So why do I blog? Well for one, people ask me to. I'm not exactly fantastic at keeping those outside of the few people I see/talk to on a daily basis in the loop of the whereabouts of my life. (Even with them, I'm horrible at truly letting them know what's going on, but don't tell them that; they think they're pretty informed. Let's keep it that way.) Some of this is by choice, and some of it is also just because frankly, I get tired of telling the same story over and over again to various persons. So, I would have to agree that writing it all out once for everyone else to read while they take their morning dump certainly satisfies two birds with one stone. I could update people on Facebook or Twitter, but Twitter only gives me 160 characters, and those of you who know me know that I can't be contained in a 160-character box. Then you have to worry about hashtagging and that just opens up a whole other can of worms. As for Facebook, I bid farewell to that account probably every three to four months. Mostly just because it irritates the hell out of people when I do.
I've finally moved into my apartment in the Beav, and today marks day #4 of my commute to Salem. I've been waking up at ungodly hours to try to beat rush hour traffic to and from work, which I would have to say is really not horrible. Now, I admit having to wake before 0500 three times a week, and before 0400 twice a week, isn't the funnest chore of my day: I mean, who else is up at that time? I literally don't speak words out loud until I come across a commuter who pisses me off to yell at. And even then, let's be honest, I'm just picking fights by this point just to make sure my voice still works. But in all honesty, it's a relatively peaceful drive and I do happen to have an excellent taste in car tunes.
The thing is, I've got this independent thing I'm still trying to accomplish. Recently singled (are we making it a verb now? Like it's something that just happens to you? I've been singled. I just singled that guy. I'll have to put some thought into this), I realized I basically went from my parents house to a husband -- which I'm pretty sure is where some people would now argue, "That's the way God intended it." To be honest, I thought that at one point too, til I learned a hard lesson that I am clueless on how to be out on my own. Now, I did the whole live-on-my-own thing after high school before I got hitched, however, I was engaged during this time, so I may as well have just lived with a man. I rarely was at my own establishment because I was traveling all over Oregon to plan a wedding and see the guy. I also had that phone call I could make at any time for help with the silliest things and the person on the other end of the phone was obligated to kindly walk me through whatever my conundrum was. Little tasks/projects could pile up awaiting his arrival to take care of them. This shouldn't take much more explaining, as most people can just admit, when you're in a relationship with someone, even if you're not living with them, it's just different living, period.
So, now I have to either fix my own shit or just deal with it being at its current state. It doesn't matter that I'm currently typing on a laptop with a loose butt hole, or the fact that the other morning, my shower head sprang a leak and when I went to stand on the back of the toilet seat to dry off the ceiling, I slipped, fell and gave myself a concussion when the back of my head gave the side of the tub the equivalency of a violent fist bump. (This is why, if you're shorter than 5'8", you must find someone who is taller than you to marry. If you are the man and only 5'8", you should find a woman who is at least 6'0" to take care of ceiling issues for you. Work it out in the contract of your marriage that if the person shrinks or was deceptively tall to begin with, they owe you stilts.)
As this story unfolds, I'm finding out more and more about myself and all the things I certainly don't know how to do, nor ever had to pay any attention to before. The good news is, it keeps my life interesting. The bad news is, I probably won't see the age of 30.
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