Wandering Down The Hall Without A Flashlight.

Do you realize when your treating another person horribly?

Is that a trait that everyone posseses or is it one of those things that only a finite amount of humans have the capability of understanding?

How could one person not comprehend the fact that they are making another person feel terrible about themselves?

I understand fully and completely that I am not the nicest person in the universe.

But I always know when I've made another

human being feel less than good about themselves.

So it is beyond me how one minute someone can make you think your important and interesting and then the next make you feel as if you are absolutely nothing.

Lower than nothing.

Are there really those who are so consumed with themselves that they just don't care?

Could it be that I have appalling taste in character?

Maybe I should come up with some sort of character evaluation before I even speak to someone.

It really is beyond me.

If there is even the slightest bit of doubt that you've hurt someone you've cared about you should apologize.

I'm not talking about a cashier at a coffeeshop.

I'm talking about a person that you've had a relationship with, intimate or not.

You'd understand if you were cared about and then forgotten without cause or explanation.

Stopping a Drain With Papertowels

I have to stop.

Just take a moment to breathe, collect myself.

Possibly remind myself that I am an adult.

Why I feel a compulsion to rely on someone else for happiness' sake...

Its something I've struggled with for a while now.

People who say they live in the moment have always astonished me.

How can you not wonder about tomorrow or the next week, or the year to come?

Wondering and guessing doesn't get you anywhere.

I get that.

But for some reason the idea of sitting by and waiting for something to happen,

It's mindboggling.

Trying to make things happen may be even more maddening.

And so patience is something I have to try out.

Its not something I've ever been good at.

Trying as hard as I have in the past is not something I can keep doing.

Asking myself why I'm not good enough, or just not enough.

Well, they're questions that I'm never going to answer on my own.

Beadboard and Coffee Mugs

So I was taking a shower this afternoon, like I do most afternoons before work.

And I was thinking about some of the mundane aspects of my life.

I don't particularly mind the mundane-ness, but you know.

And then I started thinking about what would truly make me happy.

What I could do with myself that would just put me completely at ease.

I think I came up with something.

A two story house renovated into a bookstore and coffeeshop.

The bookstore will be darker tones of woods and soft rugs, big squashy chairs and old antique Tiffany lamps.

The coffeeshop will be in shades of creams, greens and white with wainscotting running the length of the walls. Lots of tables and chairs, a piano for anyone who wants to play and a balcony with....wait for it...even more tables and chairs.

Outside of town I will have a house that looks as if it was dropped into a forest.

I don't want anything huge, not even big.

Maybe two bedrooms.

All windows and hardwood floors with a big front porch.

I want a real fireplace so I can sit in my livingroom and watch it snow in the winter, afterall I plan on living in Oregon or Washington.

I want a dog and a cat, a huge lap dog that sleeps half the day and a cat that has more attitude than I've ever dreamed of having.

I want all of this. More than I've ever wanted to teach.

So what do I do to make it happen?

A Thesaurus Is A Handy Thing To Have

I've decided I hate everthing I write.

No, seriously even this.

I sound stupid and moronic half the time and I end up getting lost in my own head.

There's a 90% chance that only three people on Planet Earth even read what I have to say.

Something tells me that a 12 year old dyslexic could churn out more profound literary thought than me.

My ideas are colorless and dull and as soon as they hit paper they're imageless and lifeless.

I cannot even begin to fathom how authors come up with plot lines and character devolpment, it seems like a feat unsurpassable.

How can I possibly ask someone to read a story I've come up with when I can't even stand reading it?

Yes, its sad and maybe a little self-pitying.

And yet, here I am.....writing.

For whatever reasons I still write.

I am constantly putting my thoughts onto paper.

Or typing them out.

It's like a mental tick.

So I'll continue writing.

Mostly text that is complete crap.