I Fell In Love The Way You Fall Asleep: Slowly, and Then All At Once

I was about seven when my Mom got me a hamster. I named her Chrissy. Light brown, sorta fat, cute as a little talking chipmunk. Mind you—this is coming from a person that’s terrified of rats, roaches, spiders, and everything creepy. At first, she used to snip at me. Nip my fingertips wildly. Then I got some hamster treats in psychedelic colors and all was well in the world. I know little animals aren’t smart generally, but this one likely had a high IQ level. Seriously. Chrissy was brilliant and organized. Chrissy had bucky white teeth like she brushed them with Colgate. She didn’t muck up her cage like other hamsters I’d seen, and she even twirled her tiny hands around her face to clean herself! [Later I realized all hamsters do this] When she got her hamster snacks, she separated them by kind. Sunflowers, random nuggets, etc.  This thing was cute—ity bity and she’d curl up into a ball in the palm of my hand and fall asleep regularly. Like she gained trust in me. Sometimes she fell asleep on her back while I was petting her. I held her all the time. I put her in this clear little medicine ball with a small doorway, and let her run around my room while I studied. I’m sure we had many other good times, but that’s what I can remember.

It was a slow-growing affection. Then, I fell in love with the little thing.

Then one day I loved her so much I gave her a raisin as a treat. (Hey, it looked just like the trail mix she was already eating.) I saw her stomach boil sideways unnaturally, then I saw her keel over. She still moved around a bit but I ran to get Mom. All I remember next was I started crying, then I took a short nap. When I got up Chrissy was running amuck in her cage and when I went to pick her up to apologize for possibly making her sick—she bit my finger—hard! I was bleeding.

When I went to hold her she squiggled out of my hands so determined. When I put her in her exercise ball she wouldn’t move around and explore. She just sat there.

All of the things that made this hamster adorable to me were gone. She wasn’t cuddly. She wasn’t the same little cute face I could play with. I kept trying to make her behave right again, but she just wouldn’t. Then one day I looked at her teeth. They were yellow and big! Immediately I stomped in to my Mom exclaiming

“Where is Chrissy?! This is not my hamster!!!”

Mom explained to me that it was Chrissy and that all was ok, not to worry.

I didn’t like the New Chrissy, but it didn’t matter because not too soon after New Chrissy escaped and was not ever found.

A couple of years ago I was having wine with my Mother (as an adult) and I asked her what had happened to Chrissy. She looked at me big-eyed and bursty and said

“Gyyyyrl, that hamster had died and I ain’t know what to tell you!”

We laughed about it, but after, I realized how hard it is to tell the truth when you know what you will say will hurt someone you don’t want to hurt. Mom had shot out to the store and grabbed a look-alike of Chrissy and plopped her in Chrissy’s cage to avoid explaining death to me. If a person is prepared, it still hurts, it just hurts a lot less, making it worth it to communicate beforehand. What might have been better? Killing my fairytale. Getting me to accept the reality, the possibility early on of what is to come.  Teaching me that the hamster wasn’t going to last forever anyway, and, perhaps teaching me that she needn’t have raisins. Communication is the key, the lock and the Dropbox.

Photo by JoyHey

Yes, perhaps some casual and comfortable conversation easing me into the reality that hamsters won’t live forever. I was young, but the blatant lie and confusion? It sets me up to fall down.

Slow and concentrated.

This is the way we should talk to the people we care about. This is the way we should communicate with each other. Slowly, and then all at once. This is the way we prepare someone for what is to come. Slowly, and then all at once. This is the way we teach them how to grow with us. Slowly, and then all at once. This is how we avoid confusion and disappointment, “we man up.” We become responsible for ourselves, our actions, and the presentations and perceptions we’re exposing. Slowly, and then all at once. This is the way we learn how to trust, slowly, then all at once. This is the way we discuss things like adults. Slowly, and then all at once.

This is the way I want to fall in love.  Slowly, and then all at once.

The more lessons I’ve learned the hard way, the more lessons I’ve kept. How do I like my information? —Sugar-coated and straightforwardly oxymoronic. Yes. The truth doesn’t set you free, but it helps you sleep—and that’s kindove the same thing.





There’s a moment, in the dark, wanted to talk ‘til I sunk.

A sketchwork glow. A patchwork quote. A skeptic overdosing on the tips.

Careful, I might fall in love with the shipwreck. I want. I want.

I want it at the creases where the please starts leaking spring water.

I will start from the matchstick and capture it, every inch.

I will redefine our kisses in skittish, jump from the rim.

And read to you read to you read to you.



I’ll explain later. Too busy.

Damn, He’s Good Looking

The man I am staring at looks like this guy, possibly could have been him, lol.

The man I am staring at looks like this guy. See why I'm staring?

I’ve been staring at Mr. Gorgeous from across the cafe for approximately six minutes when he looks over and catches me in mid-stare. A few things come to mind:

1. O shit.

2. O shit.

3. Damn, he’s good looking.

I go back to writing. The thing is, I have a problem with concentration. Did I mention he wore argyle? I’m a sucker for argyle, and gorgeousness behind glasses. I think I’m over the last thought when, he smiles. His eyes look like wide almonds, I’d like to catch a grenade for him, lol. Am I shallow? And then I laugh at myself. I have three hundred things to do in one day, I cannot sleep most nights, and here I am waiting on inspiration when I wouldn’t know it if it hit me on the back of my fat head in slow motion.

The guy looks at me again. I stare at my computer screen like I’m writing the bestseller I hope I’m writing. The waitress with the blonde hair that doesn’t look naturally blonde, her overly-heavy mascara—she is kind—brings me my omelette. It has avocados in case y’all didn’t know. Later, I find a hair in the omelette as I’m on my third to last bite. The manager comes over to apologize and thinks I don’t want to pay for it. She tells me that the waitress was crying. Funny, I’d already eaten it, I had every intention to pay for the hairy eggs I just devoured. The waitress overhears her tell me that she’d been crying. She says

“Did she just say I was crying?”

“Yes” I smirk.

And she laughs. It’s a funny thing what people do when something goes wrong.

Mr. gorgeous met up with some other man. They are talking, he has mentioned me because the guy he is sitting with has looked over at me, trying to disguise the fact that he is trying to see me.

1. Is he checking me out?

2. He must be selling something.

3. I’ve had enough bad luck for this month, ignore them both.

And so I do. I finish my homework assignment like a good girl should. I take my crazy meds, lol. I drink my chamomile bread and sip my warm toast, and I ready myself to leave. As I am packing my stuff up, the heavy make-upped waitress leans over and tells me that the men across the room (the delicious one and his buddy) were checking me out and joking about there being no ring on my finger.

*The man in the picture above is French accented Willy Monfret. Lawd have some kinda mercy on my soul. Lol.

Can’t Find The Man of My Dreams ‘Cause I Don’t Sleep


I'm definitely the baby in this picture

I'm definitely the baby in this picture, lol

Every five minutes the thing nearest me changed into a mistake and disappeared. —Tao Lin

I’m in, if, of, and. I miss him like writing with my left hand. Tea cup got up and said “damn, that’s bad.” The what you’ve got til’ it’s gone. Watching me sleep. Zumba drop out. Clothes don’t fold themselves. Walls don’t happen to paint themselves fireplace red. Over my head. Send to journals. Write it. Revise it. Read it. Scratch it out. Insomniacs anonymous. He winked at me! And then I am there. I love it when a man winks. Then I have blacked. Then I am where? He said welcome to my world and held my hand while we were going under. I don’t swim like a fishie. How come they don’t tell you the things you want are gonna hurt this much? I’m poppin’ Motrins on a roller coaster.


*Woman of my dreams, I don’t sleep so I can’t find her* actual lyric by Lil Wayne

C-List Celebrity

Trash truck’s outside and it’s blaring loud. Why? I’m trying to write. Fruity pebbles all over the breakfast nook table. Creativity stifled. Why? Fear of fail. YOUR. Or rather failing me. What has my creativity done for me lately? Made me crazy.


We all know the common no one’s perfect, and no one is. But just for once I want to be the person someone is talking about instead of just overhearing some stranger’s conversation that “my sister just won $26,000 on the penny slots in Vegas!” I want to be less envious of better writers, and more courageous. 

So here I go as promised; some fiction if you will:

C-List Celebrity

He was a C-list celebrity. Cute enough. Brown hair, bright blue eyes, sometimes green— which made me immediately think of babies. Our babies would have his eyes because of the dominant gene, or maybe not, anyway— lucky him.  He wore baseball caps, switched jobs like cigarettes, and drove a brand new car— very little mileage I’d noticed from the first time he picked me up.  This time we were going to go to a bar lounge. He sent me a text when he was outside.

I threw on my zebra heels, powder pink lipstick, and crimped my hair for aesthetics. High-waist black mini skirt, lavender lace top, black camisole. If I am going to cause a scene, I’m going to cause one. I’s colored my hair auburn in regret; I’d made so many mistakes since my ex had put a hex on me two years prior.

“Hey beautiful,” he says to me in his Boston accent.

“Heiiii” I clamor back, just then not sure if I should go out at all.

I pull the handle of the toy truck. New car smell. Ah. Same as I remember from a few weeks earlier. Third date’s the date something’s supposed to happen. Something always happens on the third date.

“Melissa-Janaé you look…” Jerry does his fingers like a New York pizza maker, kissing the tips in a delectable fashion. It makes me giggle and squirm. The night may be up to something.

We scavenge around Los Angeles to end at a lounge decorated in blue accents. Streaming lights and cameras flash as we exit the car, valet dashes off without manners only nods and I find myself clutching his arm. Perhaps a B-list celebrity? I walk through golden-rimmed doors and a shimmering chandelier to shit yourself over. Jerry takes my hand and leads me straight to the bar. Everyone seems to know him as a regular. I recognize people from TV shows, but know none of their names.

“A shot of patron and a shot of that” he points at some basic tequila.

I don’t like drinking on an empty stomach, without prior conversation, or taking shots as a precursor for the night ahead. Back to a bad night, I think to myself.

The tall over friendly bartender pours the shots without looking, but staring definitely at me. He is staring at my legs, I can tell. We take the shots and mine goes down smoothly, follows with me sucking the top of my mouth deliciously, The alcohol races to my arms, I am going to do something stupid tonight. Utterly undoably stupid.

Jerry flounders on about some fight and how he was such a tough guy back in his heyday and I try to pretend that I’m interested although I am listening. Listening was never my problem, caring about what was being said. Ah.

We end up taking two more shots apiece, I feel them tremendously and tell myself, if nothing else this will solidify freedom. My ex can’t come back, if I’ve finally moved on—at least physically. “Show off” is still dancing around himself while I’ve eyed three other guys interested, two on a couch adjacent very apparently brothers.

“Those heels are magnificent,” Jerry says to me. Obviously not a fan of the heels but rather the upper thigh. I sigh and smile, obviously not in need of a compliment, but rather stimulating conversation. He asks if I am ready to go which meant my body language was working and we exit the “ooh la-la lounge” not holding hands. Valet runs across the street to a lot, I scuffle my feet inward like I was trying to kick skittles and when I look up they are pulling the truck around the bend. Jerry jumps in and valet is nearly trying to buckle my seatbelt for me. What a nice place.

We stop off at Jerry’s penthouse, specifically because I imagine he wanted to brag of himself again, and I resist no temptation. He was such an intelligent, funny, good-looking man.

“I need to get home, I’ve got practice tomorrow.” I lied. I had no practice and didn’t know what the practice would have been for even if I did.

“Ah, ok.” An interested or even interesting person would’ve asked what I’m practicing for, but him not challenging my lie at that moment—all the better. My arms felt heavier and I wasn’t sure my wit and creativity would’ve been fast enough. We floor the elevator from the penthouse and hop in his car once more. Still, I am a little impressed.

As we pull back up to my house I can feel anticipation building. I was going to start the session then invite him up. I’d feel more comfortable. He goes on about how he likes girls to do this, and a girl he dated did that, and he hated it when she did this. I spaced out and leaned in for the kiss.

Wasn’t bad but I would’ve preferred less spit gushing.  We wait. I go in for the kill again. Hair ends up in my mouth and I giggle.

“Your smile is so beautiful.” He’s quickly losing points for unoriginality. I hike down my skirt and lean in again, hoping that the more I kiss him, the less unappealing things he’ll say to me.

“I wish we had gotten food, I’m starving, and tacos would hit the spot right now.” I say bored, and thinking of some Mexican food I would never eat, on a night I would never drink so much, with a feeling I would never have for someone I don’t know past three dates.

I tell two quick stories one of my father when he was going to school to become a dermatologist, and another commenting on his story from the bar— he interrupts.

“Do you talk during sex? Because that just won’t do”

“What?” I stutter. I’m thinking quickly but reacting slowly, alcohol boils in my bellyache. Blinking is in stop-motion.

I rage in my head. All night I’ve listened to this man gloat about himself, talk about his past fights, his drug life, his women, buy me shots of “I hope I get lucky tonight,” and he is now implying that I talk too much? I was planning to have sex with him but now that he’s made it clear that he’d expected it, I can’t.

“Yes, I talk during sex! I talk, and I whisper, and I moan and I might even tell ghost stories!”

I hop out of his car and slam the door. I stumble away as my zebra heel gets stuck in the uneven pavement; I pull it out and nearly fall to the floor. I look backwards to see if he’d seen me but all I could hear as I look back was the roar of his toy truck zizzing off into the night‑mad as a bee sting to the eye. I waddle up the walkway to my porch, kick over a flowerpot, stumble at the screen, open the wooden door, fall to the ground and let the tears drip down my face finally reaching my lace top.  I open the oven to feel as I pre-heat and prepare to bake myself a cake. It is my birthday, after all.

Picture is repinned by Lynsey @Pinterest original source unknown.

The Question is But Who?

Fell in love with this flash fiction the other day while doing research. Any guesses as to why? Lol. I’ll be back up and running in a while. But for now check out this book. Many great authors inside. Hint Fiction: An Anthology of Stories in 25 Words or Fewer, edited by Robert Smartwood.

Gargoyles and Gargantuan Predators or In Case of Emergency Run Like Hell!!!

The person this story is about hopefully isn’t following everything that I write. But, I run that risk writing nonfiction. It’s over, who cares. For the sake of not getting a trillion emails I will change his name to “exhibit A” and not give the year or time, but other than that—story is real.

He had horrible breath. But, that was because he was the only man I knew that drank heavier than a gurgling hyena that passed out mid-sentence. I thought it was funny. Puerto Rican, with the most beautiful eyes—corner pocket I’d fall in love. Or what I wish to this day wasn’t ever strong enough to pose as love.

I can pinpoint all of my mistakes. It was a one-sided friendship, which usually turns into a one-sided relationship. He had friends that lived in my area, but he resided what maybe was an easy hour away except for his “gramma’s house,” which to this day I don’t know if it was ever his real gramma or some friend’s house that he made up. Back to how adorable he was: The kind of man most women assume will be chased, but still keep the hope that even if he chases others he still shows up at her door. Seriously, if he showed up at my door tomorrow I would purposely forget this story I am about to tell you. Not really, but I’d sure entertain what he’d say, and that ladies and gentlemen is how terribly gorgeous this man was.

I met him at my x best friend’s birthday party. I looked at him and knew no way he I was leaving without talking to this fool.

His pants slightly baggy, his hair wavy, his eyes glossy-dark, his voice boisterous enough for me to not miss, even in my own screaming, “happy birthday!” It was indeed a celebration. We were in a hotel. A patio called “Glo,” in Marina Del Rey. There were imitation fire lamps speckled across the court-yard and cabanas that made every section look private. I wore what I can now remember as my cute “freakum dress” tied off with halter belt worn high, everything was love.

I first noticed “exhibit A” as the event was ending. We flirted and I found that he was a friend of a friend’s friend. It was far down the line of I somewhat know you. Fast forward this night to the morning when we’d all apparently passed out in the hotel room floor after waking to a knock of room service bringing me a $70 breakfast I’d drunkenly ordered on my way to lalaville. O, I was young indeed. I remember leaving the hotel the next morning after having spent a whopping $470 and some odd dollars. Like I said, good times.

I was happy as a honeybee zizzing albeit hung over. Exhibit A and I began falling in lusciousness right away. I was invited to hang out. After a few long conversations, consistently driving back and forth to his house (yes, me and my horrific driving skills paved the road) I considered myself to be in “love.” Ha.

Exhibit A and I were inseparable. The early stages of infatuation is so intoxicating. Thinking about this made me realize how much I alone contributed to the friendship… and how that has affected my later relationships and life experiences.

He ended up disappearing for weeks not responding to calls or text messages. A month into the absence and just when I was ready to jump from a balcony somewhere all dramatic and pretty he calls saying something about some family issue, a failed test, and someone trying to hurt his sister. What? Random. He had excuses bigger than an execution day. It was only after I called bulls*it, that I found out he’d met another girl who coincidentally had the same name as I did and they were all over each others’ social networking pages. To this day I can’t remember any other disappointment being so much fun.

I’ve been on guard of one-sided friendships/relationships ever since. I’ll try for a while, and if I see I’m the only one trying… I let go. I’m always waiting for the rug that gets pulled. Or in my case, the whole damn floor.

I’m writing this for a friend who happened to call me today with what I see as a similar situation. I’ve learned it’s not nice to cut people off with your story that trumps their own   so this one is for you, ____, I love you. I know that much like me, you like to believe in the good that each person has. But you also fall for the best gargoyles and gargantuan predators. Unfortunately or rather fortunately my gargoyle wasn’t much worried about me, and I honestly hope you are as lucky. I mean that in the best way. It’ll sting for a while, but you’ll be ok. Sometimes, I’m learning… it’s best to cut your losses.

Recommended reading: You Lost Me at Hello, by Jess McCann.

Breakfast Potatoes and A Waste of My Time

Some things don’t go right first try, or second, or third.

But what about ever?

Is there a point where you give up? I was taught that you never give up, especially on dreams. O another near miss. Today I received the nicest “no,” for a position I was solicited for. How does that happen you ask? Somebody tells somebody that they know somebody and then… that somebody calls my phone thinking I’m somebody I never told them I was. She said she was looking for all of these things that’re directly displayed in my undergraduate degree in Organizational Management, again… sweetest pie of a lady.

First off she was late. Not ten minutes, but over thirty. The gal at the front had given me paperwork to fill out as usual with interviews, lalalala. I was psyched because the company is well-known, pretty much up my alley and after my experiences working in Visual Merchandising for Forever21 and Abercrombie and Fitch, I pretty much had it all. Except maybe whatever she was looking for. When she approached me I was still filling out the paperwork as I tend to be most detailed on the page. She invites me to continue working. Anywho… She waits a few tables down, I finish and approach the table.

We wander off in Visuals, Fashion, and finally the detail: Management conversation. As soon as I heard the word management I began to skiddle off checking out her blouse the buttons, her hair, the table adjacent, the fabric, the texture, everything I’d learned told me that she was not in Fashion herself, nonetheless she looked polished. I wore my dainty pale suit, matching pale earrings, pastel socks, beige heels, one pink crystal ring, and my Banana Republic slacks. I carried my portfolio, tea cup, and my rainy day smile. Although I have marketing and management experience I neglected to (purposely) put that on my resume and paperwork because truth be told; I don’t want another stressful management position… and as picky would have it- if I’m going to be stressed out about a job, it’ll be A. my own company, or B. at least a position in managing something with an emphasis in Fashion or Writing. C’mon… it’s my heart and soul. The reason I went into Fashion Writing, Fashion Merchandising, and stayed up wee hours in the super-morning dressing mannequins, cursing when the arm or leg fell off. I love to style a mannequin as much as I love to write stories.

Conversation speeds to an end. Just as I felt the meeting to be going well she whips out the actual position she’s looking to fill: … Store Management. Heart drops. Not Merchandise Manager, Product Description Writer, Fashion Guru– but Manager. Basic. She refers me a few places. I veer off again wishing I wouldn’t have wasted my gloomy morning excited about an opportunity that didn’t end up being what I thought it was. All of the fashion articles, the window displays, the artsy fartsy things I’ve done… and everyone wants to offer me up bland and basic. I’ve managed a Sales Team: Marketing and Promotions, I’ve managed a Health Club: Member Retention and 55+ Classes, and I’ve worked in writing, fashion, and mentored students. All exciting. She wants me to manage a store and tells me that because of my experience in Fashion and because my management experience is a few years behind me that I am not a good candidate. How nice. Really? How nice.

Back to submitting my work. Heck, I’m on overload nearing exertion anyway.

I’ve worked with amazing people and once even worked in an impossible setting of horrid treatment for over 4 years, and I’ve always been a big fierce compliant “by-the-book” Professional. Whyever can’t things work out for me, just once? O that and I made my favorite comfort food onion breakfast potatoes, with a side of grapes, turkey sausage, and warm tea. I sure hope my luck gets, better.

I ache

What about when you’ve done everything? Given everything? Tried everything?

What about when everyone says to make lemonade when you’ve been given lemons…

but all I’ve received is lemons without enough time to make trees?

What about being stretched in too many places to please everyone?

What about when I’m no longer sure of anything? Anyone?

Wanna move away, run away? What about staying? Wanna just sleep.

I’m in love with your… occupation…

Be careful what you don’t wish for… is what that title should say. But it doesn’t because I, like so many others, fall in love with a person’s occupation. How much time they can give me or not. How much we have in common and how much he loves the things he loves. I can fall in love with a person because of the authors he reads, really.  How we react on the level of conversation  solely depends on experiences, and in most cases the occupations we’ve had or have. I find it so startling that people don’t realize  how an occupation or job can affect personality, lifestyle, and not just their future but their partner’s future as well. Just like the largest arguments in relationships are either money or money.

Example number one: A wonderfully witty writerly friend of mine… smart, outgoing, studied at the top Universities, everything going for her, met the man of her dreams and likewise. She saved up and up and up and finally was able (with her husband’s help) to buy a home. Now the only thing she complains of is her extremely high bills because of her need to keep up her house payments, and the way she doesn’t like her job anymore but can’t afford to do anything else that will pay the same amount. She could potentially change occupations, but she loves what she does- just not the people she works with… but what? O yes, the house she bought… is near her job. Classic circle. Her and her husband aren’t doing as well as she would want them to because they’re financially strained, but there isn’t anything that can be done that won’t take too long. This all happened because she wanted a home, which was all because she was fooled into thinking that what she loved to do would take precedence over not having the friendliest of co-workers. It’s a shame because now she says things like “Before we got married, my boyfriend and I were happy and our nice ocean view apartment was well enough…” She’s stuck.

Example number two: My ex and I were happy. Happy. Happy. Get the keyword? Happy. He’d worked at Sport Chalet for a while and never forgot to kiss me,  sweet pecks and foreheads being my favorite. We’d hold hands and we’d have movie days where we wouldn’t get out of bed, you know-normal. Then, he got a job at AAA, liked it, moved up made more money, then worked for TSA… (he then had less time because his hours changed to having to be at work at 4A.M., which meant he had to go to bed by 7:30 or 8. This meant less time for us to read together,  cuddle, or talk about our day. Ten minutes into my lengthy monologue about how interesting my day was overseeing Member Retention at Spectrum Health Club, I’d look over at him and he looked as if he’d been sleeping for hours. This is what started the failure of our relationship: Not being able to spend the time with each other that we were used to. I longed for the days when he worked back at Sports Chalet, even though he made less money. Back when we were organized but careless with how much care we put into the little things: favorite candies on the dresser, drawing each other funny pictures, calling to whisper something sweet and sexy at work, o how I missed it. And later, our communication barrier backed up, and soon everything that was fun to us like taking ten loads of laundry to the laundromat and sitting on top of the dryer reading, changed to… “I’m not going with you to do the laundry ‘cause I gotta go to work early tomorrow,” my reply was usual… “you have to go to work every day early though,”  I ran around the house like a porcupine cleaning up after him, doing the laundry, cooking for him and my son and he became someone I resented for not remaining the same after his job switch. When he got hired as a Federal Officer- his demeanor and reactions to everything changed. That job assimilated him to be more equipped to care less and less about other peoples’ feelings with the notice that if he did care he would be sensitive to the masses and that would cause him to fail at his job. Or that was my take on it. He brought that attitude home and didn’t care if I said “I love you,” or if I’d said “I’m going to pour red soup on you business suits.” It was all the same to him. Our relationship was never good after he got that job. Yes, an occupation changes a person- whether they like it or not. I was stuck.

More examples: My friend wants to be a doctor. I think he’d make an incredible doctor, I just don’t think he’s thought the sacrifice out. Another friend of mine got a sales position and all she has to say to me now is something marketing or promotions related. When she calls me, I see her call and I just don’t have the energy to hear about the uppity ups of her career, or the ignorant rants of her boss… especially after she’d wanted to be working so badly. Complete hypocrite because of how intricately I myself, obsess over things. But in a nutshell-jobs change people. What people do from  9 to 5 is pivotal. Balance and being able to remain positive and forward moving is easier to talk about over a glass of wine, than it is to carry out.

Are you doing something that you love so much that when the boss is a pisser, or when the sales are low, or when the hours are long—you still love yourself enough to make your partner happy? This is when education becomes a strong factor and your passion should match the education you’re getting. Some friendships have worked when I was a manager and once I left that position, the friendship didn’t work anymore. Same with relationships when you want your woman or man to make more money, without realizing that more money means taking the chance that you may see that person less and less. This may cause more stress or strain on the relationship if you go into it without knowing this. Trying to save to buy a house is incredible,  a new car, invest—all of it affects the relationship and the friendships that you have. After my dad’s business got incredibly successful he had no time for his family, but he took care of us monetarily, and that was supposed to be good enough. And it was, for  some time. Then not so much.  Even as an adult I still crave his attention. Again, stuck.

I am highly attracted to goals… not occupations.  Discipline and the ability one has to balance his schedule; not dividends, titles, and promotions. What good is a disorganized genius? Better is someone who can carry out an idea and see its fruition, as opposed to someone who attains a position and doesn’t fully expand his or herself within or seek other higher possibility. Someone that gets better with time, but someone who also has good timing. This is what I love about teaching, editing, and writing.  There are so many wishful dreamers in the world, let us all seek to find the happiest occupation without letting it alter our friendships and relationships to the point of loss.

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