FAREWELL TO THE GOOD OL' SOUTH
This is going to be brief, as I need to get to bed. Tomorrow is the big day for moving back to Seattle! It's been delayed due to some minor complications, but all turned out well. Surgery proved my cyst is benign; I got more time with the family; got to say good-bye to friends; and got one final hurrah with a boy that intrigues me a bit too much. But all is well that ends well.
North Carolina had its ups and downs. High Point gave more downs than ups, but I also learned a tremendous amount about myself, my wants, my goals, and about life often being about the way you look at it. Yet, I also have learned that a lot of life is not only what you make of it, but who you have in it. Good people make a world of difference. And to those good people I met out here, and to my family and already good friend I had before coming out here, I thank you. I would have gone mad without you all.
Tonight my family was having dinner, and we were talking about once I'm done with school. I commented, "Who knows? Maybe I'll come back." Their jaws hit the table. I clarified, "NOT to High Point though. Somewhere more me...maybe Asheville or something." I don't know if that will happen, as I feel like there is always a world of new opportunities out there, and once I'm done with school it will open up like a whore with a good 12 drinks in her. Who knows? I just know that Seattle is temporary this time. The future after that will be a new place with new adventures that maybe can tame my wandering ass.
Until then, I roam home and leave with what turned out to be some really great memories from the dirty South.
North Carolina had its ups and downs. High Point gave more downs than ups, but I also learned a tremendous amount about myself, my wants, my goals, and about life often being about the way you look at it. Yet, I also have learned that a lot of life is not only what you make of it, but who you have in it. Good people make a world of difference. And to those good people I met out here, and to my family and already good friend I had before coming out here, I thank you. I would have gone mad without you all.
Tonight my family was having dinner, and we were talking about once I'm done with school. I commented, "Who knows? Maybe I'll come back." Their jaws hit the table. I clarified, "NOT to High Point though. Somewhere more me...maybe Asheville or something." I don't know if that will happen, as I feel like there is always a world of new opportunities out there, and once I'm done with school it will open up like a whore with a good 12 drinks in her. Who knows? I just know that Seattle is temporary this time. The future after that will be a new place with new adventures that maybe can tame my wandering ass.
Until then, I roam home and leave with what turned out to be some really great memories from the dirty South.
THE WAR BETWEEN MY MILK AND EGGS
I am hesitant to post this, as I by no means am seeking out pity or attention from this. However, my last entry, while meant to detail what was a humorous event to me, has led to a string of, "What is going on? Are you okay?" emails. While it may come across as tacky to some to handle it this way, after the umpteenth time of telling the story, I realized that emotionally I can't handle calling or emailing everyone with the explanation. The more I say it, the more I start to panic. I appreciate everyone's concerns, but I'd rather just rip the band-aid off and get it all out there at once.
I have a cyst under my right breast. I found it about 6-7 weeks ago and just watched it for a month, but it's grown in size so I finally went to the doctor a couple of weeks ago. The doctor thought it was simply a fluid-filled cyst, but I found out yesterday that the ultrasound showed there was no fluid in it. You WANT there to be fluid in it. If it's empty, that's where they get concerned and have to check for cancer. I'm going in for a biopsy on Wednesday. It's a simple outpatient surgery where they will put me under then remove the cyst and send it off to be tested. Wednesday is the earliest they can get me in, but the timing stinks as I am heading out on my cross-country move the next day, but at least it's getting done. They're not thrilled about not being able to follow up with me in person, nor about me driving cross country right after the procedure, but they're being accommodating and willing to work with me on it.
I'm a bit freaked out, but the doctor said the odds are in my favor since my family has no history of breast cancer. I'm just desperately trying to remain optimistic about the whole situation and telling myself it will be fine. And if for some teensy tiny reason it's not, I'll get through it. I may be emotional and overdramatic sometimes, but I am definitely stubborn and wouldn't give up that easy. I just know it's going to be okay though.
I was telling a friend about it last night, and was saying how I'm more just pissed at my girlie parts. I've dealt with exploding ovarian cysts off and on over the last ten years, and now my boob wants to join the party? Not cool. Actually, I think it's like little kids battling for your attention. The ovaries are the older egg twins and started causing a ruckus years ago. While painful, it was harmless. So the boobs are the younger milk twins. One is the good twin, the other the bad twin. Ol' Righty is the bad twin in this scenario. Righty is all, "Mom pays WAY more attention to the egg twins than us. We HAVE to out-do them." Lefty is like, "No, she's been through enough with the egg twins. Let's leave her be." But Righty reminds Lefty about the time eight years ago that Mom hacked half of themselves off her body. While thinner, they were not as pretty. Righty has been carrying around this resentment for quite some time apparently. Lefty won't participate, but stands silent and lets its twin go on ahead with the plan. So Righty goes postal and cysts out on Mom, only this time it's not so simple. It has to one-up the egg twins by not making the cyst fluid filled. It's scary and costly, and the story's ending is hanging up in the air at the moment.
Damned kids.
The more I think about it, I'd kind of prefer a more West Side Story version of my scenario. It'd be called Breast Side Story. You know, an ovary is in love with a breast, but their parts have been rivals forever. The cysts are their love for each other...that type of thing. I think it would be much more fun to have this version of the story, complete with singing nipples and dancing ovaries. I mean seriously, can't you just see the ovaries singing Jet Song? The fallopian tubes could be their background dancers.
Harry, I think I just gave you your next musical to write!
I have a cyst under my right breast. I found it about 6-7 weeks ago and just watched it for a month, but it's grown in size so I finally went to the doctor a couple of weeks ago. The doctor thought it was simply a fluid-filled cyst, but I found out yesterday that the ultrasound showed there was no fluid in it. You WANT there to be fluid in it. If it's empty, that's where they get concerned and have to check for cancer. I'm going in for a biopsy on Wednesday. It's a simple outpatient surgery where they will put me under then remove the cyst and send it off to be tested. Wednesday is the earliest they can get me in, but the timing stinks as I am heading out on my cross-country move the next day, but at least it's getting done. They're not thrilled about not being able to follow up with me in person, nor about me driving cross country right after the procedure, but they're being accommodating and willing to work with me on it.
I'm a bit freaked out, but the doctor said the odds are in my favor since my family has no history of breast cancer. I'm just desperately trying to remain optimistic about the whole situation and telling myself it will be fine. And if for some teensy tiny reason it's not, I'll get through it. I may be emotional and overdramatic sometimes, but I am definitely stubborn and wouldn't give up that easy. I just know it's going to be okay though.
I was telling a friend about it last night, and was saying how I'm more just pissed at my girlie parts. I've dealt with exploding ovarian cysts off and on over the last ten years, and now my boob wants to join the party? Not cool. Actually, I think it's like little kids battling for your attention. The ovaries are the older egg twins and started causing a ruckus years ago. While painful, it was harmless. So the boobs are the younger milk twins. One is the good twin, the other the bad twin. Ol' Righty is the bad twin in this scenario. Righty is all, "Mom pays WAY more attention to the egg twins than us. We HAVE to out-do them." Lefty is like, "No, she's been through enough with the egg twins. Let's leave her be." But Righty reminds Lefty about the time eight years ago that Mom hacked half of themselves off her body. While thinner, they were not as pretty. Righty has been carrying around this resentment for quite some time apparently. Lefty won't participate, but stands silent and lets its twin go on ahead with the plan. So Righty goes postal and cysts out on Mom, only this time it's not so simple. It has to one-up the egg twins by not making the cyst fluid filled. It's scary and costly, and the story's ending is hanging up in the air at the moment.
Damned kids.
The more I think about it, I'd kind of prefer a more West Side Story version of my scenario. It'd be called Breast Side Story. You know, an ovary is in love with a breast, but their parts have been rivals forever. The cysts are their love for each other...that type of thing. I think it would be much more fun to have this version of the story, complete with singing nipples and dancing ovaries. I mean seriously, can't you just see the ovaries singing Jet Song? The fallopian tubes could be their background dancers.
Harry, I think I just gave you your next musical to write!
MY FIRST MAMMOGRAM
Yes, you read it correctly. Five years earlier than insurance typically permits, I had my first mammogram today. I won't go into the why's and what not's of it, but I will just say that the timing of all the crap leading to this could not have been worse. Here I am a week away from moving and losing my insurance, and my boobs are being shipped off to the smoosh factory.
Being that I'd never had a mammogram before, I was a bit nervous. I'd heard everything from "it's excruciating" to "it's just awkward and uncomfortable". I went to the hospital at 1:30 to fill out the paperwork and was then led to a waiting room in the Women's Imaging Center where I was subjected to a half hour of Days of Our Lives. I used to watch this religiously in 9th grade and was a bit creeped out that Patch and Marlena still look identical to their younger selves 20 years later. Inside Edition followed, and I did a little better with this distracting my brain from what was about to happen and why.
Forty-five minutes later it was finally my turn. The woman apologized for their delay in getting to me and then led me to a changing room where I was instructed to remove everything from the waist up and put on what appeared to be a floral half-cape. I closed the door and removed my torso clothing and snapped the cape in the front as instructed. There was something kind of fun and freeing in this odd attire. Kind of a combination of a medical nudist and a superhero. I decided that considering my situation and medical cape, I would be Breast Bitch...Conqueror of Masses. So I sat in the changing room feeling like the semi-nudist hippie I never was, and quite happy that my muffin top wasn't that bad in my jeans, and waited.
The woman came to get me and brought me to the room where I'd have my mammogram. It wasn't AT ALL what I'd envisioned. I was thinking cold, metal plates and scary machines. Instead I was met by a machine that reminded me of what the dentist uses to take x-rays of your mouth, but with two plastic plates. I was told that they would take two pictures and evaluate them. Depending on what they saw, they would either release me or then do an ultrasound on me. After that, the doctor would come in and give me my results. She then explained how they would first crush my boob between the two plates in my normal breast position...okay, crush is my own interpretation of whatever she really said. They would then do a side shot where they would contort my breast...basically like what would happen if you stuck your tit in an elevator door.
The technician places a "bibi" sticker on the part that they are investigating and I am moved forward to rest my right breast on top of a plastic plate. This plate is then raised and the top plate comes down upon the top of my breast to make it like a pancake of skin. It was tight, but by no means painful at all. She asked if I was okay, and in which I responded, "After my reduction I lost a lot of sensitivity in my breast, and I'm finally seeing the positive in this." She laughed and then told me to not breathe while she took the shot. My breast is then released from the grip of death. I am thinking that I'm not surprised that most mammogram techs are women, as this could possibly haunt any man who had to witness a breast pancaked between two plastic plates like that. I mean seriously, if I saw a penis smashed like that, it could possibly reignite the whole celibacy thing for me.
The next shot is where I lost it. The plate was raised underneath my breast and then angled. This was more uncomfortable, as it was pulling up my skin under my breast. I told myself this was good. It was lifting my muffin top upwards even more, giving me a more slimming figure. Then she asks me to grab this bar out to my right side. The top plate crushed upon what I can only describe as the top/side boob. I was then asked to pose with my left hand behind my head, elbow up in the air. That's when I lost it and started giggling. I was like some bad medical porn. My pose resembled that of some fresh, young woman striking a pose holding onto a sailboat mast or something, only my breast was contorted in a bad taffy factory position. When she told me to stop breathing I did, but I also gave a big grin as if I were posing for High Point Regional Hospital's Hooter Of The Month Club. It was completely ridiculous.
After the mammogram, I was told that I indeed needed to have an ultrasound as well. I was then led into the room that was like every other ultrasound room that my ovaries had endured, only this time it was a different girlie part being investigated. I was instructed to strike my Playboy pose again, only this time it was my right arm posed behind my head while laying down. Now, I think that considering my odd imagination combined with the fact I am ready to snap with all I've endured this last week, my brain goes into survival mode and is trying to find humor whatever way it can. So as they did the ultrasound on my breast and took pictures, I watched the screen like a new mother. When they found the culprit, I asked, "Is that it?" She nodded. I wanted to ask if it was a boy or a girl? I wanted to ask for a printout of it to carry in my wallet, as this could likely be the closest thing to a baby I get to encounter. After the initial ultrasound, the doctor came in to ultrasound me again. I thought about names for my culprit. It was born in the South, so it needs a Southern name. Bubba. I smiled. I have a Bubba in my boob.
And then I realized I was crazy, and the reality of it all hit me. I bit my lip and kept it together for the five-minute walk to my car, and then lost it. And then I started laughing as I imagined the warped porno pose for my first mammogram.
I hope I make Miss October.
Being that I'd never had a mammogram before, I was a bit nervous. I'd heard everything from "it's excruciating" to "it's just awkward and uncomfortable". I went to the hospital at 1:30 to fill out the paperwork and was then led to a waiting room in the Women's Imaging Center where I was subjected to a half hour of Days of Our Lives. I used to watch this religiously in 9th grade and was a bit creeped out that Patch and Marlena still look identical to their younger selves 20 years later. Inside Edition followed, and I did a little better with this distracting my brain from what was about to happen and why.
Forty-five minutes later it was finally my turn. The woman apologized for their delay in getting to me and then led me to a changing room where I was instructed to remove everything from the waist up and put on what appeared to be a floral half-cape. I closed the door and removed my torso clothing and snapped the cape in the front as instructed. There was something kind of fun and freeing in this odd attire. Kind of a combination of a medical nudist and a superhero. I decided that considering my situation and medical cape, I would be Breast Bitch...Conqueror of Masses. So I sat in the changing room feeling like the semi-nudist hippie I never was, and quite happy that my muffin top wasn't that bad in my jeans, and waited.
The woman came to get me and brought me to the room where I'd have my mammogram. It wasn't AT ALL what I'd envisioned. I was thinking cold, metal plates and scary machines. Instead I was met by a machine that reminded me of what the dentist uses to take x-rays of your mouth, but with two plastic plates. I was told that they would take two pictures and evaluate them. Depending on what they saw, they would either release me or then do an ultrasound on me. After that, the doctor would come in and give me my results. She then explained how they would first crush my boob between the two plates in my normal breast position...okay, crush is my own interpretation of whatever she really said. They would then do a side shot where they would contort my breast...basically like what would happen if you stuck your tit in an elevator door.
The technician places a "bibi" sticker on the part that they are investigating and I am moved forward to rest my right breast on top of a plastic plate. This plate is then raised and the top plate comes down upon the top of my breast to make it like a pancake of skin. It was tight, but by no means painful at all. She asked if I was okay, and in which I responded, "After my reduction I lost a lot of sensitivity in my breast, and I'm finally seeing the positive in this." She laughed and then told me to not breathe while she took the shot. My breast is then released from the grip of death. I am thinking that I'm not surprised that most mammogram techs are women, as this could possibly haunt any man who had to witness a breast pancaked between two plastic plates like that. I mean seriously, if I saw a penis smashed like that, it could possibly reignite the whole celibacy thing for me.
The next shot is where I lost it. The plate was raised underneath my breast and then angled. This was more uncomfortable, as it was pulling up my skin under my breast. I told myself this was good. It was lifting my muffin top upwards even more, giving me a more slimming figure. Then she asks me to grab this bar out to my right side. The top plate crushed upon what I can only describe as the top/side boob. I was then asked to pose with my left hand behind my head, elbow up in the air. That's when I lost it and started giggling. I was like some bad medical porn. My pose resembled that of some fresh, young woman striking a pose holding onto a sailboat mast or something, only my breast was contorted in a bad taffy factory position. When she told me to stop breathing I did, but I also gave a big grin as if I were posing for High Point Regional Hospital's Hooter Of The Month Club. It was completely ridiculous.
After the mammogram, I was told that I indeed needed to have an ultrasound as well. I was then led into the room that was like every other ultrasound room that my ovaries had endured, only this time it was a different girlie part being investigated. I was instructed to strike my Playboy pose again, only this time it was my right arm posed behind my head while laying down. Now, I think that considering my odd imagination combined with the fact I am ready to snap with all I've endured this last week, my brain goes into survival mode and is trying to find humor whatever way it can. So as they did the ultrasound on my breast and took pictures, I watched the screen like a new mother. When they found the culprit, I asked, "Is that it?" She nodded. I wanted to ask if it was a boy or a girl? I wanted to ask for a printout of it to carry in my wallet, as this could likely be the closest thing to a baby I get to encounter. After the initial ultrasound, the doctor came in to ultrasound me again. I thought about names for my culprit. It was born in the South, so it needs a Southern name. Bubba. I smiled. I have a Bubba in my boob.
And then I realized I was crazy, and the reality of it all hit me. I bit my lip and kept it together for the five-minute walk to my car, and then lost it. And then I started laughing as I imagined the warped porno pose for my first mammogram.
I hope I make Miss October.
THIS BOX SHOULDN'T BE SHAKIN' ON IT'S OWN
The apartment is almost empty. There are just two pieces of furniture here waiting to be picked up tomorrow, bags of clothes, some garbage cans, two lamps, a vacuum, two TV's and a sleeping bag on the floor. I feel like I'm living like a squatter in an abandoned home with minimal cable.
Tonight as I emptied out my closet and drawers, I came to the "toys". If you don't know what I mean, you shouldn't be reading this blog...you are too innocent or too young. You may think this is no big deal, but in my mind it is. This isn't simply a "throw it in that box" type of thing...at least not with the way my mind works. My mind asks, do I ship it or do I take it on the road? Wait. When I ask, "Do I take it on the road?" I don't mean it the way of wanting a hotel companion. It's not a necessity on the road like my sunglasses. I mean, do I keep it with the stuff in my car so it can never fall into another person's hands?
While it may sound ridiculous, there are hazards to shipping a vibrator. Hell, I know someone (I almost named you, but think I could permanently scar a particular person if they know you own one) who was simply moving locally and an 18-year old family member was carrying one of her boxes and it started shaking and humming as he carried it. Somehow when he picked up the box, it turned on the vibrator. Needless to say he announced that something in the box was vibrating, and while she could laugh about it, she was quite embarrassed. I've been sending all my boxes through the post office...a post office where they always tell me to "have a blessed day" when I leave. Do you know what this could do to someone who blesses me daily? If my vibrator were to go off in the box when they lifted it, they might try to exorcise my box! Even worse was if it had to be opened in suspicion of a bomb! I can see a picture of me in the box with the bomb squad pulling my vibrator out of cardboard box, the redness of my face unable to be properly displayed since the picture would be black and white.
The other concern of mine is where I'm shipping my stuff. I'm going to be living at my dad's to save and then go to school. Granted, I have the bottom half of the house, and for the most part a lot of privacy, but I can just see the box arriving torn, or he tries to do me a favor by putting stuff away and comes across it. My father is Mormon! It might give him a heart attack! It might make him regret the person I am even more! I mean, the man is already scared of me and according to my mother, has legally made sure that I have no say in any medical choices should he be unable to. This stemmed from a conversation we had after we saw Million Dollar Baby and debated over being kept on life support (I believe in pulling the plug; he believes in miracles). I got really pissed, as I think that is selfish and horrible.
"Well you better not leave that choice up to me because I will trip on that cord and unplug your ass so quick!"
He laughed and said, "Oh trust me, you won't have any say in it!"
I legally don't now. He apparently called my mom to let her know.
So you see what I'm saying? I know he loves me, but I'm not the ideal child to this man in the first place, so I fear shipping it to his house. And let's not forget the mystery that STILL remains when he shipped me pictures I had left at his house in a plastic bin. Thing is, when they arrived they weren't in that bin, but a box. I freaked. I had some old pictures that no one should ever lay eyes on, and as I went through the pictures I realized they were gone. Oh my god! My mind raced as I went through all the pictures again. Oh my god, they weren't anywhere in there! This was bad. This was very bad.
I imagined the whole scenario that surely happened... My father was kindly dumping my plastic bin of pictures into a cardboard box to send to me in my new living abode. While dumping pictures, out came the two that I should have burned years ago...me nude, with a tree painted on my back in body paint all pretty. At least this was not full frontal nudity. But the other one... The other one was of an ex that same night where I had drunkenly graffitied him naked with body paint, writing things like, "F*ck me!" and "S*ck my c*ck!" (obviously not censored though) with an arrow pointing to his junk. My dad either immediately prayed for my sins or quickly burned the pictures himself, concerned that someday these could get out and he must save his daughter from embarrassment. I know it wasn't creepy, but still, it's not something I was mortified. I cannot let anything similar happen again.
As I stood there holding my toy bag, all of this ran through my head. There was no other decision. I put it in my "go in the car" stuff and finished packing. And then I paused and thought, "But what if it rolls out of the car when you open the door at a rest area? Gas station? Hotel?" At least it'd give a fellow traveler an interesting story.
"There was this girl from North Carolina at the station not five minutes ago who got out to pump gas and my god if a vibrator didn't roll out of her car! Poor thing didn't even see it. What's worse is that she had a picture of a naked, graffitied man stuck to her ass. Bet she's been walking around with it there for years!"
Tonight as I emptied out my closet and drawers, I came to the "toys". If you don't know what I mean, you shouldn't be reading this blog...you are too innocent or too young. You may think this is no big deal, but in my mind it is. This isn't simply a "throw it in that box" type of thing...at least not with the way my mind works. My mind asks, do I ship it or do I take it on the road? Wait. When I ask, "Do I take it on the road?" I don't mean it the way of wanting a hotel companion. It's not a necessity on the road like my sunglasses. I mean, do I keep it with the stuff in my car so it can never fall into another person's hands?
While it may sound ridiculous, there are hazards to shipping a vibrator. Hell, I know someone (I almost named you, but think I could permanently scar a particular person if they know you own one) who was simply moving locally and an 18-year old family member was carrying one of her boxes and it started shaking and humming as he carried it. Somehow when he picked up the box, it turned on the vibrator. Needless to say he announced that something in the box was vibrating, and while she could laugh about it, she was quite embarrassed. I've been sending all my boxes through the post office...a post office where they always tell me to "have a blessed day" when I leave. Do you know what this could do to someone who blesses me daily? If my vibrator were to go off in the box when they lifted it, they might try to exorcise my box! Even worse was if it had to be opened in suspicion of a bomb! I can see a picture of me in the box with the bomb squad pulling my vibrator out of cardboard box, the redness of my face unable to be properly displayed since the picture would be black and white.
The other concern of mine is where I'm shipping my stuff. I'm going to be living at my dad's to save and then go to school. Granted, I have the bottom half of the house, and for the most part a lot of privacy, but I can just see the box arriving torn, or he tries to do me a favor by putting stuff away and comes across it. My father is Mormon! It might give him a heart attack! It might make him regret the person I am even more! I mean, the man is already scared of me and according to my mother, has legally made sure that I have no say in any medical choices should he be unable to. This stemmed from a conversation we had after we saw Million Dollar Baby and debated over being kept on life support (I believe in pulling the plug; he believes in miracles). I got really pissed, as I think that is selfish and horrible.
"Well you better not leave that choice up to me because I will trip on that cord and unplug your ass so quick!"
He laughed and said, "Oh trust me, you won't have any say in it!"
I legally don't now. He apparently called my mom to let her know.
So you see what I'm saying? I know he loves me, but I'm not the ideal child to this man in the first place, so I fear shipping it to his house. And let's not forget the mystery that STILL remains when he shipped me pictures I had left at his house in a plastic bin. Thing is, when they arrived they weren't in that bin, but a box. I freaked. I had some old pictures that no one should ever lay eyes on, and as I went through the pictures I realized they were gone. Oh my god! My mind raced as I went through all the pictures again. Oh my god, they weren't anywhere in there! This was bad. This was very bad.
I imagined the whole scenario that surely happened... My father was kindly dumping my plastic bin of pictures into a cardboard box to send to me in my new living abode. While dumping pictures, out came the two that I should have burned years ago...me nude, with a tree painted on my back in body paint all pretty. At least this was not full frontal nudity. But the other one... The other one was of an ex that same night where I had drunkenly graffitied him naked with body paint, writing things like, "F*ck me!" and "S*ck my c*ck!" (obviously not censored though) with an arrow pointing to his junk. My dad either immediately prayed for my sins or quickly burned the pictures himself, concerned that someday these could get out and he must save his daughter from embarrassment. I know it wasn't creepy, but still, it's not something I was mortified. I cannot let anything similar happen again.
As I stood there holding my toy bag, all of this ran through my head. There was no other decision. I put it in my "go in the car" stuff and finished packing. And then I paused and thought, "But what if it rolls out of the car when you open the door at a rest area? Gas station? Hotel?" At least it'd give a fellow traveler an interesting story.
"There was this girl from North Carolina at the station not five minutes ago who got out to pump gas and my god if a vibrator didn't roll out of her car! Poor thing didn't even see it. What's worse is that she had a picture of a naked, graffitied man stuck to her ass. Bet she's been walking around with it there for years!"
CROW NEVER TASTED BETTER
I am a butthole.
Most of the time, I am far from a butthole. I consider myself very kindhearted and sensitive, but I am also blunt and honest. I'm sure this can be perceived as harsh or brash sometimes, but I also only do so when I know the person can take it and are asking for my honest opinion. And I try to do so in a loving way. And it takes a lot to really infuriate me past a rant, but when I do, those rare moments have can become ugly. No, but really, I'm sweet for the most part. Seriously! I'm thoughtful, concerned, loving and a great friend. I can give you references if you don’t believe me. But here I sit realizing I've been a big, fucking butthole about something in particular. North Carolina.
I know I already had my "be grateful" moment during a recent packing session, but I have to touch upon something further that struck me like lightning the last few days, particularly tonight. Yes, High Point is not my cup of tea, but there are good places here in this state. There are good people. I see now that there are other adventures in this state that could have possibly worked for me. And I all of a sudden feel like I missed a year and a half of happiness because of my actions and attitude.
High Point is not great for me, but I've had fun in other places. I've looked into moving to Charlotte, which could have worked. And I briefly looked into Asheville, which I loved, but they didn't pan out due to a lack of perseverance after seeking it out for a bit. Then this last weekend I went out on a date with a guy I'd met on the film set last April. He lives in Chapel Hill and took me out Friday night, and I had the best time! Chapel Hill is an awesome town, and I could totally see myself living there after only one night. It's definitely up my alley in so many ways! The people I was introduced to seemed cool, the food was good, the places were dark and had edge and depth to them, and the music...ahhhh the music. I found myself shouting, "Oh my god! It's Band of Horses...Spoon..." etc. I had long conversations about really great music and books and life. I felt at home there. It was a wonderful night, and as I drove home the next day, I felt like a fool that I'd judged this entire state off my experience in a few places that I knew prior to moving here, were not for me.
This regret has been hanging over me like that cloud that rained over the Flinstones' Adams Family-like neighbors wherever they went. Then tonight I had the most amazing experience that touched my heart and really made me feel like a big piece of shit.
I'm selling all my furniture for my move. I posted it on Sunday on Craigs List and was overwhelmed by the responses. I now sit here in a near-empty apartment minus two pieces of furniture that are being picked up tomorrow. So this couple came to check out my couch and loveseat. They decided to buy it, but had to get a truck to do so tomorrow. They paid for it and left. A while later the guy called asking if I had cats because his wife was sneezing and is totally allergic? I said I indeed I did, and we were talking about how often they'd been on the couches and such. Then he asked if they were already in Seattle because they hadn't seen them? I started to choke up and said they were here and I’d had been trying to find them a home for a month and a half, as I was going to have to take them to a shelter by the end of the week. He starts telling his wife this, and they're all sad and said they're going to try to help me! She's going to ask around at work and might know someone who could foster them. He tells me how if his wife weren't allergic, he'd have a cat and how growing up, his family always took in strays. "We're animal lovers, and don't want to see this happen to them, so we'll help if we can." I start to cry and thank them profusely.
I'm sorry, but I am blown away by the kindness of strangers sometimes. And for someone who has been so judgmental of this town, I have to eat crow on this one. In addition to my one amazing friend I had upon coming here, and the two other great ones I met in the last year, the last few months I have met more and more really great, kind, warm people. Maybe they were there all along and I've simply let down my defenses a bit? I'm not sure, but all I know is that I realize that sometimes circumstances and situations prohibit the reality of a situation from being clear. One's perspective can be clouded from simply witnessing certain...okay many...events. However, I am proven time and time again that shifting that perspective even slightly, raises the blinds and lets some sun in. This town is definitely not my thing, but it doesn't make it bad. I'm beyond touched by what these strangers are doing for me. And through this simple act, I all of a sudden find myself sitting here recalling little pieces of kindness and selfless acts I've witnessed here. It makes me sad that I've just let the negative stand out and tromp all over the beauty of the little things.
And so with that, I apologize dear High Point and it's neighbors. We're definitely not two puzzle pieces that fit together, but we both contribute to the bigger, greater picture. And North Carolina....maybe you're not so bad after all.
Most of the time, I am far from a butthole. I consider myself very kindhearted and sensitive, but I am also blunt and honest. I'm sure this can be perceived as harsh or brash sometimes, but I also only do so when I know the person can take it and are asking for my honest opinion. And I try to do so in a loving way. And it takes a lot to really infuriate me past a rant, but when I do, those rare moments have can become ugly. No, but really, I'm sweet for the most part. Seriously! I'm thoughtful, concerned, loving and a great friend. I can give you references if you don’t believe me. But here I sit realizing I've been a big, fucking butthole about something in particular. North Carolina.
I know I already had my "be grateful" moment during a recent packing session, but I have to touch upon something further that struck me like lightning the last few days, particularly tonight. Yes, High Point is not my cup of tea, but there are good places here in this state. There are good people. I see now that there are other adventures in this state that could have possibly worked for me. And I all of a sudden feel like I missed a year and a half of happiness because of my actions and attitude.
High Point is not great for me, but I've had fun in other places. I've looked into moving to Charlotte, which could have worked. And I briefly looked into Asheville, which I loved, but they didn't pan out due to a lack of perseverance after seeking it out for a bit. Then this last weekend I went out on a date with a guy I'd met on the film set last April. He lives in Chapel Hill and took me out Friday night, and I had the best time! Chapel Hill is an awesome town, and I could totally see myself living there after only one night. It's definitely up my alley in so many ways! The people I was introduced to seemed cool, the food was good, the places were dark and had edge and depth to them, and the music...ahhhh the music. I found myself shouting, "Oh my god! It's Band of Horses...Spoon..." etc. I had long conversations about really great music and books and life. I felt at home there. It was a wonderful night, and as I drove home the next day, I felt like a fool that I'd judged this entire state off my experience in a few places that I knew prior to moving here, were not for me.
This regret has been hanging over me like that cloud that rained over the Flinstones' Adams Family-like neighbors wherever they went. Then tonight I had the most amazing experience that touched my heart and really made me feel like a big piece of shit.
I'm selling all my furniture for my move. I posted it on Sunday on Craigs List and was overwhelmed by the responses. I now sit here in a near-empty apartment minus two pieces of furniture that are being picked up tomorrow. So this couple came to check out my couch and loveseat. They decided to buy it, but had to get a truck to do so tomorrow. They paid for it and left. A while later the guy called asking if I had cats because his wife was sneezing and is totally allergic? I said I indeed I did, and we were talking about how often they'd been on the couches and such. Then he asked if they were already in Seattle because they hadn't seen them? I started to choke up and said they were here and I’d had been trying to find them a home for a month and a half, as I was going to have to take them to a shelter by the end of the week. He starts telling his wife this, and they're all sad and said they're going to try to help me! She's going to ask around at work and might know someone who could foster them. He tells me how if his wife weren't allergic, he'd have a cat and how growing up, his family always took in strays. "We're animal lovers, and don't want to see this happen to them, so we'll help if we can." I start to cry and thank them profusely.
I'm sorry, but I am blown away by the kindness of strangers sometimes. And for someone who has been so judgmental of this town, I have to eat crow on this one. In addition to my one amazing friend I had upon coming here, and the two other great ones I met in the last year, the last few months I have met more and more really great, kind, warm people. Maybe they were there all along and I've simply let down my defenses a bit? I'm not sure, but all I know is that I realize that sometimes circumstances and situations prohibit the reality of a situation from being clear. One's perspective can be clouded from simply witnessing certain...okay many...events. However, I am proven time and time again that shifting that perspective even slightly, raises the blinds and lets some sun in. This town is definitely not my thing, but it doesn't make it bad. I'm beyond touched by what these strangers are doing for me. And through this simple act, I all of a sudden find myself sitting here recalling little pieces of kindness and selfless acts I've witnessed here. It makes me sad that I've just let the negative stand out and tromp all over the beauty of the little things.
And so with that, I apologize dear High Point and it's neighbors. We're definitely not two puzzle pieces that fit together, but we both contribute to the bigger, greater picture. And North Carolina....maybe you're not so bad after all.
