Why no, I'm not from around here. Earth, I mean.

I'm sitting here this morning being jealous of my ex-boyfriend fishing with his seven year old son. Not in a bad jealous way. Mainly because he and I never got to go fishing together before TSHTF*. I'm also pissed off because my friend at Notre Dame isn't writing me back after two weeks, and although I know he's busy and has a life, sheesh. Throw me a bone here.

So.

They are selling boiled crawfish out of that trailer down on 61 North. Spring has arrived in Mississippi. It's not the groundhog you watch around here. It's Tbeaux's.

I'm sick of writing about depressing shit. These are the things I know:

I don't want to be here.
I don't want things to have gone wrong with my ex.
I have hope for a future I can't yet imagine.
I wake up every day feeling pretty crappy about life.
I need a job and I cannot find one.

That pretty much sums it up. My brain has been a mess the past few days. I have cried my way through an entire box of tissues. That's a lot of snot, people, because I don't just blow once and throw it away. I use that lil fucker UP.

I'm slowly accepting that I am not some sort of special super genius empathic magical being, which may come as a surprise to my friends who've been trying to explain to me how NOT a piece of shit I am. Call me conflicted. My self-image may be in the toilet, but my imaginary hopeful self-image was not. You know, it's that same hopeful self-image that some people have when they tell themselves they MUST be adopted? Well, I have secretly hoped, somehow, beyond all rationality, that I MUST NOT BE FROM HERE.

Anyway.

Carry on.

*TSHTF: The shit hit the fan. Used in many contexts.