In other news, I'm fine, just puttering around working on a bunch of different things, and carefully monitoring my bank account for signs of weakness, at which point the temp agency shall be getting calls from me. Until that sadly encroaching day, though, I am here, making people watch British media, writing in coffee shops, and planning out UberSite, the Liz Web Experience I know for which you have all been so very hungry.
That was some good grammar, right there. Me write good.
At a coffee shop again, gazingly longingly at Amoeba Music, where I plan to hock a few of my belongings just after one more scene (ONE MORE SCENE) of this screenplay.
I thought I would be in a whole other land today, so I had no plans. But once it became apparent that I won't be going to the exotic Grand Canyon until at least Thursday, I filled up quickly with things to read and people to talk to and canyons to hike. That is what's nice about this life. The utter lack of boredom.
I have the most interesting tan line on my right shoulder. It is what it looks like when you wear a sports bra under a tiny tank top, and then play three hours of softball on a Sunday. It doesn't hurt, but it's approximately the one part of my body about which I can say that. I am in PAIN, friends, PAIN. But, hurts so good, as the song goes.
Sun is shining outside, I'm wearing socks because of the air conditioning, and so much British media just fell into my hands. Tonight, I'll read a Meg Cabot novel and get paid for the mindless pleasure.
LA soldiers on. I just ordered hot coffee in a coffee shop, and I'm wearing a zip-up hoodie. You wouldn't think these things are miraculous, but they are. Especially since it's 1 PM on Thursday, and I've got an afternoon of writing and an evening of more writing ahead of me.
The steady paycheck has just recently ceased for me, and it's early enough for me not to miss it, especially since I've got some Very Exciting Travel planned for next week and some fun projects to occupy me from here to Sacramento and back.
I don't miss the steady paycheck yet, but I am missing the lack of NPR on my commutes, because I never remember to check the news feeds and thus I'm not quite sure what's happening in the Middle East, but I know it's Not Good. So I do what I can to try and catch up, but it weighs on me.
A bit I may end up cutting from my Bookslut Comic-Con coverage:
THURSDAY 9:30 AM: Waiting for folks to get ready to leave, I watch as much of CNN as I can before switching to a rerun of Full House, then back again for the same. Bombs fall in Gaza. Scott Baio goads Uncle Jesse into yet another crazy stunt. I eat my banana.
I was at Comic-Con, and it was delightful. Good friends, good times. I moshed on the dance floor after Masquerade. Did other things, too. But after four years, the razzle-dazzle has worn off the experience; it all just becomes so routine. I'm wondering if I really want to go next year. I imagine that I'll look at the program guide and know for sure within moments, but maybe just a day will do me. Maybe that's all I really need, anymore.
Just now, I dropped off a dress at the dry cleaner's, and the girl asked me for my name, then wrote down "Rose." This happens to me constantly. People constantly returning calls, asking for Rose of this company or that. Rose Miller, this whole other person who just happens to be me, blurred. I think it's something about my inability to enunciate; it makes muttered Ls into Rs, adds an Uh to the end. You wouldn't think you could make those two words sound the same, but my tongue has special powers. Believe it.
I kind of bottomed out a bit mentally, at the top of July, huddled inside myself more than usual. But now I'm out and about again. When I say that my psychic powers are at their peak, I mean it. I'm running into people I never expected to see, trying things that I'd never imagine I could do. I'm observing at a new level, making connections that later turn out to be true. Tasting things differently. Making plans and seeing them maybe come to be. Things are going well, is what I'm saying. Possibilitiy lurks.
Right now, I'm fixated on the idea of running with the bulls in Pamplona. Something you never think about actually doing, and then you find out it's something that can be done. A plane ticket for the right day, and there you are. It's dangerous and silly and the average encierro lasts only three minutes, but I'd fly three thousand miles for those three minutes, I think. The San Fermin Fiesta isn't until July 6th, so I have eleven months to make up my mind. And save up the money. And learn Spanish. I want to learn Spanish. At least the words for "Watch out for the bulls!" Can't run with the bulls without knowing that, right?