Any Time At All

I keep putting on the radio and expecting it to inspire me. All it really does is inspire me to listen to more music...and dance around my living room in my underwear.

So the circle continues and in the end I've gotten nothing done and the only thing I have to show for my day is a sprained ankle (I apparently can NOT dance like Shakira, no matter how hard I try.) and a sense of dissaccomplishment. (Is that a word? No worries--it is now.)

And with that I'm running again. Coldplay has been lying to me for over an hour and The Doors are teasing me from behind their namesake. I'm going to beat my head into the ground a few more times and go right back to jabbering on about nothing at all.

Oh and real quickly here's all the changes that have happened to me in the last 6 months:

*I moved into an adorable two bedroom apartment with this one kid I've known for a short while (we'll see how things turn out there. He says I hog the covers and I say he snores. Our life is so difficult.)

*My best friend since I was 11 got married. (What the fuck!?!?! Weren't we just little kids like 5 minutes ago!?!?! WHERE DID ALL THE TIME GO?!!?!?!)

*My cousin had a baby, the first family member of our generation to pop out a kid (babies having babies!)

*That kid and I adopted two amazing, adorable, and batshit insane kitties (I'm working on becoming the crazy cat lady early in life. I feel like I should accomplish something significant while I'm still young)

*I went back to school and signed up for a theater class with that same kid for old times sake (it's making me angry I don't write or perform more. And isn't that the point of school? To make you angry.)

*My great Grandma was diagnosed with cancer (I have nothing witty or constructive to say here so let's just move on and pretend I just said something classic and hilarious, shall we?)

*I found out not only am I allergic to fake sugars, but also eggs (not only are eggs a random fucking allergy to have but do you know how many fake sugar/egg based combinations that cuts from my diet? Like, one. An egg and aspertame smoothie.)


Now, there are a thousand other things I just left out. Six months is a short amount of time where a lot of shit can go down. But I think I'm going to save the rest for another day. Partly because I can't quite remember everything and I'm sure you don't care to read it, but mostly because I'm lazy. So.Very.Lazy.

A Day In The Life

I'm going to keep this short and sweet because I've been away for far too long, and yet I haven't the time to return.

Life has been nothing short of a big, scary, amazing, immaculate roller coaster ride lately. The drops weren't as horrifying as I'd first expected, but man, those peaks were exhilarating.

Looking back on all those memories I assumed I was better without....I was wrong.

A little over a year ago, while packing to move out of the house that knew my youth, I came across a drawer filled with all my old journals. As I flipped through the pages and scoffed at how naive and contrived I sounded, I felt foolish for wasting a lot of my teenage years doing nothing and complaining about it rather than bettering myself. For a moment I considered throwing all those old notebooks away. What do I need with ink stained pages detailing visions of a teenage wasteland?

I'm not sure why I choose to keep them, or even how they wound up with me in San Luis Obispo, but once again I stumbled upon them a few weeks ago while unpacking at my new place. I sat on the floor and thumbed through a few entries and suddenly I was angry with myself for ever considering tossing them out.

A lot of things have changed since I was 15, and there's nothing I can do about growing up. The memories I have, I cherish. Good and bad. And I have a feeling that one day I'm going to want the old me as a reminder of how it used to be.

It Won't Be Long

Boys and girls, today's word is "spontaneity". As in, rip off all your clothes and jump in the ocean 500 miles away from that term paper waiting patiently on your desk just because the mood to run far away and get naked struck. Appealing, no?
Now that the majority of us are--for lack of a better word--"adults", we feel far less compelled to be the random spontaneous kids we once were. After all, if you skip a week of work on a whim to road trip to Vegas with some friends you haven't seen in years, how are you going to pay your rent? (Don't worry, red is my lucky color. I'll win it all back and then some! It'll be like a real life Katy Perry video, right? Right?!?!) But every now and then running away, even if for only a few hours, can mean the difference between calmly getting that project done or drenching the people that happen to be standing around you in bits and pieces of brain matter after your head literally explodes. And dry-cleaning chunks of anything out of a polo ain't cheap.
Last Sunday my friend Mysha decided to exercise her right to live with reckless abandonment and the next day she was on a bus from San Francisco to see me. (Insert giddy schoolgirl squeals of joy.)
I love more than anything that she was willing to drop everything just to randomly spend a few days spending money we don't have and judging poorly dressed people behind their backs. (I never claimed to be a nice person, make a note of that.)
It's nice to just do something because you feel like it. I try to make it a point everyday to do something without pause. Whether it be buying those cute shoes at Urban Outfitters with what was meant to be grocery money or sneaking into some one's backyard at 3am to swim in their pool. I'm working my way up to the epitome of spontaneity and perhaps one day I'll sell all my worldly possessions and go on walk-about in New Zealand.
Until then I'll settle for buying Lucky Charms instead of Corn Flakes. You gotta start somewhere, right? Right?!?!?
How come no one ever answers me when I write out rhetorical questions? Hello???

A Hard Day's Night

It's never easy to admit that you're wrong, or that you've failed at something. No one likes to hear "I told you so" (although everyone loves to say it.). When I fall flat on my face or hit that all-too-familiar brick wall, I quickly turn around, make sure no one's looking, and brush my paw prints out of the snow. I pretend like nothing ever happened and hope that Cruella isn't on to me. Lately I've fallen down a lot. Although ask me tomorrow and I'll be in denial all over again. But things are still good. Great even. I got a promotion (which I'm pretty sure means I can punch people in the face and actually get rewarded for my services. I haven't tried it out yet.), my financial situation is slowly but surely improving (I'm considering buying stock in "NEW" new coke. It's bound to catch on the second time around, right?), my friends are bountiful (especially the imaginary ones!) and my love life is Matt-filled, and let's face it, I can never get enough of that kid (I would clone him and cheat on him with all of his clones if people didn't consider that creepy and a huge waste of government funded scientific research. But what do they know? These are the same people who let Woody Allen get away with dating his adopted daughter.) "So if things are so wonderful, AJ, why did you just blog about how bad things are?"...is what you would ask if you cared even a little bit...

But don't worry! You don't have to ask or even care, because I'm going to tell you anyway!

I'm at a point in my life where I've finally realized how dumb I am. Like, "early 20's but still thinks she can get away with acting like she's 15" dumb. And it's a shitty conclusion to come to. No one wants to admit that they don't rival the love-child of Ghandi and Einstein in the worldly all-knowing department. How many times did your mom say to you "You'll understand when you're older." and you replied with "No, I understand now! YOU don't understand."? Anyone? Anyone? Well I think I'm done saying that. The fact is I don't understand. Most things, actually. I'm learning and growing everyday but just when I think I get it all and have it all figured out something new and unexpected shocks the hell out of me.

I don't know where I'll be 10 years from now. I thought I did, but I was wrong. I change my mind every other day. I think for once I'm going to stop trying to plan it all out step by step because it fucking hurts my face every time I fall. And it's such a pretty face, I need to be careful.

From now on I'm going to tread carefully and make changes that I see fit. But who knows, 3 months from now I might be on a boat in Cannes snorting coke off Lindsay Lohan's backside.

But one can hope life has better prospects.

Strawberry Fields Forever

Today my alarm went off at 9am and for 5 minutes I cursed it's existence and pouted in bed before dragging myself to the shower. Now, 9am is not particularly early in my book. I'm actually quite used to being at work at 6:30 to sell lukewarm coffee and slightly stale muffins to old people who have nothing better to do than be awake at the butt-crack of dawn and lecture everyone they see for their "lack of respect" and "horrendous taste in music". But last night was my first night training as Supervisor at work (yay me!) and I was so fueled with the power of bossing people around that by the time I got home at 10:30pm I was too pumped up to sleep. I even practiced at home by bossing Matt around and threatening to "write him up" if he acted out of line. So when my head finally hit the pillow around 1:30 I cursed myself for the fact that Easter brunch in the am meant not sleeping in until noon as originally planned. But once I was showered and my face was properly painted on like the not-so-secret drag queen I am, I was excited to meet up with one of my favorite friends from home for a crowded but delicious Easter brunch at the Madonna Inn. Seeing Carizza is like seeing a little ball of sunshine (a sexy ball of sunshine!), she just lights up the room and instantly puts me a good mood. It made me miss home and all the people I once saw on a daily basis. As exciting as life is outside the nest there are some days that I miss ditching class to hang out with my friends. Once upon a time my biggest expense concern was how I was going to pay for my prom dress (a mighty fine looking prom dress, might I add.). After almost a year I still haven't acquired a lot of new friends in San Luis Obispo and it's not often I get to dress up and go out and socialize. The next few months are packed with life changing events. I'm planning my best friends wedding shower for May, and attending her wedding in the summer, my baby cousin is pregnant (!) and due in the fall, I'm working and living on my own and preparing myself for the upcoming changes in Matt's life. I have a plan and goals and things are falling into place. Everyone around me is growing up and it reminds me that I'm growing up too. I don't always like it, but unless someone mails me a ticket to Neverland and a key to a room in the Lost Boys cabin, it's not going to stop. For the last few months I've been plagued with these horrible dreams about money issues, family issues, and the stress of life in general. I already have enough trouble sleeping as it is, so giving me nightmares just seems like a cruel joke God likes to play on me when he's not busy fucking with underdeveloped countries. But the other night I had a dream I was on a swing. Simple as that. Me. Swing. Nice breeze. And it was the best dream I've had in a long while (Sorry dream where I married Ryan Reynolds, you've been beaten). It's amazing that something so simple can be so relaxing and mean so much. Now I'm determined to find a swing and just ignore the rest of the world for a while. Hopefully this plan won't end with angry parents calling the police to report a creepy girl on the swings at the park.

Good Day Sunshine

This morning when I woke up I just knew it was going to be a good day. It's a rarity that I wake up refreshed and ready to start the day without a cup--or ten--of coffee. Rather than fumbling around with outstretched arms like a brain-craving zombie (yumm, brains! Perhaps with a good garlic white sauce? Watch your back, Paula Dean!) I felt prepared to play the part of sexy zombie hunter, the kind whose makeup always seems flawless no matter how much of the apocalypse she's been through. I went to work and clocked in at 6:25 am sharp, because I am a show-off and I always have to be 5 mintutes early. When I walked into the office I stopped dead in my tacks because up on the bulletin board was posted the holy-of-holies on shiney white paper. A notice to all retail sales associates (that's me!) that a new supervisor position was opening at the end of the month and any employees interested in said position should submit their letter of intent. This excited me for two reasons: being a supervisor would mean a huge bump up in pay which is always needed and graciously accepted AND my manager personally pulled me aside last week and asked me to apply for this position. As excited as I am to hammer this glowing list of illustrious and noteable attributes that make me a valuable member of the Apple Farm team (oh, and money is good too. Yeah....money....) I can't get my hopes up too high. There are 2 other girls just as qualified as I am. My best defense against these formidable foes? My charm. On the 18th my manager plans on holding interviews with everyone who submits their letters. I'm going to smile a lot, talk confidently and be as witty and charming as my que cards allow. ;) Wish me luck!

I've Got a Feeling

When I started this blog I promised myself I would update often so everyone could have the inside scoop of what's going on in my not-so-organized head (isn't this a promise all bloggers make, break, and eventually apologize for?). Well I won't be making anymore promises to myself or anyone else for that matter. I owe you nothing and I hope you've come to expect nothing in return. Well, not nothing. I would hope that I'm interesting enough that you look forward to reading my ramblings and expect some sort of creativity to spurt forth like a stabbed artery at some point. Even if it takes weeks. So what is my grand excuse for being a shitty blogger, much like an absentee father who only shows up once a month to take Jimmy to the movies and is usually late and talks on his cellphone through the entire film, eventually getting both Jimmy and himself kicked out of the theater before Kurt Russell even has the chance to escape from New York, then drops Jimmy off an hour before the visit is even supposed to end because he has to pick up his girlfriend Cherry from her shift at hooters? Well, dear reader--and Jimmy--I've been writing. I know that sounds like a terrible and fabulous lie, because let's face it, even when I lie I'm fabulous, but it's oh so true! I've been on a roll lately. Inspiration stuck its little lightning rod in my ass and I've yet to be able to pry it from my swollen cheeks (too much imagery? I apologize. See! Imagery! That's something writers use!). Yesterday I hauled my lazy bum to the Barnes and Noble downtown, put on a pair of black-rimmed glasses and loaded up on books about the city of lights and hookers that resemble Nicole Kidman: Paris. I sat at a small cafe table on the second story over-looking the town, sipped my free water (because even coffee is out of my budget right now.) and started taking notes. A few weeks ago I came up with this idea to write a sort of twisted coming-of-age story set in 1960's Paris. And damn did I pick a great setting. The time period and the backdrop fit perfectly with my naive misfits. Drugs sex and rock and roll anyone? Basically since the start of February I've been filling my notebooks with ideas, timelines, plot-points and character developments. So far I love what I have. I'm not bragging by any means (although we all know that outwardly I'm fucking awesome) because I'm not all that confident in my writing and more likely than not this will wind up just another angsty teen melodrama to throw on top of my trash pile. But that's not the point. The point is I'm writing! I'm putting pen to paper for the first time in almost a year and I'm letting the ideas flow. I feel like I'm finally doing something with me life. Right now Bad Romance is streaming through my headphones because no one brings the crazy like Lady Gaga, and that's exactly what I need right now. So I'm going to go put on my Lobster headpiece, grab my disco stick and let the crazy flow. Then I'm off to pick up Jimmy and drop off yet another child-support check. And yes, I will be deducting the frozen yogurt I buy him from the total check. Life ain't cheap. Ciao, darlings!

Come and Get it

So here I am, 2 hours away from being (or pretending to be) that grown-up 21 year old adult that everyone expects of me, and I'm standing in the bathroom holding a brand new leather jacket in one hand and a bottle of flaming red hair dye in the other.
The smirk on my face could turn this town inside out.
Fuck being responsible.
Fuck being an adult.
I am youthful, humorous, confident, and practically bursting with sexuality. Who made up all these rules about age and maturity? Since when did it become a crime to wrecklessly explore the world and take life for what is? A means to an end. No one's going to hold your hand from cradle to tomb. These are the moments you have to enjoy and the mysteries you have to solve on your own.
I love that about life.
I love that you can color your hair and paint on some ruby red lipstick and morph into a completely different person. The man at the club knows me only as the lusty sex kitten who flirts her way to payday. The girl at the coffee shop knows me only as the quiet girl in the glasses and cardigan who always has her nose in a book. My boss knows me as a hard worker. My boyfriend knows me as a good lover. Most of my friends know me as a good listener.
I get to play all these parts.
Life is really a one man show.
But at the end of the day, no matter what my outward appearance may be, I'm still the exact same Ashley Joelle Jasper I've been since day one.
And no one can take that away from me.
Happy Birthday.

Eight Days a Week

I thought I'd be awesome and catch you up on my boring life. Whether this is torture or a thrilling look into the life of the insane that far surpasses any mental ward based piece of literature is up to you.

So today (Sat) and tomorrow (Sun) are my days off. I've actually had far more days off than I wanted lately. I would say I'm down to working 3 or 4 days a week and no one is hiring so a 2nd job seems unlikely at the moment. Work is slow and my manager is actually apologizing and feeling guilt ridden for the lack of hours she's supplying me with, but alas, her hands are tied. What the big boss says goes, no matter how crippling it may be for his employees.

The house has been exceptionally cold lately. I feel like I live in a snowman's asshole, so hot showers and warm fuzzy blankets worn like an emperor's robe have become classic favorites. I refuse to give into the snuggie though. I will die before I spend 20 bucks on a backwards robe that makes me one step closer to the fat cat lady who sits on her couch watching soaps and eating cheetos all day.

I've been a writing fiend lately. Funny enough, not having a life frees up some time to pretend you have something to say that's worth recording on paper. I got this awesome journal for the new year called "one line a day". It encourages writing by having you record one line in the book everyday for a span of five years. So far it's taught me two important things: 1.) I'm a lazy motherfucker who talks more than I actually do. and 2.) I have the attention span of a chihuahua on crack so writing in short bursts forces me to examine my details more closely and be far more witty in smaller sections. I'm becoming more disciplined in my correspondence and I'm proud of that. I'm starting to become more motivated to make this whole "author" thing happen. I just need to focus on finding more outlets and staying inspired.

I'm also making a list to keep me from falling into the trap of the boring life:



*Write or read for 60 minutes everyday.
*Start hiking. (There is so much beautiful greenery out here. I need to take advantage of that.)
*Learn to play the guitar (I don't need to be a musical god. Being mediocre will do just fine.)
*Sing in public more often
*Cook one scary new thing every month
*Finish my fafsa early for once
*Take at least one class that will help me learn some useful new skill
*Go out and socialize with the public at least once a month (being a hermit, no matter if it's a sexy hermit, is no way to stay in touch with life)
*Go to pismo beach (I've lived here for 6 months and I've never been! What the hell!?!!?)
*Try something new (falling on my face has always made for a humorous note to the public)


Alright, so I think I've exacerbated the fountain enough for one night. I've far exceeded the one line encouragement level and I'm treading into essay waters. That's going to turn me into an english student if I'm not careful.

Ob la di, ob la da

I've recently discovered it's possible to live at or below the poverty line with more tumble weeds blowing through your wallet than cash, and still go to bed with a full stomach. You just have to get a little creative.

I'm ashamed to say that I've gotten so poor that I can no longer afford groceries. Work is slow so the hours have decreased and no one seems to be hiring, so a second job seems unrealistic. I'm so broke I think the homeless guys on the street are going to start giving me change. I'm staying optimistic though. With my free time I've been working on getting my life in order and writing more, because really that's where my heart is.

So, back to feeding myself on impecunious man's budget.

I opened my fridge the other day in the hopes that some almighty feast from the god's would somehow be waiting for me on a gold platter. Alas, all I really discovered was some rendered bacon fat, some wilted veggies, and half an apple pie. The freezer offered me a little more luck with a bunch of leftover Christmas ham and some bacon, so I started to think of what I could turn that into. Turns out, there are lots of things you can do with such meaty items. Stumbling upon some beef bouillon, a bit of milk, an onion and a can of mixed vegetables, I went to work making a hearty ham and bacon stew. Not too bad, and it fed myself and two growing boys with endless appetites. Now that I'm out of ham, I've moved on to the cupboards. Turns out a box of pasta meant as a side-dish doubles as semi-homemade macaroni and cheese with a little leftover cheese from the fridge. Ramen with some vinaigrette, olives, and slices almonds turns into a surprisingly tasty Asian pasta salad. And frozen mashed up bananas with a bit of milk and sugar is just about as good as ice cream. This might sound disgusting to you, but until you show up at my door with a plate of steak or a check with my name on it, I don't want to hear it. Work has also been a huge lifesaver. Breakfasts come in the form of fruit from the salad bar, a large cup of coffee, and sometimes a muffin which has "mysteriously" broken into two pieces and therefore is unfit to sell to our customers. Lunch usually consists of vegetable soup and a lot of times brings some of his friends home with me in a carry-out container. Everynight for the past 2 weeks I've gone to bed without feeling hungry, and in a time where about 3.5 million people don't have that luxury, I guess I've got not complaints. It's really humbled me, I suppose. I don't need all that money to be happy. I don't have to go out to eat all the time, or buy that cute dress I saw at the mall, or see every damn movie that some big budget director has thrown into theaters. I'm content and for now, and I think I can manage with the little I've got.

If you'll excuse me, I've scrounged up some change from the couches and I'm off to buy some milk to accompany the cereal I got on sale for 99 cents. :)

For No One

A shot in the dark.
I'm coming to round five.
Still no luck.
The ideas just don't seem to be flowing like they used to.
My fingers twist tightly around the base of the pen, turning my knuckles an eerie shade of white. Another barely marked piece of paper gets balled up and tossed into the waste-basket like the forsaken remnants of yesterdays lunch. A useless notebook filled with useless words. Nothing original. Nothing emotive. Once upon a time reverie and purpose used to gush forth like blood pouring from a broken vein. Now my thoughts lay dormant.
Nothing is good enough. Every possible idea seems beyond useless.
I consider, for a few moments, just giving up. Drop the pen, stand up and leave. Someone must be hiring. Perhaps I can work in a museum. Passing out those tiny little brochures and pointing schoolchildren to the dinosaur exhibit, their tiny fingers wrapped around the wrists of their parents, attempting to drag mummy and daddy across the linoleum as fast as possible as if the t-rex might once again go extinct if they don't dash to the other side of the hall like rabid little monkeys. No. I don't think I'm cut out for that. I don't like kids much, and the elderly on a dreary Sunday afternoon can be ten times worse.
I inhale deeply, letting the air fill my lungs. Exhaustion is taking over. The blackness of sleep slowly creeping into view. I close my eyes for a moment, toying with the thought of a solid nap. I can picture my pillow in my head better than any lover that ever existed. Whomever compared a soft pillow to falling asleep on a cloud was not far off. It only takes a moment before I realize I'm drifting off.
I snap my head back up into place, filled with determination and a hint of desperate anger. Anything to make me feel motivated.
Since the age of seven, all I've wanted to do is write. Something as simple as putting my pen to paper, something that brings me more pleasure than anything else in the world is now haunting me, baring down like a weight on my chest. Maybe I'm over thinking it.
Should something you love so wholly be so difficult? What is it I'm missing? Where is my inspiration?
Suddenly, in a moment of overdue frustration I slam the notebook shut and fling the remaining scraps of paper and crumpled notes to the floor. My feet hit the ground so hard I feel the pain reverberate all the way up to my knees as I storm off to the kitchen in search of another cup of coffee. The little white clock nailed to the wall reads; 3:24 am. My third break in as many hours and still nothing of use. I flip through the mail on the table while the pot begins to drip and in a moment more humorous coincidence than irony I stumble upon a coupon for the local National History museum. I let a small smile permeate my lips.
Things really could be worse. I just need a day off and a day out. I check for the museum hours on the back of the ad. Tomorrow seems like a mighty fine day for a history lesson. But first, some rest. I choose to abandon the pot of coffee and leave my workings in a wash of sudden darkness as I close my bedroom door and reach for the pillows like a lost child.
The night is too good, and tomorrow is another chance to screw it all up.

Rain

"Anyone who says sunshine brings happiness has never danced in the rain."

There's something therapeutic about slipping on a pair of brightly coloured polka dot rain boots and splashing around in the puddles outside.
The water kisses your nose, and catches beads on the very edge of your lashes.
The wet air seems to smell better. Clearer.
For 30 minutes I let the sky soak me to my bones.
My hair matted to the sides of my face.
My vision blurred. My fingers icy.
I open my mouth and catch drops on my tongue, and still laugh every time the wind pulls my umbrella inside out.
I'm seven all over again and that's perfectly alright with me.
For 30 minutes the world and all its troubles seem to wash away with the storm, flowing like a river between my feet.
I don't mind when it rains.

Happiness is a Warm Gun

It's 7pm and I'm currently sitting in bed, watching soup run off the end of my spoon, drop after drop of warm red liquid splashing back into the bottom of the bowl. This is what my mother would categorize as "playing with your food" although not quite as creative as building sandcastles out of mashed potatoes, complete with garlic bread fort and mini broccoli soldiers.

I recently had a tooth yanked out of my head. Yes, an entire fucking tooth. Gone.

On the bright side the nice doctors (who spent plenty of time laughing at my feeble attempts to slur inaudible curses at them with my completely numb tongue and puffy chipmunk cheeks) wrote me a nice little prescription for a strange new friend called Vicodin. Now, kids, I'm not saying Vicodin should be used for anything other than true pain related conditions and it should ONLY be used as prescribed by a real licensed doctor. But I AM saying if you're lucky enough to be prescribed such a magical pill when you would otherwise be writhing in pain, thank the Lord in Heaven because DAMN do these suckers do their job!

I've spent the better part of the last two days tucked in bed, watching movies and consuming non-solid foods while simultaneously fantasizing about potato chips and crunchy tacos. But it's been (for the most part) pain free, and I'm grateful for that. Today I actually mustered up the courage to walk to the shower and rinse out some of the small creatures that have no doubt been nesting in that tangled mess I call my hair. I still haven't found the will to change out of these comfy pink pajama pants, though this has less to do with pain and more to do with my inherent laziness. As this is my last night of allowed pity, I plan on sleeping for a good 12 hours. It seems only fair to double up on my normal sleep intake after endearing such a traumatizing procedure, no?

What?

You don't think what I went through was trauma inducing?

Well fuck you! You don't know me!

Okay, maybe I'm milking this whole thing a little too much. Just let me have this final 12 hours then I promise I'll go back to being a normal human being...well at least as close to normal as I get.

Here Comes the Sun

Finding myself on the edge of 21, and realizing it's a long way down from here, I've started desperately clawing at the wallpaper and tying myself to the trees in one last feverish attempt to hold on to that last drop of youth who's only concern is which dress to wear to the party. A stack of bills sits on the desk in the corner, eagerly awaiting its chance to take the largest bite possible out of my already emaciated wallet.

Times are tough, boys and girls. Times are tough.

The New Year arrived with no hoopla. No shouts and cheers or clanking of glasses overflowing with bubbly. I lay in bed quietly reading a book and when the clock turns over that last remaining minute of the decade, I gently push Matt's shoulder, plant a kiss on his forehead and turn off the light. The last decade was big for me, so it's not to say I had nothing to celebrate, it's just that when you're hardly in your 20's every decade is big. Ten years is plenty of time to make mistakes, fall in love, move away from home, make new friends, lose old friends, take a few leaps, fall on your face once or twice, and essentially come away from it all feeling like you learned some valuable lesson. It's like watching a Brady Bunch rerun marathon. So the end of 2009 seemed like the perfect opportunity to relax. I have an entirely new decade at my feet in which to party, stress, try new things, and immerse myself in the kind of unavoidable drama that won't matter when 2020 rolls around.

It's been six months since I moved away from home and I'm proud to say that there are no plans in the works to move back. The freedom is nice. Finally having the chance to become your own person and learn by doing rather than someone else telling you what you should or shouldn't do. It's much like being a small child in the kitchen all over again. Our mothers, in their all knowing voices warn; "don't touch the stove, you'll burn your hand!" Of course a warning like that only makes us want to touch the stove more. It suddenly becomes that juicy, red, forbidden apple that probably tastes sweeter than all the gummy bears in Candy Heaven combined. We are programmed to learn by doing for ourselves. Regardless of how much we already know it's going to burn like a mother-fucker and leave nasty red welts on our hands for weeks, we still reach out and tentatively challenge the red hot coils, and we still cry and yank back our hands in surprise when those words are proven right. The shock is still the same, but would you have remembered that lesson for the rest of your life if you had just taken your mother's word for it? That's the point I'm at right now. Foolishly touching every stove I can get my hands on. I can only assume that one day the challenge will lose it's appeal and I'll be content with sitting at home reading about people doing stupid things rather than partaking in the stupidity myself, but at this moment in time playing the part of the naive young girl is the only thing that keeps me learning. Everyday the world opens new doors and everyday I comically fall down a flight of stairs just beyond those doors.

Tomorrow, as with most days, I'm going to get up and drive to work and enjoy the best part of my morning: watching the sun come up over the horizon. It only recently occurred to me that most mornings I start my day the same time the sun does. There's something calming about watching the light start to peak over the hills and creep through the trees of a small beach town. I've seen more sunrises and sunsets in the past 6 months than I have over the last 20 years. I feel like one day the memory of those mornings will be something very special to me. Some people would give anything to be able to witness that one last sunrise.