single ladies.

So. The high powered, independent woman doesn't have the time (or energy, or patience, or...you get it) to find a boyfriend but she still wants someone to be the big spoon.

Enter : incredibly awkward pseudo boyfriend arm pillow*. Yes, that is a pillow shaped like an arm and half of a torso complete with half of a man's shirt because they couldn't quite replicate the texture of skin. I'm hoping.

I don't think I've ever been this disturbed in my entire life.

*available at overstock.com. just in case.

hindsight.

There's a tiny scar on my right hand. It's about an inch long and sometimes you can only see it when the light hits a certain way. It blends right into my skin, just a mild imperfection on my hand. It keeps fading, but I know it's never really going anywhere.

I remember exactly how I got the scar. It was my 20th birthday and I ran upstairs and pulled my bangle off my wrist and proceeded to scratch the back of my hand with my nail. I remember laughing and thinking it was no big deal, just a scratch. 

Every time I look at my hand I see manicured nails, the odd papercut, and that damn scar. I see everything that's happened in the past two years; the good, more bad, and even more of the completely unexpected. I can never quite get a handle on where my life is supposed to be. It looks like I've never been able to.

I keep finding myself falling back into old patterns. Staying up till 5 and going to work at 10. Apathy, disinterest, being increasingly annoyed by everything around me, blaming everyone but myself for my shortcomings. 

The problem is I pick my scars, both literally and figuratively. I can run over everything in my mind millions of times and never change a thing, and I really need to accept that and let it be.

...but if you can't let it be might as well make it bleed. 

static.

Half the time I still feel like I'm playing dress-up. The clothes, the tights, the hair, the shoes. All meticulously planned and orchestrated, written down in notebooks and checked off after each wear.

The 9-5 is surreal, to say in the least. There's something about walking to work each morning, 7 degree temperature and all, and doing something you love for hours. It never feels like work when I'm there, but the second I get home it feels like 10 hours of hard labor. I'm too restless to stay in, but too exhausted to go out and I can never justify coming home at 3AM with skipping class the next day because now it's really not an option.

Maybe surrendering to academia post grad isn't the best idea (although seeing as I have yet to hear back from a single school I don't think it will be an issue.) We'll see how this one turns out.