I am not Ben Morrow. This is a problem.

No one actually reads this blog.  But ya know, that's alright.  I'm a pretty spotty poster anyway.  This thing is more just for my own amusement.  It's a nice thing to have when you want to be creative and secretly hope other people are reading what you write and finding you witty.

But as I was saying: I'm not Ben Morrow.  Not matter how much I wish I was, I am not.  This is my lot in life.  And so I have no idea what I'm doing with the lighting for Into the Woods.  Dear Jesus, please help me.  Seriously.

But life is good.  I'm drowning, but also, I'm putting in my 2 weeks notice tomorrow at work.  I'm so excited.  I can't wait.  Life is exciting now.  There's something driving me, propelling me forward.  I'll have to work hard.

The weather is changing.  It's so wonderful.

Oh life.

Once upon a time: A Eulogy

Once upon a time, before I was dating Ryan, I lent him my favorite book of poetry.  I wasn't trying to capture his attention or flirt--just being friendly and nice.  The book was well worn.  It had traveled with me on many subways, hikes, trains, airplanes, and helped keep me occupied throughout long, boring classes.  Writing overflowed the margins--hasty, cramped writing signifying certain eras in my life.  All my favorite lines were underlined--favorite excerpts bracketed in with scratchy pencil.  I had developed a highly sophisticated method of dog-earing pages, so as to remember where my favorite poems were located.  Other than my copy of The Brothers Karamazov (which Ryan is not allowed to borrow), this small book of poetry was my favorite.  It was a character to me.  It was familiar.  Comforting.  But Ryan lost it.  When he broke the news to me, I thought it was a bad joke.  It took a while for the nauseating realization to sink in.  He was serious. (He told me after we started dating.)  I'll be honest, I almost cried.  And honestly, I still could cry over that book.  My chest hurt.  I took a deep breath.  My head.  I didn't want to make him feel bad, though, so I told him it wasn't a big deal and bit my lower lip.  I felt like I'd lost a pet...someone had lost my pet and couldn't find the poor thing.  I don't think I've ever really gotten over the loss of that book.  It's weird.  I have no idea why I was so attached to it...still am attached to it, though.  Maybe it's because little bits of me were engraved on every page.  My life story told through poetry and scrawling margin notes.  But I miss my book tonight.  I'd love to turn it's brown, soft pages, find my favorite poems, and start reading.  But I can't.  So here I am, writing a eulogy for a book of poems.