Oh say it ain't so. Tell me tomorrow is NOT Monday. Please. I beg of you.

Sigh. Tomorrow is Monday, isn't it. And not just any Monday. Tomorrow is Monday, January 6. Tomorrow is the first day of school. And of course I have not even thought about the syllabus. Of course. Technical writing, I'm teaching. Oh blech. Blechity blech blech BLECH.

It's such a weird weather day. It's bright and sunny right this second, but when I was out about an hour ago, the entire sky was nearly black with all manner of fearsome storm clouds. And then there was hail. But you'd never know it to look out there now. I guess I should probably take Bash out for a long walk. Yesterday we trekked for nearly four hours all around town. I walked by the house of just about everyone I know. We were completely spent afterwards--we crashed together on the bed and that too was good. I've a lot of lost sleep to catch up on.

Well. In spite of walking by the house of everyone I know in town, I did not actually see anyone I know, nor did I talk to a single person all day yesterday. I needed that, I suppose, though it did make me feel a bit forlorn. Ah well. It's hard, sometimes, to readjust. I miss having people about, it seems. Miss my family, miss my friends. But it's nice, too, not to have to put on a mood. Alone, with the dog and cats, I can just be my blank self, which is good and refreshing too.

I took a whole mess of personality tests online last night--I was attempting to get myself back into writing and therefore decided that I needed to know exactly which personality type I am. Yeah yeah, procrastinator extraordinaire. I am, as I have always been, an INTJ. No change. I always think there will be a change, but there never is. I think most INTJ types are much neater than I am. I'm a messy scatter-brain. From what I gather, many INTJ's are sort of rigid, anal rententive types, aren't they? Am I? Oh who bloody well cares. The fact is, the writing got nowhere. And still, I have to get that syllabus written and the miscellaneous bills scattered about paid. Life on track, etc., you know the boring drill.

Coming down after the highs of the past weeks is harder than I thought it would be. I felt like something important and positive was happening, like I was breaking through some terrible barrier (and maybe that's true), but now, the whole world is anti-climactic. Dull.

My folks, for Christmas, gave me many new CDs (here's what I can remember off the top of my head: Fishbone, two Jeff Buckley, Tim Buckley, Bob Dylan, Otis Redding, Greg Brown) as well as a CD player for the truck and I've been having some fun driving around listening to the Fishbone CD today--it's a double CD, a greatest hits (or something) + B sides. Me and Bash rolled down our windows and sang really loud "U.G.L.Y." and "Lyin' Ass Bitch." I love Fishbone.

I was quite pleased with the gifts I gave my folks for Christmas--they both turned out really well. For my dad: I made him copies of about 15 CDs and then I made a CD book to put them in. It had Woody Guthrie quotes all over it. It looked pretty damned good, if I do say so myself. He kept showing it to everybody who came over, which warmed the cockles of my heart. And for my mom, I made a public journal thing. It was a concept gift, really. I made a big journal (which also looked really great) and I made a box to go with it and I put all kinds of things in the box--pictures I cut out and stickers and glue sticks and crayons and markers and scissors. Everyone she meets is supposed to contribute to the journal--sorta like that 1000 journals project idea, except, of course, she'll know everyone who writes in it and she'll get to keep the finished product.

This year, brother Joe also made books for everyone. He made me a poetry journal and Oliver a vegan cookbook and my dad a tool book and my mom a book about the house. It was the year of books.

Right now? I'm just not doing the things I must do. I really must get started. I hate this feeling of dread. I don't want to teach anymore, y'all. It'd be so much easier if I could just find a mate, don't you think? Then we could live together and I wouldn't need the teaching money and I could make my books and write my poems and stories and not have to worry all the time about teaching shit I don't know. Or, if I had a roommate who I could stand to live with and who could stand to live with me. That would be acceptable too. Man. This last paragraph is like the most boring refrain of my life, but also the most consistent, no?

It's just, I'm the only one of my friends who's still single. Where oh where did I go wrong? I'm too demanding and too cantankerous and too in love with my own solitary company to be a good match for anyone, I suspect. Ugh. I get around people, friends, and the talk is all filled with marriages and babies and cohabitation and buying homes together and I got nothing to say. I'm still in the exact same place, for the most part, that I was in 10 years ago. No change. Well, except maybe for the worse. Maybe I've become even more of an impossible bachelor. Can girls be bachelors? The female equivalent is an old maid, or spinster, and damn. No thanks.

Ok. Whine whine whine. If I didn't have to teach I like to think I'd be far more content with my lot. But I do and so I better get moving. Syllabus. Technical writing. Blech.