*stretch*
*Crack knuckles*
*breathe*
Maybe I will get out of bed today. Maybe.
Spent the weekend cosily doted on here, in the white sheets and sunshine. I am, and will continue to be, the luckiest girl in Montreal, should my capacity to choose such gorgeous and deserving lovers remain.
I say to him, I say... this work you"re doing agrees with you. You seem happy, and alive, in your reddened, tan skin, picking the concrete dust out of his hair... he says, I am, it does. He says, you seem slightly more stressed than I'd like you to be. Which I suppose is true.
Life at Rhamphorhynchus (the king of the dinosaurs! As well, my hot loft) plugs along, with it's minor annoyances contributing to the slightly stressed tinge I appear to be wearing. The couple I live with are lovely types. She, a bit of a nag, he a bit of a push-over. In the context of romance, I wouldn't put up with either of them, but that's neither here nor there. She, dear, close friend, is experiencing, like so many of my past roommates, her first apartment away from her parents house and is exhibiting those behaviours characteristic, including, but not limited to, the hording of furniture (We now have 18 chairs, and no storage space) the collection of all empty jars, containers and toiletrie bottles "just in case!" and the compulsion to put each and every individual item in the refrigerator in it's own plastic shopping bag "So it won't rot!" thereby increasing the rottage rate by about 50% and reducing my cucumber's findability to nil.
He, he is lovely, and runs around the apartment at all hours entertaining me with his frantic writer antics, which is good. What it means, is that I'm inclined to want to write more, and have hit the library for the tools with which to start big new projects. What is also means, is that he's frantic, and disorganized, and failed to tell me until a day or two before he started, that there'd be rehearsals in my living room every weeknight for the next three weeks. I love it. Philosophically. I hate it, practically. I cannot leave my room to take a piss or cook dinner without literally having to walk through the stage. I can't speak on the phone from 7 to 11, and I certainly can't get anything done.
The Ultra-Lame Day Job is coming to a rapid conclusion, which as jubilant news as that may be, also comes with a tad more strife than I enjoy. Seeing as my contract ends 3 weeks after my manager's (to whom I am assistant) does. Leaving me effectively promoted for those weeks, and untrained. I highly regret having taken this contract. It's left me feeling powerless and unheard, more often than not. (the project, sadly, failed, and had I been heard, would not have done.) It's failed to pay me adequately, and will not be compensating me for the majority of the overtime I've clocked. It's put strain on my work with my own company. It's put strain on my best-friendship. We cannot say that this one hasn't been a challenge, that's for sure. But! Over soon. And with a week's paid vacation at the end to make amends for some of that over-time. We now face impending unemployment. Things are changing.
Ah, life. As inspired by BDeyeD's hot new ink, my Facebook status has been set to "... is laene"
When we here at Ms. Quickley ran away to theatre school, it was to fulfil our dream of running away to Theatre School. And to our astonishment the dream, was, in fact, legitimate. I have not ever felt like I fit in anywhere I've been, but for the first time, I felt like I belonged.. That is an overwhelmingly positive sensation. Little is better for one's sense of self than feeling one's made the right decision for one's life. Theatre School is over, and I miss it.
I lived in fear at the end of my last term that the compulsion to continue to make theatre would fade without the rigid structure and goading and deadlines of school and teachers and classes, but no. In a fashion highly more relaxed and muchly more my own, we have continued to plug away at the craft. The compulsion has not ceased, and for this we are thrilled.
I took myself to the library on a chilly day a few weeks ago, and walked in awe among the stacks, breathing in the all-familiar smell of book mite poop and ink. The Webster's even quieter in the summer. Divine. I spent about an hour picking out my 5-book alumni ration and thought... I would spend my life here, in the halls of artistic, and creative academe. Give me my minions, I'm thinking. Give me my space. The time has come. Grad School, come git me.
*Crack knuckles*
*breathe*
Maybe I will get out of bed today. Maybe.
Spent the weekend cosily doted on here, in the white sheets and sunshine. I am, and will continue to be, the luckiest girl in Montreal, should my capacity to choose such gorgeous and deserving lovers remain.
I say to him, I say... this work you"re doing agrees with you. You seem happy, and alive, in your reddened, tan skin, picking the concrete dust out of his hair... he says, I am, it does. He says, you seem slightly more stressed than I'd like you to be. Which I suppose is true.
Life at Rhamphorhynchus (the king of the dinosaurs! As well, my hot loft) plugs along, with it's minor annoyances contributing to the slightly stressed tinge I appear to be wearing. The couple I live with are lovely types. She, a bit of a nag, he a bit of a push-over. In the context of romance, I wouldn't put up with either of them, but that's neither here nor there. She, dear, close friend, is experiencing, like so many of my past roommates, her first apartment away from her parents house and is exhibiting those behaviours characteristic, including, but not limited to, the hording of furniture (We now have 18 chairs, and no storage space) the collection of all empty jars, containers and toiletrie bottles "just in case!" and the compulsion to put each and every individual item in the refrigerator in it's own plastic shopping bag "So it won't rot!" thereby increasing the rottage rate by about 50% and reducing my cucumber's findability to nil.
He, he is lovely, and runs around the apartment at all hours entertaining me with his frantic writer antics, which is good. What it means, is that I'm inclined to want to write more, and have hit the library for the tools with which to start big new projects. What is also means, is that he's frantic, and disorganized, and failed to tell me until a day or two before he started, that there'd be rehearsals in my living room every weeknight for the next three weeks. I love it. Philosophically. I hate it, practically. I cannot leave my room to take a piss or cook dinner without literally having to walk through the stage. I can't speak on the phone from 7 to 11, and I certainly can't get anything done.
The Ultra-Lame Day Job is coming to a rapid conclusion, which as jubilant news as that may be, also comes with a tad more strife than I enjoy. Seeing as my contract ends 3 weeks after my manager's (to whom I am assistant) does. Leaving me effectively promoted for those weeks, and untrained. I highly regret having taken this contract. It's left me feeling powerless and unheard, more often than not. (the project, sadly, failed, and had I been heard, would not have done.) It's failed to pay me adequately, and will not be compensating me for the majority of the overtime I've clocked. It's put strain on my work with my own company. It's put strain on my best-friendship. We cannot say that this one hasn't been a challenge, that's for sure. But! Over soon. And with a week's paid vacation at the end to make amends for some of that over-time. We now face impending unemployment. Things are changing.
Ah, life. As inspired by BDeyeD's hot new ink, my Facebook status has been set to "... is laene"
When we here at Ms. Quickley ran away to theatre school, it was to fulfil our dream of running away to Theatre School. And to our astonishment the dream, was, in fact, legitimate. I have not ever felt like I fit in anywhere I've been, but for the first time, I felt like I belonged.. That is an overwhelmingly positive sensation. Little is better for one's sense of self than feeling one's made the right decision for one's life. Theatre School is over, and I miss it.
I lived in fear at the end of my last term that the compulsion to continue to make theatre would fade without the rigid structure and goading and deadlines of school and teachers and classes, but no. In a fashion highly more relaxed and muchly more my own, we have continued to plug away at the craft. The compulsion has not ceased, and for this we are thrilled.
I took myself to the library on a chilly day a few weeks ago, and walked in awe among the stacks, breathing in the all-familiar smell of book mite poop and ink. The Webster's even quieter in the summer. Divine. I spent about an hour picking out my 5-book alumni ration and thought... I would spend my life here, in the halls of artistic, and creative academe. Give me my minions, I'm thinking. Give me my space. The time has come. Grad School, come git me.
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FYI - the autumnal equinox is on Sept 22nd.