidays. But to embrace this time means to embrace the inevitable. The cold, the snow, the dead plants and trees, the dangerous driving conditions, the constant illness. That's just the beginning, though. Then there are the holidays and my birthday. Maybe if my birthday were at some other time of the year, it would be enjoyable. But no one except close family ever has time to come celebrate with me; I'm just an afterthought that's easily brushed aside in the wake of Christmas and Hanukkah.

Shivering when I climb into my car at the beginning or end of the day. Brushing snow off my windshield and roof. Jeans. Sweaters. Undershirts. Socks under socks. Snow boots. Heavy wool layers. Scarves and hats. Gloves and mittens. All those layers, just wrapping me in my misery and dread. No, I won't enjoy this holiday, which means the end of pleasant weather and freedom. Every year around this time, a little part of me dies. I don't expect it to come back to life until I live somewhere much warmer and further away.

sticky.

Sometimes, I feel like I spend most of my life with a cold. I'm either just getting one, or I already have one, or I'm just getting over one, or I'm living in fear of getting another one.

I was really looking forward to this weekend. I was going to enjoy my time off work. I was going to see family and de-stress. Instead, I'm swaddled in a blanket cursing my itchy throat, watery eyes and faucet-like nose. I can't go to the gym. I can't clean. I can't do anything. This time tomorrow, I know the cough will set in. For now, the most exciting thing I can do is attach my press-on nails and appreciate that my entire situation is kind of sticky.

nesting.

The day when you find mice living in your cupcake pans and barely care anymore, you know you're close to hitting rock bottom. What's worse is tugging that pan out from under your stove, tossing the mouse in the air and causing it, completely accidentally, to fall to a painful, squishy death.

I feel a lot like that mouse. Except I haven't fallen yet. I'm still somersaulting through the air, facing my certain peril in terror and confusion. I don't know who displaced me and sent me flying. I only know that I can't do a thing about it.

Do you know who I am?

"You stupid f----ing b----!"

I'm so glad that I went through seven years of higher education to be showered in four-letter words and told that I don't know what I'm doing by common criminals.

It gets old, putting on that suit with sensible shoes every morning. In the summer, the 3-block walk makes me sweaty, and by the time I make it to and fro, I reek. All I want to do is take a 30-minute shower and down a fifth of tequila.

Then there's the winter. God, the winter is horrible. I spend about 16 weeks of winter either mildly or miserably ill. I writhe on my couch with a searing headache and scratchy throat. I cough until my insides ache. I go through at least 20 boxes of tissues. The reason this happens is the forced trek to and fro up that cursed hill. And when I get there, again I am cursed out, beaten down, disrespected and resented.

So, when my client busted out the four-letter words on me yesterday, I began evaluating my life. Here's the bottom line: I hate my job most days. I hate my home life. I hate my family. There's only one solution: I have to bite the bullet and make some big life changes. The sooner, the better. This stupid f---ing b---- is done putting up with everyone's bulls---.

sometimes, i just sits and thinks.

If you actually are an idiot, is unfair if I treat you like one?

You are obsessive about the strangest and most pointless things. Not watching a movie because you've missed part of it. Not reading books mid-series; reviewing all previous books in a series if you haven't read them in a while and the author adds a new one. Missing an episode of a tv show. This is enough to make your mind spin, and you tell me it's because you can't figure out what's already happened when you do this. This means that you are an idiot.

That's only the beginning. There's also an inability to put dirty socks anywhere but my living room floor, a disdain for clothing if you aren't "going out," and that European nonchalance for whether you've shaved or brushed your teeth, say, any time this week.

Then there's your sci-fi obsession, phobia of the gym, and desire for all the things in life that interest me the least--a house, kids, and matching last names. Oh, and let's just clarify that you are in no way going to assist in paying for any of those milestones because no one wants to hire you. Again, this is because you are an idiot.

The thing that frustrates me the most, though? That, despite all this, you have no idea why people think you're slow, odd, and/or irritating. Here's a hint: it's because you are.

How are you?

Why do you feel the need to ask me this? I am wearing sweatpants. My hair hasn't been combed in days. I don't even know what day it is anymore. Behind me are 3 bags, a lunchbox and my purse. How am I? I'm a vagrant who survives on baloney, processed cheese, Sun Chips and peanut butter. I don't remember what it's like to have dinner with friends. I've stopped drinking not because of some moral objection, but because I simply don't have time to drink.

Someone. Please. Make this stop.

v a n i s h i n g

Next weekend will probably be the end of you and me. Our last hurrah before you marry some guy and move away from me, like all my other friends. It's a little saddening, on the one hand; on the other, it is entirely relieving.

When we were young, you were fun. You wore Goodwill clothes and didn't care if your thong hung out of them. You didn't know who Ann Klein was, and you thought that renting a movie, eating brownies, and chugging surrepetitiously-obtained boxes of wine was the best way to spend a night. You didn't judge people. You didn't think you were God's gift.

Then, somehow, I lost you. You got that job with that Senator. You put on your suit and stockings and started buying makeup that costs more than my weekly groceries. You socialize with big names, to whom you mean absolutely nothing. You tell me that my shoes are ugly, my boyfriend is ugly, and really make no qualms that, deep down, you think I am pathetic. Christ, last week, you asked me when I was going to get a "real job." Pumpkin, you make $30,000 a year. Stop judging me.

If these are my true feelings, why am I sad? It's not really the loss of you, so much. Please, take your stuff and go on with your life. I'm sad because you're the last one; the last of the close college group to run off on me. Not all of them are married now, but all but I have moved away, on to their grown-up lives and fairytale endings in faraway places. This time next month, it's all up to me. Who will fill the void?

relics.

I found an old bracelet and matching necklace today and decided to wear them. Sitting here thinking about it, I realize that nearly ten years have passed since you gave them to me. You're long-since buried, and so is the store where we bought them. Glistening sublimely on my arm, I remember wearing the bracelet to special occasions over the years. Nice college banquets. Holiday get-togethers with family. Weddings. Graduation parties.

Then, I remember forgetting about this jewelry's very existence. I let it slip to the bottom of one of my drawers, where jewelry goes to die. I stopped wearing bracelets altogether. I started wearing necklaces from men who make promises as flimsy as the thin gold chains that they offer. But this jewelry set has waited for me. It's been patient. And as it shines brighter than anything I've acquired recently, it makes me miss you. With or without the jewelry, though, I probably always will.