I can imagine a life if I'd gone back east. I can imagine coming home from work and resting my elbows on the counter thinking about the assortment of green stuff in the clean fridge and arranging the handles on the mugs so they both pointed to the door and then wondering for 20 minutes about the implications of direction. I can imagine a space where the phones and their chargers belonged and always were unless on occasion they weren't there, in which case there would be yelling and probably crying along the lines of 'why aren't they there? Why aren't they where they are supposed to be and what is the matter with me that I can't leave my phone there every single time and now I'm going to be late!' and then refusing to go out as my hair has come undone and instead pouring a large glass of wine and going to bed where I'd curl around a stuffed animal tapping my fingers on a book cover wondering why I bite my nails and why I can't read and wondering why I live in a world where the blinds are all cheap plastic horizontals and the sheets are from Bed Bath and Beyond. The comfortable life of cheap and ugly.

I can imagine a world where I went back to Portland, as staying was a place to die, but going back now might mean sitting on the sofa watching my phone, walking to the store for a single beer and wondering why I can't go out then looking in windows and remembering that I haven't gone shopping and don't want to go out and then going home to trim my hair 1/4 in on one side so it doesn't show, wondering if he's going to call me and if he's going to mention what he's eating and what I can say and then noticing that my nails have gotten too long and then throwing a wine glass against the wall because I've done nothing, projecting my savings into the next month and seeing that I've slipped my hypothetical again and checking Craigslist for gigs again, and studying more about some gig I saw 8 months ago, how it might have been when the job's long gone and still not understanding how I might have fit in. The dreamers life of strong beer and Goodwill.

I can't imagine staying here, though.

When I think about working the way I used to work, doing the computer stuff, I just feel dread. I feel trapped in that dream where I'm on the diving board but it's rounded on top and slick and I'm just going to slide off again, fall off without a place to grab hold.

I can almost imagine going out here. But the steps to getting there seem really far. I thought that working on something would be good. Something to hit with my hands but faced with the reality of it I don't want to. I thought some intricate, tool-heavy repetitive task with my hands, the kind of thing that you can tweak and tweak till there's the line, that place where if you tweak a little harder it becomes something fine, and then stopping a little before then because I know I'd just break it because I don't have art inside my hands but going close enough so that you could tell, you could see that there was a line that could have been crossed but it wasn't and instead keep going for the greater design which would likely also never get met. I thought I could go scavage pieces of wire from something and keep going anyway till someone actually said to me, honey, really. Stop that. Like the cliche of the old lady with the neverending scarf, like decent drugs and rough work. I feel stuck in the reality of ....

Water. Ok, puppy. Thank you.

Can I imagine that life? I can imagine going to work in a skirt on a windy morning, to do work I don't really understand but keeps me pleasantly clocking along. I can imagine going home and turning on a lamp near a window and asking myself pleasantly if I want to go out or stay in, and having a pile of books and warm socks and also stockings and a pair of worn but comfortable heels and a skirt that isn't great or anything but it rocks too because you can hardly tell the waist is elastic but actually... I might be able to get away with jeans today, and maybe even makeup, and going to see if one of the guys will take me out tonight or if they have any new friends to meet and if not maybe someone will ride public transportation and argue with me in a way that somehow gives me hair tangles when I come home exhausted and throwing a hip against the door before making a tiny pile of clothes on the floor and crossing my hands over my chest as I go to bed because it was just another fucking day and that's ok. It wouldn't really be like that though. Single old girl in the city.

I can't imagine what we talk about, the internship in Napa, waking up whenever he walks in the door to chatter the rapid fire way that we do until I wonder if he's scored something and what exactly and then checking to make sure I still have money in my wallet when there's always solid evidence that I spend it all myself anyway and wondering why I'm wondering because wouldn't he share? The always worrying about mood and what to do next to get ahead and trying to describe minute flavors and textures and rushing like mad and then sitting around and knowing another day has passed without having done that work I said I would do or having worked out or having devised a way to replace the pants that are becoming a low down shame to wear but with an ass it's a shame to cover anyway as it's a donkey's. The quiet life of good food and classy wine and scrambling panic.

That's not a part of here for me though. The question is, how many times could I really make it to The Crucible before the insecticycle blew a bit, assuming I could do the volunteer work, and if I can be interested in insurance policies, and if anyone would help me, and if it's any different from efforts that fail all of the time and wondering how close my perceived degree of mess up is in fact to the degree of mess up others see, if anyone were bothering to look. And really, what is important, other than sissy who I can't do anything for right now.